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I don’t remember this degree of lust in the story.

I wonder whether Jonathan Harker would have felt differently about the situation if he actually knew what was about to happen…

I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as one’s flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer—nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the super-sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited—waited with beating heart.


This book is entirely a collection of letters and journal entries, some in sequential order and others overlapping chronologically. Having multiple narrators is almost like having multiple authors, except I hear the same voice for all of them. Stoker’s, I’m sure. The beginning is creepy and suspenseful, but now, a few chapters in, there is just a hint of creep and suspense, which I could consider boring but I’m being reeled in by a hint of eerie and a compulsion to see how the story lines will merge. I remember a little of the story now and then as I read on but not enough to spoil the suspense.

So far I feel like I’m eating a multi-course meal—tasty at first, followed by platefuls of subtle with a few bites of bland and a few sips of spicy. I sense the promise of a rich entree, though.

In any case, I have yet to be scared.



Author: uncaged

When Picasso painted a blue Seated Woman in a Chair, he was unconsciously thinking of me.

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