Ruthless Little Things – Elizabeth Victoria Aldrich
A thunderclap of nebular shards, a ne plus ultra moment. The doyenne of irrationality and freedom comes bearing juicy fruit. There’s a dreamy, desirous heart pounding and a swoony abandon beneath the waves Elizabeth Victoria Aldrich has been making since she burst into the scene like a bolt of cosmic lightning littering stardust and shrapnel everywhere she went. Glamorous, painful, fearlessly honest…when I met her she was ready to die and I believed her. Over the course of more than a year, she’s become a known quantity in underground literature, with an ineffable charm and bottomless empathy having endeared her to virtually everyone she’s met. In this, her debut novel, she marries starry-eyed feral lust with California decadence and punk poetry in a sensory carnival of bleary abstraction and bubblegum. Meet Madzi, our narrator’s dream girl, Rorschach of the feminine ideal, a hot mess dripping sex appeal and riling you up, making your life magical and sublime before leaving a trail of dirty clothes and synthetic rails into your worst nightmare. A kaleidoscope of sapphic saturnalia and fast living, stroking the barrel and pouring ropefuel over your clean sheets, Ruthless Little Things tells of callow lust and hollow predation, of addiction and personality disorders, of heartbreak and wild nights, gallery shows, incontinent ragers. It is a tender, sorehearted transmission from a self-made prison, and an earnest flight toward escape. It is manic, sanguine, surreal, sad and revealing. Its lines burn themselves into you. It wreaks havoc and it never lies to you. An ethereal emotional hangover. The era of error is here.
Elizabeth Victoria Aldrich speaks more truth in this slim elegant glitterbomb than most writers speak in an entire lifetime.
— James Nulick, author of The Moon Down to Earth
Ruthless Little Things cribs the aesthetic sensibilities of at-risk teen tales like Thirteen and Prozac Nation and spins them into impossibly grand grotesqueries. Vacillating between white hot lucidity and drooling contemplation, it eviscerates precious anti-drug protestantism in favor of something way, way, way too real. It is the only good drug novel.
— Maggie Siebert
5.5 x 8.5″. 116 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Arturo Herman Medrano.
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