i don't think anyone more cynical that Chuck Palahnluk is alive at the moment, any more cynical and you've probably committed suicide due to hating the world so much. Having recently been going through his back log of recent and not so recent novels [Diary, Snuff, Haunted] I find myself hit with something akin to disgust. The odd feeling is that the disgust is not at what something else is, but at what I am, we are, humanity as a whole. The overwhelming weight of trust inherent in his writing, the facts that are undeniable, whether it is a random antecedent about Marlyn Monroe or the sheer sickening description of to what lengths a human being will go in order to get something they want, in order to get the life they want. The emotions of his characters are easy to feel but hard to wash off, lick a sticky, slimy coating of blood that is starting to die and decay and just as stomach churning. While the characters excite disgust and revulsion, I keep picking up the next novel because no matter how fitly my mind becomes with the deranged thoughts, feelings and uncensored writings, both by editors and the shutter of moral right and wrong, I still enjoy the vividity and fluidity of his writing, the pure artistry. Just as one can enjoy the artistry of a weapon, a killing tool; or the beauty of a battle scene painted by hand on canvas, every detail painstakingly recreated; we can enjoy the thoughts, feelings, emotions and actions of someone we would consider sick or deranged, but that we could become if we were put in their situations.