”You kill women. You’re a serial killer. Can you grasp that? […] Can you tell me why it’s necessary for Roberta to saw off a hand and a foot and bleed to death at the church altar?” She flipped through a couple of more pages. ”Especially given that this other story ends with Louise falling to the ground riddled with bullets, the mountain rebels having mistaken her for her traitorous brother. And must Mrs McGuire hang herself from the door handle because she is so afraid of what Mr McGuire will do when he gets home and finds out that she’s burnt dinner? From a door handle? Really, Mr Fox?”

[…]

”You have no sense of humour, Mary,” I said.

”You’re right,” she said. ”I don’t.”

I tried again: ”It’s ridiculous to be so sensitive about the content of fiction. It’s not real. I mean, come on. It’s all just a lot of games.”

Mary twirled a strand of hair around her finger. ”Oh, how does it go… we dream, it is good we are dreaming. It would hurt us, were we awake. But since it is playing, kill us.”

Jag har inte riktigt tid att läsa sådant som inte är kurslitteratur just nu, men jag läser emellanåt lite i Mr Fox av Helen Oyeyemi, som handlar om en författare som tycker om att döda sina kvinnliga karaktärer, och den är väldigt bra.