|
||||||||||||||||||||
|
||||||||||||||||||||
|
||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||
Wird oft zusammen gekauft
Produktinformation
|
Mehr über den Autor
› Besuchen Sie die Seite von James Ellroy auf Amazon
Produktbeschreibungen
Kurzbeschreibung
Martin Michael Plunkett is a product of his times -- the possessor of a genius intellect, a pitiless soul of brushed steel, and a heart of blackest evil. With criminal tendencies forged in the fires of L.A.'s Charles Manson hysteria, he comes to the bay city of San Francisco -- and submits to savage and terrible impulses that reveal to him his true vocation as a pure and perfect murderer. And so begins his decade of discovery and terror, as he cuts a bloody swath across the full length of a land, ingeniously exploiting and feeding upon a society's obsessions. As he maneuvers deftly through a seamy world of drugs, flesh, and perversions, the media will call him many things -- but Martin Plunkett's real name is Death. His brilliant, twisted mind is a horriying place to explore. His madness reflects a nation's own. The killer is on the road. And there's nowhere in America to hide.
Synopsis
Welche anderen Artikel kaufen Kunden, nachdem sie diesen Artikel angesehen haben?
Dusenberry's estimated body count was low, and Warden Wardlow's stone metaphor only partly accurate. Lesen Sie die erste Seite
Wortanzeiger
Buchdeckel | Copyright | Auszug | Rückseite
Tags(Was ist das?)Bei einem Tag handelt es sich um ein Schlagwort, das zum Produkt passt.
Tags erleichtern allen Kunden die Suche und die Sortierung ihrer Lieblingsprodukte. |
Eine digitale Version dieses Buchs im Kindle-Shop verkaufen
Kundenrezensionen
As I said, there are flaws. The introduction of another serial killer into Plunkett's universe never quite feels anything other than contrived; Ross Anderson comes off as merely a plot device so Plunkett will have someone that he (a) will betray him and (b) can explore his suppressed homosexuality with. Sometimes Plunkett's lack of focus can seem like it's the fault of the writer, not simple human confusion. And, as another reader points out below, the suicide of the FBI agent who catches Martin seems to come out of the blue. The diaries of the agent indicate some mental unease, but nothing that would drive him toward suicide.
While it's not a classic of the genre on the level of Thompson's The Killer Inside Me or Patrick Susskind's Perfume, this is still a worthwhile read, especially for Ellroy enthusiasts.
The most creative thing about the novel is the stroke of genius inflicted on it (by, no doubt, some literary agent's secretary) when the title was changed to the jazzy "Killer on the Road" (The Doors, "Riders on the Storm," Los Angeles. Get it? Nudge nudge.) Of course, memoirist Martin P. would never describe his brain as "squirming like a toad," but never mind.
As a serial killer, Martin is a bore. He hacks off heads and masturbates. He arranges corpses in obscene displays. He craves letters on them. Boring and repulsive. Not for Ellroy, of course, whose novels seem to be acts of intellectual onanism populated with monsters he adores. Here, the murderer lives and the cop who catches him inexplicably commits suicide. If Jonathan Kellerman has never read a scarier novel than this (jacket puff), he should try Vachss, Burke, O'Connell, and Bram Stoker.
Ellroy does his homework, as the above illustrates. He has Marty walk the trademark (Ted Bundy) slippery slope from window peeking to burglary to murder. We even get, late in the story, a quick, utterly unbelievable primal scene to justify poor Marty's bend.
This is early Ellroy, so he hasn't worked up the nerve to scatter sexual obscenities and racial slurs like an excited newscaster's spit through his prose. That comes later. Here, all you will find is latent homosexuals working out their sexual rage, helpless victims for Marty to sculpt while Ellroy pulls the strings, and a worshipful tone that should have sent Ellroy to a shrink, not the bestseller lists.
Read Ted Bundy's confession (Ted Bundy: Conversations with a Killer, by Stephen Michaud) if you want to see how a serial killer thinks: muddled, pompous, self-aggrandizing and inarticulate. That's the real Marty Plunkett, but he's no fun to imagine. No fun at all.
Kunden diskutieren
|
Das Forum zu diesem Produkt
Fragen stellen, Meinungen austauschen, Einblicke gewinnen Aktive Diskussionen in ähnlichen Foren
Kundendiskussionen durchsuchen
|
Ähnliche Foren
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Lieblingslisten
Ähnliche Artikel finden
Anhand des Sachgebietes nach ähnlichen Produkten suchen:
Ihr Kommentar
|
