2022 psychological horror novel by Paul Tremblay about a high school loner who starts a club for volunteer pallbearers and forms an intense friendship with a mysterious girl named Mercy. The book is structured as a memoir written by the main character, Art. Mercy gets hold of the manuscript and adds her own notes, challenging his version of events and blurring the lines between reality, memory, and the supernatural. The novel is a genre-bending story that blends horror, humor, and metafiction, with a central mystery revolving around whether Mercy is a vampire.
Plot summary( beginning:) In the late 1980s, awkward high schooler Art Barbara starts the Pallbearers Club to volunteer at poorly attended funerals.
The conflict: Art takes a photo of Mercy and captures a strange creature on film, leading him to suspect she is a vampire.
“Happiness is not an ideal of reason, but imagination“
Memoir or Novel: that is the question.
It reads like a memoir, with notes (editorial?) according to Mercy in red in the margins and end of each chapter. Constantly underlining the ‘memoir’ and nothing “novel” instead. Whichever it is, there I say are touches of fiction within the metaphors, imagination and similies.
I found it to be an interesting read. Sadly as per usual October/November came around which usually seems to be my ‘burn out’ point of reading; plus I was busy getting ready to go away for a week for (Hope you had a happy) Thanksgiving. Because of this I ended up going days without getting to read it, which somewhat into waning interest.
There’s Pop culture references through the years. Plus of course experiences, the following excerpt. that follows had me laughing as it’s more or less….SO me… …… and could be used for a memoir of my own making (should I write one)
My mercurial eating habits were a main topic of discourse. Mom dutifully listed all the things I wouldn’t eat, her sharpness of tone in-creasing with each enumeration as though finally freeing herself of a crushing burden. My mortification is presented below as anexistential-hell play:
LE MANGEUR DIFFICILE
(or french for The Picky Eater)
MOM: He won’t use ketchup-
MERCY: Ketchup, wow.
MOM: Mayo, mustard, relish-
MERCY: Yeah, the no-condiments thing. He says it’s why he never gets
a burger when we go to Micky D’s. He always orders fries and chicken McNuggets.
MOM: What kid won’t eat McDonald’s burgers besides mine?
ART: Okay, Mom. Stop. I eat burgers. Just not those ones.
MOM: No pickles. Doesn’t like the flavor of coffee. The only vegetable heeats is corn-ART: Ma, I eat carrots.
MOM: Only if they’re not cooked. He doesn’t eat anything. It’s why he’s soskinny. He doesn’t even like bread.
ART: I like bread fine. I just won’t eat PB&Js anymore. I overdosed on themas a kid.
MOM: When he was little, I had to trick him into eating fried fish by calling itFried French.
MERCY: Amazing!
ART: All right! That’s enough!
MOM: Art has always been so sensitive. Can’t let anything roll off his back.Art stabs himself in eye with a fork.The others briefly acknowledge his agony with politeyet aloof applause before continuing their discussion.
so what parts of that is me?
I still love peanut butter and the occasional pb & j sandwich, it’s spaghetti sauce on ‘gettis that I ‘ODed’ on when I was little. I’m told that’s what I’d always ask for. And tho’ yes; I eat pizza, I gag when there’s a glob of sauce in one spot. I use ketchup, just not the other condiments mentioned. As a child anytime I ordered a burger at McDonald’s or Burger King, they always would come back with onions and the pickles, and I’d always say no to the salad etc on top. I didn’t like those type of pickles so I’m same with fries and nuggets. raw baby carrots, corn or potatoes if you count the starchy ones as vegetables, those are the only veggies I eat unless I dehydrate spinach for my chick pea salad I came up with. I ate fish sticks as a kid, grew out of it now the only seafood I eat is the occasional fried clams or calamari but if it comes out of breading or batter I just can’t!😂 And I WILL ADMIT I am now a picky ass adult, however I do experiment a bit when I cook )
Hope is believing there’ll be another moment of joy; and despair is knowing there won’t be one more.
