Dead Inside

Genuinely the most disgusting book I have ever read and I don't say that lightly. The incredible detail Chandler Morrison put into describing every heinous act left me both amazed and absolutely horrified. Perhaps it was the morbid curiosity, but I was so captivated throughout the whole thing, I couldn't look away.

Sick. Totally sick. And I mean it. I have to take a very long shower.

If we forget these very mentally ill characters & the disgusting scenes, it was quite a good book.

Well written & quite humorous (once again if we forget the whole situation). I'm conflicted between liking the author or hating him with my whole soul for creating this.

I need to binge watch kitten videos now.

Not too sure how to rate this one... honestly kept my attention well, was interesting enough to keep me reading, I'm not easily offended so I enjoyed the book besides the one scene. I literally wouldn't even repeat out loud what I read, and hope the scene stops popping into my head randomly cuz I literally cringe. Disgusting. Although, I liked the ending and I say that lightly due to the wild circumstances that is this book. BUT I don't think I'd recommend this to others, also will never read again. 

Now, originally I had nothing to say about this book because I was rather appalled at first. After thinking on it for a long time I have come to realize this book is beautiful. The problem with fiction like this is that immediately, of course, you're offended and grossed out. Therefore, those that review books like this do not give them a fair review. This story is about finding your people, finding where you fit in, finding a home even. I read this quite a while ago, and it has stuck with me since then, but not for the reasons of the gore and horrific acts depicted. I felt like I was missing something about it, so on occasion I would go back and skim through to a sentence I remembered or phrase that was said, and each time I would be surprised I missed the meaning behind the words before. I understand that this book would not be for everyone, and you will focus on the more gross parts, but that is by design. Chandler knew exactly what he was doing with this book, and he has definitely succeeded. It took myself a while to realize what the story was about, but I am glad that in the end I have realized that through this lens Chandler has chosen, it is a bold choice but also it feels like the correct one.
~Mike

This might possibly be the worst thing I've ever read. Hopefully the author doesn't see that as an endorsement. It's not. The goal here was to shock and offend, but to be perfectly honest, the only thing offensive was the awful writing.

I've always enjoyed the macabre. I like being grossed out, teased, and given the willies. In Dead Inside, the author takes every gross thing he can think of and throws it at a wall. None of it sticks.

Beyond that, the writing is atrocious. Characters are one-dimensional. Morrison repeats himself often. The book is riddled with grammatical errors. Suspension of disbelief can't be maintained as nothing seems even remotely real. There's not much for a plot. There are tons of inconsistencies packed into such a short story. The author throws in random references to things to show that he, like the main character, isn't a normie. For example, blah blah listening to Ministry. Cool, bro. No one cares.

Do yourself a favor and skip this one. It lacks any kind of story or metaphor or really any other reason to read. It has no charm. It's not B-movie “so bad it's good.” It's just bad. You'll get more story out of a Cannibal Corpse song.

Sick. Totally sick. And I mean it. I have to take a very long shower.

If we forget these very mentally ill characters & the disgusting scenes, it was quite a good book.

Well written & quite humorous (once again if we forget the whole situation). I'm conflicted between liking the author or hating him with my whole soul for creating this.

I need to binge watch kitten videos now.

The main character being a stand-in for nihilism is about as subtle as a cleaver to the balls while the primary love interest (a debatable perspective considering our protagonist's necrophiliac inclinations) offers a strange, shallow attempt at Poe-esque, darkly romantic tragedy. The primary plot twist was every bit so well-hidden as Joe Biden's cognitive decline and the violative scenes attendant throughout the tale are so purposefully deranged that they can't help but Wile E. Coyote themselves off a metaphorical cliff, tryhard edgelording themselves into something approaching fever dream symbolism and [un?]intentional black comedy. Perhaps, deep down, this is a work of sheer, uncompromising, deconstructive genius by Mr. Morrison and I lack scholarship enough to grasp its profundities– problem being that, unlike Mr. Owl's admirable curiosity at calculating licks towards that elusive Tootsie Pop center, I simply do not wish to “find out” and indeed the “world may never know.”

Over the years, books have told us not to mention things like Fight Club and He Who Shall Not Be Named, while movies have graciously reminded us not to cross the streams and to never create time machines that feed on plutonium.

Well, add Dead Inside to that never-remind or mention list because it is just about the most depraved thing I have ever set my eyes on.

You might be asking yourself what this is about, and well, I would usually write some sort of synopsis, but it's quite literally impossible without possibly being banned from the platform. So instead, I'll just dance around some themes.

Let's begin by talking about art for a second. Remember the scene in Tim Burton's Batman where the Joker looks through Vale's photography portfolio and says it's crap until he sees some of her more disturbing pictures of war? Jokers eyes light up, and he is drawn to her, even though his perception of reality and Vales could not be more different. Well, what if they were the same? What if Vale was into the Jokers homicidal art and the person behind the makeup? Not only that, but what if she wanted to participate? More omelets would be made, and many more eggs would be broken.

This is all a roundabout way of saying I get what the author was going for. It's sick and twisted, but there is a semblance of a crazed love story wrapped up in an extreme tapestry of vile unconformity. The characters do not suppress their impulses; they embrace them. I took it in as humor/dark satire (almost like an extended Onion article) and was actually laughing quite a bit. It reminds us that not everyone in this world is the same or has similar tastes, outlooks on life, or desires. For every prominently framed Van Gogh Starry Night in a house, there is someone out there with a Saturn by Goya. Tomayto, tomahto.

The writing was quite good and there are literary references that wink at the reader, music selections that were just down-right funny used in their context, and a few ideas plucked from a few modern French horror movies, albeit taken to a whole different stratosphere.

Overall, you know how boxers say they left a piece of themselves in the ring after a tough fight? Well, I had a similar thought when I made it to the last page. Just trade out the loss of brain cells for the loss of sanity.