The Devil All the Time

The Devil All the Time

by Donald Ray Pollock

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From the acclaimed author of Knockemstiff—called “powerful, remarkable, exceptional” by the Los Angeles Times—comes a dark and riveting vision of America that delivers literary excitement in the highest degree.

In The Devil All the Time, Donald Ray Pollock has written a novel that marries the twisted intensity of Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers with the religious and Gothic over­tones of Flannery O’Connor at her most haunting.

Set in rural southern Ohio and West Virginia, The Devil All the Time follows a cast of compelling and bizarre characters from the end of World War II to the 1960s. There’s Willard Russell, tormented veteran of the carnage in the South Pacific, who can’t save his beautiful wife, Charlotte, from an agonizing death by cancer no matter how much sacrifi­cial blood he pours on his “prayer log.” There’s Carl and Sandy Henderson, a husband-and-wife team of serial kill­ers, who troll America’s highways searching for suitable models to photograph and exterminate. There’s the spider-handling preacher Roy and his crippled virtuoso-guitar-playing sidekick, Theodore, running from the law. And caught in the middle of all this is Arvin Eugene Russell, Willard and Charlotte’s orphaned son, who grows up to be a good but also violent man in his own right.

Donald Ray Pollock braids his plotlines into a taut narrative that will leave readers astonished and deeply moved. With his first novel, he proves himself a master storyteller in the grittiest and most uncompromising American grain.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780385535052
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date: 07/12/2011
Sold by: Random House
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 272
Sales rank: 103,917
File size: 3 MB

About the Author

DONALD RAY POLLOCK is the author of the novel The Devil All the Time and the story collection Knockemstiff, recipient of the 2009 PEN/Robert W. Bingham Fellowship. He worked as a laborer at the Mead Paper Mill in Chillicothe, Ohio, from 1973 to 2005. He holds an MFA from Ohio State University.

Read an Excerpt


It was a Wednesday afternoon in the fall of 1945, not long after the war had ended. The Greyhound made its regular stop in Meade, Ohio, a little paper-mill town an hour south of Columbus that smelled like rotten eggs. Strangers complained about the stench, but the locals liked to brag that it was the sweet smell of money. The bus driver, a soft, sawed-off man who wore elevated shoes and a limp bow tie, pulled in the alley beside the depot and announced a forty-minute break. He wished he could have a cup of coffee, but his ulcer was acting up again. He yawned and took a swig from a bottle of pink medicine he kept on the dashboard. The smokestack across town, by far the tallest structure in this part of the state, belched forth another dirty brown cloud. You could see it for miles, puffing like a volcano about to blow its skinny top.

Leaning back in his seat, the bus driver pulled his leather cap down over his eyes. He lived right outside of Philadelphia, and he thought that if he ever had to live in a place like Meade, Ohio, he'd go ahead and shoot himself. You couldn't even find a bowl of lettuce in this town. All that people seemed to eat here was grease and more grease. He'd be dead in two months eating the slop they did. His wife told her friends that he was delicate, but there was something about the tone of her voice that sometimes made him wonder if she was really being sympathetic. If it hadn't been for the ulcer, he would have gone off to fight with the rest of the men. He'd have slaughtered a whole platoon of Germans and shown her just how goddamn delicate he was. The biggest regret was all the medals he'd missed out on. His old man once got a certificate from the railroad for not missing a single day of work in twenty years, and had pointed it out to his sickly son every time he'd seen him for the next twenty. When the old man finally croaked, the bus driver tried to talk his mother into sticking the certificate in the casket with the body so he wouldn't have to look at it anymore. But she insisted on leaving it displayed in the living room as an example of what a person could attain in this life if he didn't let a little indigestion get in his way. The funeral, an event the bus driver had looked forward to for a long time, had nearly been ruined by all the arguing over that crummy scrap of paper. He would be glad when all the discharged soldiers finally reached their destinations so he wouldn't have to look at the dumb bastards anymore. It wore on you after a while, other people's accomplishments.

Private Willard Russell had been drinking in the back of the bus with two sailors from Georgia, but one had passed out and the other had puked in their last jug. He kept thinking that if he ever got home, he'd never leave Coal Creek, West Virginia, again. He'd seen some hard things growing up in the hills, but they didn't hold a candle to what he'd witnessed in the South Pacific. On one of the Solomons, he and a couple of other men from his outfit had run across a marine skinned alive by the Japanese and nailed to a cross made out of two palm trees. The raw, bloody body was covered with black flies. They could still see the man's heart beating in his chest. His dog tags were hanging from what remained of one of his big toes: Gunnery Sergeant Miller Jones. Unable to offer anything but a little mercy, Willard shot the marine behind the ear, and they took him down and covered him with rocks at the foot of the cross. The inside of Willard's head hadn't been the same since.

When he heard the tubby bus driver yell something about a break, Willard stood up and started toward the door, disgusted with the two sailors. In his opinion, the navy was one branch of the military that should never be allowed to drink. In the three years he'd served in the army, he hadn't met a single swabby who could hold his liquor. Someone had told him that it was because of the saltpeter they were fed to keep them from going crazy and fucking each other when they were out to sea. He wandered outside the bus depot and saw a little restaurant across the street called the Wooden Spoon. There was a piece of white cardboard stuck in the window advertising a meat loaf special for thirty-five cents. His mother had fixed him a meat loaf the day before he left for the army, and he considered that a good sign. In a booth by the window, he sat down and lit a cigarette. A shelf ran around the room, lined with old bottles and antique kitchenware and cracked black-and-white photographs for the dust to collect on. Tacked to the wall by the booth was a faded newspaper account of a Meade police officer who'd been gunned down by a bank robber in front of the bus depot. Willard looked closer, saw that it was dated February 11, 1936. That would have been four days before his twelfth birthday, he calculated. An old man, the only other customer in the diner, was bent over at a table in the middle of the room slurping a bowl of green soup. His false teeth rested on top of a stick of butter in front of him.

