The first person nature of this book makes it and destroys it.
It is a pulp fiction entertainment from 1952. A novel written to sell.
It is sensational and lurid, no doubt just right for reading boys back in the 1950s and beyond. It is the subjective story of a serial killer, so presumably an early article of pop culture’s exploitation of and fascination with serial killers which has become big business in mainstream corporate moving picture entertainments, Netflix, etc.
Lou, the first person narrator, is a deputy in the sheriffs department of an oil boom town in west Texas. He is the son of the town doctor who is referred to but dead for a while. Lou still lives in doc daddy’s house which has the old man’s doctor’s office attached to it.
Since it is first person and the entire story is told from his perspective. All we know is what he is able or willing to tell us. Therefore being a psycho killer and all, he is an unreliable witness and perpetrator of events. Since he is all we have the tendency is to take his story at face value. Judging by that, the story and events don’t entirely make sense. He seems to be getting away with much more bad behavior than is actually possible in a smallish city of 48,000 people. This could be off putting to a reader who wants to trust what is being told. One might judge the novel as not so good because of that.
Ultimately it’s not a real pleasant experience reading this book.
Hell of a Woman is a good deal better. It is first person as well, that guy is somewhat more a victim of circumstances and easier to go inside with. Both that guy and Lou are somewhat smarter, more educated or well read than the other characters. They contain a bit of arrogance and superiority because of that.
What does the reader expect from fiction?
Entertainment, using up boring old time?
Potentially this book provides some of that.
Maybe the reader should look elsewhere for that.
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