In Defence of Cassandra Khaw

Nothing but Blackened Teeth is, in many ways, one of the most successful horror stories of the modern era. It is extremely well known, has sold thousands of copies, has received hundreds of reviews from major figures and ordinary readers alike, with quotations of strong praise from authors across the horror literature space adorning the book’s own cover.

On another level, though… Nothing but Blackened Teeth is the most hated horror release of the 2020s. Every passing week brings with it another bad review posted to Goodreads or YouTube, another Reddit post downvoted to oblivion for daring to mention the book without accompanying insults, another Facebook post calling out both the book and its author, Cassandra Khaw.

A case of a loud vocal minority? Well, let’s look at some more solid data.

Nothing but Blackened Teeth currently sits at an average rating of 3.3* on Amazon – that’s not bad, since I’d call 3* a pretty good review, and most would argue that’s an average rating. But you can see by looking at the spread of its ratings that this book is polarising at best, and bestsellers usually reach at least a 4.1* average.

But let’s go one step further.

On Goodreads, the platform where a higher quantity of ordinary readers post their reviews? Its average rating there currently sits at 2.65*. Ouch.

Personally? I wanted to read this book when I first saw that awesome cover art, like most people. I wanted to read it more when I found out it was a contemporary ghost story drawing from Japanese folklore – yokai, specifically. And if I can be completely honest, I wanted to read it a lot more when I found out just how controversial it had become.

I decided it was finally time to dive in when I saw a screenshot accompanying a bad review on Facebook using all the arguments I’m going to get into in this essay. Why? Because I had no idea what that reviewer was talking about. Book looked awesome.

I took it off my shelf, read it.

And…

It’s pretty damn good, actually!

I’m not going to tell you it’s a 5* masterpiece that does everything perfectly and will change your life, because it’s not quite, it doesn’t entirely, and it won’t probably.

But 1*, worst book of all time, ‘Nothing but Good Cover Art Har Har,’ pile of garbage? Are you people kidding me?

Look, I don’t mind if people hate this book. I don’t mind if people blacklist this author from their own bookshelves. I do mind that I have to look at this hate pile on every week picking on the same book and the same author – but that’s alright.

No. What really bothers me, is that I see the exact same arguments. Every. Single. Time. Another bad review of this book gets posted.

Every review levels the same three points at this book. And I think these three points are indicative of a growing attitude the reading public now has towards what books need to be, and what they cannot ever be, and that – that – is what grinds the bee in my bonnet into the gears. (That’s the saying, right?)

So I’m going to tackle each of these three points directly, why I find them so unconvincing, and counterbalance them in direct relationship to Cassandra Khaw’s over-hated and – frankly – really freaking good, Nothing but Blackened Teeth.

Because this isn’t the only book that gets these arguments directed at it – but it is the book that gets hit the hardest.

Argument the First: Nothing but Purple Prose.

This first argument, ‘purple prose,’ is the book’s main Presentational Critique. So what does it mean?

Google defines purple prose as: Prose that is too elaborate or ornate.

Other definitions include: Ornate text filled with unnecessarily fancy words, Excessive use of adjectives, adverbs and metaphors, or, Overly flowery language that tends to draw attention to itself, and away from the story.

Basically, purple prose is a critique that should be used to describe a writing style that is descriptive, deep and verbose to an excessive degree.

What counts as an excessive degree? When the depth of the presentation outweighs the depth of whatever is actually being presented.

Now, that sounds fairly reasonable. I’d point out how vague and subjective it’s likely to be in practice, but just on the surface, it has potential as a fair point in a negative review. There’s only one issue – this term is used so often, with such little regard for specificity, that the term has lost all meaning.

Take a look at how many words I had to use just to define this term, how complex a task it was to define ‘purple prose’ in any comprehensive way. I’ve seen books described as having purple prose that use frequent poetic language, that use a lot of uncommon, ‘big’ words, that stretch out sentences to great length, that rely on description as much as or to a greater degree than story…

Now, you might be thinking that that all still counts as purple prose and that’s as maybe. But first of all, if one term describes that many different things, it isn’t a very useful term for critiquing, because its meaning has become so broad that no one reading your review actually knows what your issue is. And second of all, this:

I see purple prose being used as a criticism of books with the simplest, most clear writing style imaginable. Like, these books that are very slightly above what you’d describe as regular, standard, basic contemporary writing styles.

