Under the Volcano

After the first 50 pages confused me to the point of almost shelving it, Under the Volcano's spiraling mix of numbing vice and intoxicating prose slowly sucked me in. It reminds me of Nabokov's Lolita. They have the same unbearable depravity; appalling for the degeneracy, appealing for the luxurious narrative. Both have endings that leave you gasping.

“What for you lie?” the Chief of Rostrums repeated in a glowering voice. “You say your name is Black. No es Black.” He shoved him backwards toward the door. “You say you are a wrider.” He shoved him again. “You no are a wrider.” He pushed the Consul more violently, but the Consul stood his ground. “You are no a de wrider, you are de espider, and we shoota de espiders in Méjico.”

Under the Volcano