Monk

Those serial murderers who are drawn to deathworks, from literature like “Finnegans Wake” to the art of Picasso, are certain that life is mere chaos, out of nothing into nothing. They kill for pleasure and as a statement of their freedom from meaning, but the meaninglessness of life does not inspire in them a wish to be released from it.

If they are less educated than Brecht, their décor might feature posters from bloody horror films and a Nazi flag. Or a peace symbol, an image of an ascending dove, always ascending, idyllic paintings of fantasy landscapes. Each of them reduces the complexity of life to an ideology fully expressed in a single word. For the guy with the film posters and swastika, the word is horror. Life is horror. For the one with the rising dove, the word is peace. He brings peace to his victims. For Brecht, with his highbrow art, the word is void.

Those with nothing on their walls, those who make no effort to justify their actions with faux philosophy, are the most dangerous. They have internalized the void and do not fear death.

-- Dean Koontz for The New York Times

The Times has been giving space to fiction writers to entreat its readers to short stories, and this is from Koontz's contribution. And, damn, I forget that the man knows how to move a story and suck you into his characters. During my last library trip for the season, I had an opportunity to buy some Koontz novels cheap - a dollar per hardback - but I was feeling snooty and was too high above the likes of Koontz. Instead, I order a sci-fi novel from Amazon that I've had to drop after a chapter. What an idiot!

♠
There is no denying that Dean Koontz is a master of suspense. He has the art of drawing you in and building your expectations and then playing around with you, and then BOOM! Personally, I don't think Stephen King even begins to compare with him, and to think that I used to labor under the impression that Koontz was just a King wannabe, hah!

Koontz has become a reliable source for me to get my fix for pulp, and you know what a terrible addict Monk has become for this stuff, practically mainlining the drug into his veins. When I'm at the library browsing for my pulp fiction, if I find myself coming up empty, I know that I can stroll into the Koontz section and pick up something high-octane for my needs.

"False Memory" is no exception. It's already becoming a favorite, in fact, though I'm still early days into this thriller page-turner.

Indeed, the diabolical hypnotist is already in Beauty's apartment with his fist around Beauty's throat, thus concluding the chapter. See how he hooks you? It's going to be hard going to my "Israel" reading this morning, but I at least have that much discipline. Besides, I'd feel bad if I gave the whole day to Koontz. That's what the weekends are for, naturally.

xXx