And at that point, I’m worried.

But let’s come back to that.

It feels like there are two camps of purple prose haters. There are the ones who don’t want all this description because they want the story – arguably a fair perspective. And then there are those who don’t want to have to Google word definitions. I guess that makes sense too, it can be frustrating to have to do that when you just want to read a book – but then those people swear that isn’t the issue so… what is?

Well, the reason ‘purple prose’ gets used to critique Nothing but Blackened Teeth is because this book definitely has a stronger, more poetic approach to prose than most modern books do. It involves a lot of those examples I used above – lots of big words, frequent expressive, flowery language, and the description definitely holds just as much weight as the story.

However, contemporary writing is just as common here. Dialogue is only ever contemporary and informal. The prose uses curses, pop culture references and modern structure as readily as technical terms, references to Japanese folklore, furniture and fashion, and long stretches of poetic writing. And while the writing is frequently very descriptive, all of that description is used with great skill to build our perspective character, as well as the atmosphere of the haunted house setting – so I don’t think you could describe it as ‘excessive,’ or taking away from the story. It’s very much a part of the story, as all great prose should be.

So essentially, this all comes down to one thing – we can talk for hours about all the different definitions that technically count as purple prose. But in practice?

It’s purple prose if it uses a descriptive writing style.

That’s it. Simple, clear, easily understood, and specific.

So why does no one ever just use this definition? Well, because it reduces purple prose to what it actually is – essentially, a dysphemism for a particular writing style.

Like, you really do just hate descriptive writing. And that’s your right, but I don’t find it any more convincing of a critique because you hid it behind this more elaborate phrasing.

On the contrary, Nothing but Blackened Teeth is, to my mind, a perfect showcase of the strength that comes from a descriptive writing style.

Every sentence is filled with meaning here, is filled with feeling. Paired with a short page count, there’s a density to the story, especially to its characters and its ghost and its atmosphere. The book is reminiscent of classic Gothic literature, where attention and care is placed on every single word and the work as a whole becomes so much… more as a result. The fact that it feels both poetic and contemporary, classic and raw, oozes depth.

Admittedly, some people use more specific examples of this ‘purple prose,’ but I don’t find these any more convincing:

“There’s too much yokai/culture,” except the main character explicitly tells you she has studied Japanese literature at university, so this extra detail sharpens her character.

“Why mention his GQ smile, GQ isn’t relevant,” except it doesn’t matter if the specific magazine is relevant because it’s a great way of putting an image in your head – and the way it gets contrasted with the genuine feeling behind this smile leads to better, quite efficient character building than the alternative.

“She thought about him as glutinous, why is she insulting him?” except she immediately thereafter feels guilty about focusing on his appearance, the contrast of these two things adding complexity to our main character so she isn’t simply compassionate or simply hypercritical but instead has a number of both positive and negative qualities. (And don’t you worry, we’ll come back to the characters in a moment.)

Why are you criticising a book for having interesting, evocative writing?

The implication seems to be that a book like this one takes more effort to read, but I’m not sure why that’s a flaw.

There’s so much depth, texture and richness to the writing in Nothing but Blackened Teeth, especially for such a short page count. Every sense is accounted for, every scene layered with images of beautiful darkness, every action taken or word spoken has its impact enhanced, all as the tension constantly builds. You think this is boring, frustrating? Meanwhile, I’m bloody jealous.

To come back to why this worries me, using the critique of ‘purple prose’ could lead to new releases only being able to have extremely stilted, simple writing styles that aren’t able to say anything surprising or emotive, most words in the language becoming unusable in order to avoid the readers needing to put in extra effort, and the writer focusing on pure plot to such an intense degree that you may as well be writing a screenplay. I’d much prefer purple prose.

Argument the Second: Nothing but Unlikeable Characters.