The friendship: He recruits the cool and mysterious Mercy Brown, who brings her Polaroid camera and knowledge of New England folklore. They bond over music and a shared interest in the macabre.
I liked that the annotations were included, and you better study for the SATs or get a few word a day calenders before reading this one, as there are a few words or terms I had to look up!
The memoir: Decades later, Art writes a memoir about his life and his friendship with Mercy. The twist: Mercy gets a hold of his manuscript and begins to edit it, adding her own notes and contradicting Art’s memories. This creates a narrative where the reader must decide if Art is a reliable narrator or if Mercy is a supernatural being gaslighting him
Mantid (yes I figured it meant something having to do with insects, but with the English language having parkways you drive on and drive ways you park in, I don’t trust my own language 🤪
kyphotic –excessive forward curvature of the spine, a condition also known as kyphosis. This can appear as a “hunchback” or “slouching” posture
parse –excessive forward curvature of the spine, a condition also known as kyphosis. This can appear as a “hunchback” or “slouching” posture
hagiography – the writing of the lives and f saints
rai·son d’ê·tre /ˌrāzôn ˈdetrə/ french noun: the most important reason or purpose for someone or something’s existence.
permeable, diffuse, wisp, soporific
I’ll be honest, it’s been some time since I came across the words and maybe even had the “need to, want to, have to,” +new ideas hitting me on repeat that I had to look them up
Key themes and style
Unreliable narration: The book plays with the concept of an unreliable narrator, with the reader constantly questioning which version of events is true.
Friendship: It explores the complex and unsettling nature of a lifelong friendship, and how it can be both life-changing and potentially diabolical. Genre-bending: The novel blends multiple genres, including horror, humor, history, memoir, and metafiction.
Metafiction: The structure of the book, with its manuscript and edited notes, is a key part of the story, making the reader an active participant in the narrative.
A few more excerpts
so you know the voices of the book
(Mercy talking to Art)
You need to tell me you won’t continue to hide yourself,
that you’ll try to be who you imagine yourself as being. I want to
know if you’ll take actual fucking risks to be that person and still
like that person when you fail and when you succeed. I want you to
tell me you’re not going to be the same scared, woe-is-me kid who
hides in his head. Please tell me you won’t float along with every-
one else through the drunk and stupid numbing bliss of college and
then zombie into a middle- or upper-class job you won’t care about
because you need to pay student loans and then pay all the other
loans to come. After all we’ve done, tell me you won’t pretend you’re
happy and you won’t pretend you can’t do what you want to do
even if you aren’t entirely sure what that is. Can you tell me that?”
I didn’t answer. How could I make any empty promises about
the opaque future?
‘art’ describes the first time he listened to what would become his favorite band (replacing Def Leppard) however I cannot seem to find the name.
I couldn’t parse the lyrics. There was no heroic guitar soloing.
No chorus with slick background vocals. Zero production value. It
was as though someone broke into their rehearsal space (I imagined
a musty, low-ceilinged basement) and dropped a mono-channel
tape recorder in the middle of the floor, and because of the analog
recording intrusion the band played louder, faster, angrier. Hints of
melody surfaced and imploded, only to ooze back later, and then the
song abruptly finished, crashed, and it was the end of the speakers
and the tape player and the Datsun and maybe the rest of the world
because it was all too much. Then the next song exploded. My initial
response: I didn’t like it. It was too much. The emotion and lack of control was dangerous,too painfully confessional and I wanted to hide from its rawness but I couldn’t stop listening.
