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Last week, Sara wrote about her favorite brand of comfort read, books of “sinister wholesomeness.” Dark academia but make it righteous, vampires who fall for bakers who make killer cinnamon rolls, that kind of thing.

She wrote that she’s “often left feeling kind of queasy at the end of many dark academia books. Because the plot goes something like ‘terrible fancy people did terrible things, lives were ruined, and now everything is ruined.'” Instead, she likes when “awful things […] can be… if not overcome, at least met. Looked at, defeated, rebuilt.”

I like that too, I do.

But also, sometimes, I want to finish a book and just stare out into the vast, unknowable universe.

Every so often, I want awful things to remain awful, unfixable, and broken.

I’m fascinated by morally gray, even completely unlikeable characters who do bad things (a few weeks ago, I sent Sara a link to this sweatshirt and was like “I need this, right?” She agreed, obviously.)

From time to time, I want the queasy terribleness.

“What’s your favorite classic novel, Brittany?” “Oh! Probably Wuthering Heights,” I’ll respond, “or maybe The Picture of Dorian Gray! Ohh or Carmilla!” Then I’ll add “oh, but pretty much all of the characters in those books are just terrible people… but they’re SO GOOD.” Usually I’ll then say something to justify why they’re so good, something like “they’re just so beautifully written!” (Which, to be fair, is true.)

What does this say about me?

It’s a little unsettling to contemplate, not gonna lie.

Here’s the thing though: I’m a very kind, hopeful, and loving person. I am, and I like being that way. But sometimes I do wish I was a little better at not being nice. At looking out for myself more. At being selfish. At not caring so much. None of that comes naturally to me at all and, sometimes, when I read about delicious villainy, about people just thoughtlessly behaving very badly, I think it’s a little cathartic for me.

It’s like, “here, Brittany, read about these awful people being awful and live through them vicariously, just a tiny bit. You’ll never do anything even remotely like any of this yourself, but maybe reading about characters doing these things can give your resentment about everything you keep inside a little outlet.”

Is this awful of me? I don’t really think so (though it probably does indicate I need more therapy.)

But maybe this isn’t a moral failing so much as a sign I need to cut myself some slack.

I certainly wouldn’t describe these kinds of books as comfort reads… but I will admit I enjoy them. You know, from time to time.

Have you ever really enjoyed a book that left you feeling a little queasy about all the terribleness in the world? Have you ever been fascinated by a character who really is just a total asshole when you get down to it?

Comment and tell me I’m not alone!

Yours in mischief and magic,

P.S. Want some more modern books full of terrible people? The Secret History by Donna Tartt and Yellowface by R.F. Kuang both come to mind (and, yes, I loved both of them.)

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