I have been reflecting for days over why I can’t seem to fully embrace this for the masterpiece that it is. I enjoyed the visceral writing, I appreciate the melancholy of the story, I have virtually nothing negative to say about it, so why can I not seem to hold the story closer than an arms length away? I figured it out.

It…scares me. It took me so long to pinpoint this because as a frequent consumer of horror, very little media truly frightens me to my core like this has. Harpman resurrected a primordial fear that I've long since locked away. It’s watching Squidward trapped in the white room as a terrified child. It’s the Langoliers when the gang is in the empty airport. It is twilight zone broken glasses. It’s the dead world outside the car in the mist. It is my truest nightmare of old. I can’t even get past this fear long enough to contemplate the beauty of the possible interpretations—because there is a lot of beauty—endless allegories and interpretations could be pulled from this. It’s why it’s powerful. What world do we leave our “child”, which inherent humanities can you never take away from us…etc…there is a lot to get out of it…but I can’t ruminate for too long because I just don’t want to be near this, at least not right now. 

Maybe I’ll return to it willingly (because it certainly haunts me outside of my own accord) some future day. I am not here to dissuade tho, I still did “enjoy” it and devour it in one sitting. Just know before going in that this book is mislabeled and should definitely be in the genre "spookiest tomes of the millennia."