Jung’s Demon: A serial-killer’s tale of love and madness

What if I should discover that I myself am the enemy who must be loved? What then?

Carl Gustav Jung

JUNG’S DEMON is a story of self-discovery gone amok, a book as hallucinogenic as Hunter S. Thompson and as powerful as Oscar Zeta Acosta. It is as tragic as Malcolm Lowry and occasionally as funny as David Foster Wallace.

The murders Roman L. had committed with such a ferocious, savage intensity send the shivers down my spine every time I reflect on his brutally honest confessions. He writes about sinking into the terrifying Hell of my own soul, a cold, utter darkness of the scariest, most painful insanity that peels off your skin while your brain screams, crushed by madness. Even now as I copy his words here I shake as I furtively look around. And I fear. I dread, no matter how irrational the thought, that I somehow might meet him again, rather one of his scary personalities anew and, like I was once before in Paris, again be tricked into liking him by his disarming, almost child-like smile and by his mirthful laughter that hid both the frightened child in him and the terrifying, heartless monster sneering behind.

Think Kafka on acid and sprinke some humor over it; that’s JUNG’S DEMON.