This was a powerfully moving book about the ambiguousness of family relationships. At times, I wished to hear Kevin’s point of view, but Eva’s honest and searing account held my interest throughout.

In my snotty, hacking sick-with-a-cold state, I managed to find the time to finish reading We Need to Talk about Kevin. It’s a novel where, in a series of letters to her husband, the mother of a school-shooter retraces her journey through motherhood and contemplates her responsibility for her son’s murderous actions. To some reviewers it seemed to be about human nature and whether a person can be born evil, but to me it seemed much more about self-loathing, and the self-loathing that can be reflected and even amplified between parents and children.

I think I liked it? It was definitely hard to swallow. Which is something the subject matter demands. Simply reading the descriptions of the crimes made me feel trashy and voyeuristic, and I alternately identified with and despised the narrator. If it successfully evoked these feelings in me even while I’m sick, it’s prolly well written.