...a meticulously detailed novel about the protagonist’s life as a stalker ... The story is written as though by a careful diarist and amateur philosopher who reads Montaigne ... In the first two-thirds of the novel, the reader may be lulled by curiosity and only a vague sense of foreboding, but these are quickly overtaken in the last third by actions that shock the senses ... This is a smart, powerful, chilling novel that has antecedents in Hitchcock, Stephen King and even the very precise Nicholson Baker. But it’s not for the faint-hearted.
...creepily thought-provoking ... self-reflective ... The narrator, who is the supposed 'author' of the book before us — a memoir of his deeds as a stalker — befriends us. He invites us to engage with his inner dialogue. He is not overly charming, but still intelligent ... Read Me is constructed not as a linear tale but rather in layers, sometimes recounting what the narrator actually sees and at others deploying an assumed omniscience. At times it’s unclear whether the narrator is simply imagining Frances’ life or whether what he describes is actually occurring.
In his new work, another clever, cutting riff on the book-within-a book...the anonymous protagonist speedily evolves from routine sociopath to extreme psychopath ... For a while it’s all a little bit Martin Amis, a little bit Bret Easton Ellis, until the novel changes gear with the introduction of a third-person narrative and his latest obsession, Frances, whose life is derailing with an alarming propulsion ... The bloodier the deed, the more the main character’s notebooks fill up. All roads lead to Frances, and to the denouement of her—and her pursuer’s—now creepily symbiotic narrative ... this strangely congenial thriller-cum-treatise on urban disaffection, modern relationships, misogyny and madness, ends on a note of provocative ambiguity.
In a disturbingly chatty first-person narrative, we follow the progression of Benedictus’s unnamed protagonist from mild sociopathy to deadly menace ... What is perhaps most unsettling is the narrator’s voice: philosophical and apparently possessing self-knowledge (he is well versed in Montaigne), yet deeply deranged. Its tone is horribly chummy ... At the same time, there is a chilling lack of affect, even during gruesome episodes. Motive remains obscure ... There are other current novels about the subject of stalking (such as Dirk Kurbjuweit’s Fear), but Benedictus ensures that the familiar elements are outweighed by his innovative approach.
The second part of the book is dominated by an extended scene that is so gruesomely awful it will sicken you. The author’s style, presumably employed to help illustrate N’s obsessive mental condition, includes sliding from first-person to third-person narration and back again, usually without warning or transition. This keeps the reader both alert and annoyed ... N’s self-examination, sometimes linking his thoughts with thinkers such as Einstein, Murkowski, or Montaigne, drags on, but when events—even tame ones—are unfolding, his thoughts can bounce around interestingly ... The stories told in normal narrative fashion are well-written and engaging ... The exploration of a sick man’s mind can be a worthy subject ... but the ghastly torture sequence sucks all the oxygen out of the book’s second half, undermining any literary depth that N’s mental trekking might otherwise have had ... There is no satire in Read Me. It might have benefited from some.
All is, for this well-spoken antihero, fairly routine before the introduction of Frances, who caught his eye randomly. She could have been missed as another passerby, but when a reflection cast light on her, his obsession followed ... Read Me offers a salacious, disturbing, and increasingly focused look into the mind of a stalker
The contrast between the narrator’s tone and the unsettling nature of his actions creates a host of tension, and in its best moments this novel suggests a reimagining of John Fowles’ The Collector for an age of social media, constant surveillance, and toxic masculinity. Unfortunately, in the novel's second half, its narrator engages in a series of even more horrific acts ... while the narrator’s self-deluded solemnity makes for a number of creepy jolts throughout, having the book written from his perspective has the effect of marginalizing Frances—making the conclusion feel flat rather than chilling. When Benedictus’ thriller clicks, it does so vividly—but it never entirely explores the full weight of its resonant themes.
