30 July 2006


I don’t know why I read books like this. This isn’t to say that Dean Koontz’s Intensity was poorly written or a big, boring waste of time, it’s just that I should know better than to get involved with books that feature freaky serial-murderer rapist psychopaths – even if they are a work of fiction. The first section of the book is horrifying – a woman hides from a killer while he systematically tortures and executes everyone else in the house. You find yourself holding your breath and on-edge wondering what sort of insanity is going to unfold next. In the ensuing chapters you’re given brief reprieves where you’re allowed to fell invigorated, hopeful even – but that safety is snatched away in mere sentence or two and once again you’re left running through the pages hoping that it’ll be over and done with. My suggestion is to read Intensity as quickly as possible because waking up in the middle of the night fully confident that evil is right outside your door is inevitable…

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