This second argument, ‘unlikeable characters,’ is the book’s main Narrative Critique. Now, what does this term mean?

Essentially, people like at least a small percentage of a story’s characters to be relateable in some way. Having positive qualities that remind us readers of our friends, and bond us to the fictional characters before whatever horrible tragedies befall them – as they inevitably will, especially in a horror story.

This fact of the appeal of a likeable character, can be juxtaposed with the idea of an unlikeable character, one who has negative qualities that remind us of our childhood bullies or that one unbearable colleague, not bonding us to the characters but rather pushing us away from them, uncaring or even cheering on their horrible fate.

Again, this sounds reasonable at first. If something bad is going to happen to characters, we should feel some kind of way about that, preferably sympathetic or even sad, right?

My problem, once again, is with the ambiguous way this critique seems to wriggle its way into reviews in practice. A vicious fictional character who murders and steals and kicks babies and steals candy from a dog can be ‘likeable’ as long as they’re cute and make jokes while doing it. Meanwhile an innocent fictional character who tries their best with their friends is ‘unlikeable’ because they experience the symptoms of depression and anxiety and have past trauma.

Yeah, that second example is our perspective character in Nothing but Blackened Teeth – Cat.

So, while I recognise the existence of both likeable and unlikeable characters, I vehemently reject the idea that either one of them is an inherent criticism of a story. Flaws matter, because while you describe a character as unlikeable, I say they’re interesting.

The presence of a character flaw makes the story more engaging, because it creates tension almost instantly, and directly feeds into the conflict of a story. To use Cat as the example here, her having flaws, insecurities, directly causes conflict between our narrator and everyone else, isolating her ready for the more overt horror genre fare still to come.

I won’t spoil anything but, even if I was to acknowledge that every other character in this book was unlikeable, I find it very surprising so few relate to Cat herself. The way Talia and Faiz get at her, the history she has both individually and with the other characters, Phillip dancing around speaking to her like she’s fragile. And she is fragile, thanks to her anxiety and social awkwardness, constantly seeming to put her foot in it no matter what she says or does.

In this way, the other characters’ unlikeability directly leads to Cat’s own likeability. If you can relate to her, the others being so toxic elevates the story – there’s so much more tension this way, so much character driven conflict – and that makes it much more engaging of a story to read.

But notice the disparity – a villain can be likeable because of their redeeming qualities, but our young protagonist is made unlikeable because they had a flaw? That doesn’t sit right with me. And it only misses the point anyway.

Because, not only do flaws matter but virtues do also, and in order to craft a genuinely great character you’ve got to give them both – whether it’s one flaw and two virtues, the other way around, or somehow you manage to work in a dozen of both, they do in fact need at least one of each or you’re going to have a very shallow character who isn’t interesting or engaging.

This is why ‘unlikeable’ doesn’t really describe the characters in Nothing but Blackened Teeth for me. Not only because of that unlikeable=interesting point I made earlier but further than that. These characters are not bad people, not excessively so – they’re flawed, toxic, dysfunctional.

I suppose that can make them unlikeable. But it’s realistic. And more importantly, it makes for great storytelling.

Because there’s a lot more depth here than pure unlikeability – not just character weaknesses but strengths. They might be prideful but generous, jealous of and hostile towards one but loving and caring toward another, clumsy but protective.

My concern is that using ‘unlikeable characters’ to criticise a story could lead to new releases being forced to over-prioritise humour, kindness and confidence in a way that is no longer authentic to real people with real struggles, and sacrifice the depth that both dysfunctional character psychology and a genuine cruelty within dialogue can offer. I’d much prefer unlikeable characters.

Argument the Third: Nothing but Pretentiousness.

The previous two arguments come together with this final, overall type of critique – but it does sometimes get used in isolation too. That is, ‘pretentious.’ What does that word mean?

Google defines pretentious like this: Attempting to impress by affecting greater importance or merit than is actually possessed.

The significant part of that definition for our conversation here is this: affecting greater importance or merit than is actually possessed.

