‘She’s a catwalk model who has everything: a boyfriend, a career, a loyal best friend. But when a motor accident leaves her disfigured and incapable of speech, she goes from being the centre of attention to being an invisible monster, so hideous that no one will acknowledge she exists.’

And that’s not even what the story is about.

I’ve set myself up for a fall here, because really, who hasn’t reviewed Palahniuk at some point? One of the bad boys of literature but with general enough themes that he can be pitched to a wide market, this guy’s a publishing house dream. Palahniuk is a gateway transgression to the real gritty stuff: cannabis to cocaine. Only you can’t see his stuff messing you up in an entirely delicious way.

Invisible Monsters is a gruesome fairytale of a model losing her beauty and finding herself in one of the writer’s signature worlds – recognisable but shooting a bit from the left. It’s darkly funny in places, in others just dark, and so damn sad everywhere else that you might actually cry. One of Palahniuk’s greatest skills is that he never underestimates the horror of what he’s dealing with. The suffering is suffering, no matter how unhinged the character. It’s a hell of a journey.

The second half of the book is where the real big twists happen, one of which is fantastically strong whilst another seems to have come from a limp wrist at a bad angle. Maybe it’ll work for some, but for me, it felt too contrived. Still, a damn fine read, and I’m looking forward to his next novel Snuff out later this year.

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