"Where is the merit? Why does it exist?"

If you want to read dark anti-traditional tales of erotic excess that apply peroxide-soaked bandages of philosophy in intervals as it flagellates you quite mercilessly, whispering sweet nothings in its veneration of crime and the absolute necessity and sublimity of Evil, you ought to head elsewhere, since you'll likely have the rest of the French avant-garde canon to act as your personal physician and masseuse. Here, you are left in the care of a much more brutal, less-hermaphroditic beast, though his technique is every bit as poetic as his predecessors. There is merit: The prose is superb. And there is that delightful pressure point found in its oblation of lesbian sadomasochism (small snapshots, like polaroids) left for both the reader and the novel's young subjects to explore—a contagion of sexual despotism spreading concentrically from progenitor to offspring, heredity sowing the seeds of transgression inducing the cure 'justifying the means' by some sort of blissfully deranged incident of indecency that began as nothing more than an aging writer's masturbatory fantasies concerning the bestialisation of pubescent girls refined over decades until released to printed press much like one final ejaculatory huzzah at the whole world before succumbing to metaphoric limpness and the physical tomb. And we will know the spell has served its purpose when those nymphets hailing from reality whose very likeliness is shackled and quartered and gynebutchered in these fantasies are prescribed the novel and discover tucked away underneath the bloodsoaked covers of its dreamy text the merit so many of us have missed. Like Isidore Ducasse and De Sade both wrote of their œuvre, nothing here is impermissible for a 14 year-old girl to read.