There are basically two ways a book or its author can be described as pretentious. Either the author is trying to come across as more intelligent than they actually are, or they are trying to imbue their story with more depth than they’ve actually given it.

One more time, this seems a very reasonable critique on paper.

For an example, an author might do that Joey Tribbiani thing of using a thesaurus to bloat their story with words they either don’t know the meaning of, or don’t actually fit the context or tone.

Another example might be trying to write about a difficult subject the author doesn’t actually know anything about, either because they have no lived experience, they haven’t studied it, or both.

One more example might be drawing attention to the super original, complex thing you just did with your story… except it’s actually neither of those things and you didn’t do your research.

All of this seems like a valid use of the word ‘pretentious’ in a negative review of a book. For sure, it’s the most valid critique out of the three I’ve discussed today, and while I’ve still not used it myself (to memory at least) I can see how it might be true somewhere.

To put it in other words, you really don’t want an author to be writing about something they don’t understand. You don’t want an author using a word they don’t know the meaning of. You certainly don’t want an author misrepresenting a topic or subject because they think they have a better grasp on it than they actually do.

But Cassandra Khaw isn’t doing any of those things.

Their critics are.

To hopefully prove my point here, let’s look at a few things that will often get a book marked for being pretentious:

·      Interesting prose – be it poetic and “flowery” or deeply introspective.

·      Flawed characters being placed in a narrator role.

·      A first person perspective, especially if it uses either of the previous elements and/or ‘stream of conscience’ storytelling.

·      Genre bending and other forms of experimentation with either form, structure or narrative.

·      Deep themes – especially if they are political or social.

·      And, basically, anything that is trying to be different.

I don’t think any of the things in the above list are pretentious. And if you do – what could I say that would convince you of this book’s merits?

Final Thoughts.

What does ‘good writing’ or ‘good prose’ mean? Is it about pace, rhythm and structure pushing you through each word? An evocative core that makes the reader feel something? Each sentence being functional, doing exactly what it needs and no more?

It’s an interesting question, and one I’d love to discuss.

But it’s not a discussion you can have when any book that has more than the simplest, barest, most contemporary of writing styles is instantly dismissed as ‘purple prose.’

What makes a ‘good character’ or a ‘likeable character’ in a work of fiction? Do we like characters that we would also like as people, or do we like characters who are interesting to read about? Characters who are engaging and who we root for, or characters who breed conflict within the pages and push us through the story in that way instead?

Again, it’s a really interesting question, and one I’d love to discuss.

But again, it’s not a discussion you can have when any characters with a depth and diversity of personality are dismissed as unlikeable because you wouldn’t want to get a drink with them.

How, then, does a new author in our current literary space write something new and different, write something with meaning, something that says something they consider important – without getting labelled pretentious?

Something I’ve noticed in all of this conversation surrounding Cassandra Khaw’s Nothing but Blackened Teeth is…

Reviews are really hard to write!

I certainly don’t think my own have somehow managed to avoid mistakes from time to time.

And I think there’s something in the human mind, or maybe it’s the reader mind, that finds it more difficult to criticise a book than we do to praise a book. It feels easier to wax poetic about a reading experience we loved than it does to express our criticisms of a reading experience we were let down by. Maybe we don’t have the words.

But seeing the reception to Nothing but Blackened Teeth over the last few years, and writing today’s essay on that contentious subject, has got me thinking about my own reviews, and the way I discuss books. Both the ones I love, and the ones I like a little less.

Whenever I read a book, I always try to like it. I always try to see what the author intended, and review with that in mind. I always try to see the book in the most favourable way it is possible to do so.

But sometimes I can’t. Sometimes a book just doesn’t work, y’know? It should be fine to not like a book, for whatever reason you don’t like it.

So how do we talk about that? How do we specify what went wrong, what mistake happened, what small or maybe not small thing took away from what the author was trying to say with that story?

I don’t know exactly, but maybe we can all try to do more with our reviews. Because reviews – even the dreaded 1* rant – are a vital element in the literary world. They can have a huge impact not only on one writer’s career, but on the literary zeitgeist as a whole.

Only one thing.

They have to be convincing.

So we need to make them count.