one of the pages of Mercy’s comments
-Interpretations of your dead-of-night stagger through mydarkened, suddenly evil apartment: First, the scene could beread as a metaphor for growing older. Stumbling around in thedark with inexplicable/existential threats behind you and within your path ahead including a closed door , and your heedless, bullish rush forward because having what’s behind you catch and
would be worse, knowing that someday-maybe
today-there will be a final door you cannot open. Probably a
stretch. I think a BETTER reading is specific to the career arc
of a musician, especially within the context of the discussion of
your dissatisfaction with music and my emboldening suggestion to
give writing a shot. The old saw, particularly in music -though itapplies toartistic endeavor, given culture’s thirstful lust fornew/young voices-is that a band’s “best” or most popular recordsare almost invariably produced within the early part of theircareer. There are exceptions to every rule, of course, but there’ssizable nugget of truth within the canard, and it correlates toyour terror-walk through my apartment. Check it out: the newband/writer will plow recklessly though the darkened room, ifnot without fear, then putting that fear to use to absorb andignore the stubbed toes and mashed noses accumulated on theirway to findingan original, beautiful path out. With each stumblethrough concurrent rooms, the creator grows wearyand their barking shins and will stay upon the same path they’d worked so hard to forge and hesitate to take chances withother painful maybe even dangerous ways to escape. Or thecreator obsessively returns to the same room over and over. Or, if the creator dares continue to explore new rooms and tread new paths, ones that threaten to become a maze, ones impossible to follow without having to absorb too much of the honest pain new rooms and tread new
follow without having to absorb too much of the honest pain and difficulty of the
experience, and the creator’s listeners/readers-I will not use the word “consumers” as vampirically fitting as it
night be-eventually balk, as they would rather remain on their favored path, the easier one to remember, the one they were originally led down.
-This dead-of-night scene as horror: Creepy for sure,especially the bit about my shifting from Hulk-smashing throughthe debris to lightly walking over it. You intimate I wasfloatingbut I imagined me stretched out and insectlike, psychopomping mybulk in such an expert way that I weighed almost nothing. Chillsdude. Even though it’s written in first person and the readerknows that at this point in the book there’s no way you coulddie within the scene, and even though I know what happened, Iwas worried and scared for Punk Art. Horror at its core remindsof the inevitability of death, even if it doesn’t occur on thepage. However, are you sort of maybe possibly taking the make-everyday-objects-and-scenarios-menacing thing a bit too far withfloating dressers and jackets that become homunculi parasites?Yeah, when I state plainly the supernatural bits like that and without
without any story context it sounds silly, justmake so many other horror stories/movies sound, silly wSimilar manner. *Sigh* Okay, I liked the uncanniness offirst seeing the dresser and then becoming obsessedwith finding exactly where it was rooted to the wallThat’s cool. It’s weird and real at the same time. And,the following night, I liked the juxtaposition of,being scared precisely because the dresser is now on- That bit works because the everyday, normal thing isAnd what happens next? Ehnge and off andcreepy.yourt comes down to personal taste, but I was more movedguity of the dresser, of not knowing what the fuck wasthe dresser, than by it and other objects in the room goneike I’ve told you before, I don’t believe in the supernaturalates to ghosts or demons or beings, be they devils orspite mylove of horror, I have a hard time suspendingin fiction/movies too. I so desperately want to believe,not. Not for a lack of trying, either. I’m not expressing myself very well because there are plenty of books and movies withsupernatural elements that scare and have scared the shit out ofthat bring me to a wait-a-minute precipice of belief. It’s justthe floating thing, man. I’m having a hard time connecting withit. But I’m thinking maybe the vampire me bombards you with akind of pheromone that makes you more receptive and suggestive,makes you hallucinate. I like the idea of a naturalistic vampire,and pheromones messing with your head would be a cool callbackto the classic trope of a vampire hypnotizing victims. Or, how aboutthis: I like the idea of the vampire as some kind of transgressionor transgressor from another dimension or something like that,something that can mess with space/time, can get quantum on you.I haven’t fully worked that out, and maybe that’s fine, we’re notsupposed to know, and maybe even the vampire/being straddlingthe multiverses or multiexistences doesn’t know either. Why wouldknow? Imean, think about it thiswhy or how of your own consciousness?the vamp waybDoyouknow theNo I’m not stoned. you asshole! Anyway, don’t try to over explain- like I am -either.
Mercy goes on how to write the scene in her apartment, starting with Art’s pov then when th dresser rises, cut to her POV and keeping in mind he was blaming her for his health issues. Draining his life-force causing his palpitations,sleep apnea,chest pains, back issues etc.












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