Chuck Palahniuk


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The bestselling author of Lullaby and Choke continues his twenty-first
century reinvention of the horror novel in this homage to Rosemary's
Baby. Diary takes the form of a 'coma diary' kept by one Misty Tracy
Wilmot as her husband lies senseless in hospital after a suicide
attempt. Once she was an art student dreaming of creativity and freedom;
now, after marrying Peter at art school and being brought back to once
quaint, now tourist-overrun Waytansea Island, she's been reduced to the
condition of a resort hotel maid. Peter, it turns out, has been hiding
rooms in houses he's refurbished and scrawling vile messages all over
the walls – an old habit of builders but gone nuts on his part. Angry
homeowners are suing left and right, and Misty's dreams of artistic
greatness are in ashes. But then, as if possessed by the spirit of Maura
Kinkaid, a fabled Waytansea artist of the nineteenth century, Misty
begins painting again, compulsively. The canvases are taken away by her
mother-in-law and her doctor, who seem to have a plan for Misty – and for all those annoying tourists… A dark, hilarious and, this time,
poignant act of storytelling from America's favourite, most inventive
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229 printed pages


Jessica Ramirez
Jessica Ramirezshared an impression4 years ago
👍Worth reading
🔮Hidden Depths

Loved how the Diary is chaptered in the book. It's not outrageous but Chuck Palahniuk does this with such ease and excellent openness.


kravenhas quoted2 years ago
Your skin comes in three basic layers. What you can touch is the stratum corneum, a
layer of flat, dead skin cells pushed up by the new cells under them. What you feel, that
greasy feeling, is your acid mantle, the coating of oil and sweat that protects you from
germs and fungus. Under that is your dermis. Below the dermis is a layer of fat. Below
the fat are the muscles of your face.
Kay Noman
Kay Nomanhas quoted4 years ago
Disappeared. Poof.
Bermuda triangulated.
Ольга Чеусова
Ольга Чеусоваhas quoted9 years ago
ACCORDING TO PLATO, we live chained inside a dark cave. We’re chained so all we can see is the back wall of the cave. All we can see are the shadows that move there. They could be the shadows of something moving outside the cave. They could be the shadows of people chained next to us. Maybe the only thing each of us can see is our own shadow. Carl Jung called this his shadow work. He said we never see others. Instead we see only aspects of ourselves that fall over them. Shadows. Projections. Our associations. The same way old painters would sit in a tiny dark room and trace the image of what stood outside a tiny window, in the bright sunlight. The camera obscura. Not the exact image, but everything reversed or upside down. Distorted by the mirror or the lens it comes through. Our limited personal perception. Our tiny body of experience. Our half-assed education

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