Confessions of a Sociopath

My mom was reading this on holiday, so I decided to get a copy myself and read along at the same time. I wonder what the intention of the publisher was for this book. The author is so self absorbed, so grandiose, so insufferably self-congratulatory that I am forced to think that the publication of this work is a joke played on the author by the publisher. The inner voice of this woman is vapid. She has no redeeming qualities. Her emotional life is sterile and pitiful.

It isn't a novel for entertainment purposes. This is the voice of a woman without knowledge of how her life may present to others - she has no ability to understand that this would come across as repulsive to non-psychopaths, and writes in a gloating tone of her inability to connect with anything. I suppose if I knew I was missing an essential piece in me, I'd try to make it look like a win, too.

Either way, I hated this woman. I felt some kind of primal, instinctual revulsion to this memoir. My mom said that all voices are worthy and we can't judge people for what they can't help, but I wouldn't want to be within a km radius of this lady either way. The idea that this novel serves as a window into the life of someone devoid of humanity, and this being an important window to peer in through, even for just a bit, is what kept me from giving it a 1 star rating.