Willard finished the cigarette and was just getting ready to leave when a dark-haired waitress finally stepped out of the kitchen. She grabbed a menu from a stack by the cash register and handed it to him. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't hear you come in." Looking at her high cheekbones and full lips and long, slender legs, Willard discovered, when she asked him what he wanted to eat, that the spit had dried in his mouth. He could barely speak. That had never happened to him before, not even in the middle of the worst fighting on Bougainville. While she went to put the order in and get him a cup of coffee, the thought went through his head that just a couple of months ago he was certain that his life was going to end on some steamy, worthless rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean; and now here he was, still sucking air and just a few hours from home, being waited on by a woman who looked like a live version of one of those pinup movie angels. As best as Willard could ever tell, that was when he fell in love. It didn't matter that the meat loaf was dry and the green beans were mushy and the roll as hard as a lump of #5 coal. As far as he was concerned, she served him the best meal he ever had in his life. And after he finished it, he got back on the bus without even knowing Charlotte Willoughby's name.

Across the river in Huntington, he found a liquor store when the bus made another stop, and bought five pints of bonded whiskey that he stuck away in his pack. He sat in the front now, right behind the driver, thinking about the girl in the diner and looking for some indication that he was getting close to home. He was still a little drunk. Out of the blue, the bus driver said, "Bringing any medals back?" He glanced at Willard in the rearview mirror.

Willard shook his head. "Just this skinny old carcass I'm walking around in."

"I wanted to go, but they wouldn't take me."

"You're lucky," Willard said. The day they'd come across the marine, the fighting on the island was nearly over, and the sergeant had sent them out looking for some water fit to drink. A couple of hours after they buried Miller Jones's flayed body, four starving Japanese soldiers with fresh bloodstains on their machetes came out of the rocks with their hands up in the air and surrendered. When Willard and his two buddies started to lead them back to the location of the cross, the soldiers dropped to their knees and started begging or apologizing, he didn't know which. "They tried to escape," Willard lied to the sergeant later in the camp. "We didn't have no choice." After they had executed the Japs, one of the men with him, a Louisiana boy who wore a swamp rat's foot around his neck to ward off slant-eyed bullets, cut their ears off with a straight razor. He had a cigar box full of ones he'd already dried. His plan was to sell the trophies for five bucks apiece once they got back to civilization.

"I got an ulcer," the bus driver said.

"You didn't miss nothing."

"I don't know," the bus driver said. "I sure would have liked to got me a medal. Maybe a couple of them. I figure I could have killed enough of those Kraut bastards for two anyway. I'm pretty quick with my hands."

Looking at the back of the bus driver's head, Willard thought about the conversation he'd had with the gloomy young priest on board the ship after he confessed that he'd shot the marine to put him out of his misery. The priest was sick of all the death he'd seen, all the prayers he'd said over rows of dead soldiers and piles of body parts. He told Willard that if even half of history was true, then the only thing this depraved and corrupt world was good for was preparing you for the next. "Did you know," Willard said to the driver, "that the Romans used to gut donkeys and sew Christians up alive inside the carcasses and leave them out in the sun to rot?" The priest had been full of such stories.

"What the hell's that got to do with a medal?"

"Just think about it. You're trussed up like a turkey in a pan with just your head sticking out a dead donkey's ass; and then the maggots eating away at you until you see the glory."

The bus driver frowned, gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. "Friend, I don't see what you're getting at. I was talking about coming home with a big medal pinned to your chest. Did these Roman fellers give out medals to them people before they stuck 'em in the donkeys? Is that what you mean?"

Willard didn't know what he meant. According to the priest, only God could figure out the ways of men. He licked his dry lips, thought about the whiskey in his pack. "What I'm saying is that when it comes right down to it, everybody suffers in the end," Willard said.

"Well," the bus driver said, "I'd liked to have my medal before then. Heck, I got a wife at home who goes nuts every time she sees one. Talk about suffering. I worry myself sick anytime I'm out on the road she's gonna take off with a purple heart."

Willard leaned forward and the driver felt the soldier's hot breath on the back of his fat neck, smelled the whiskey fumes and the stale traces of a cheap lunch. "You think Miller Jones would give a shit if his old lady was out fucking around on him?" Willard said. "Buddy, he'd trade places with you any goddamn day."

"Who the hell is Miller Jones?"

Willard looked out the window as the hazy top of Greenbrier Mountain started to appear in the distance. His hands were trembling, his brow shiny with sweat. "Just some poor bastard who went and fought in that war they cheated you out of, that's all."

Willard was just getting ready to break down and crack open one of the pints when his uncle Earskell pulled up in his rattly Ford in front of the Greyhound station in Lewisburg at the corner of Washington and Court. He had been sitting on a bench outside for almost three hours, nursing a cold coffee in a paper cup and watching people walk by the Pioneer Drugstore. He was ashamed of the way he'd talked to the bus driver, sorry that he'd brought up the marine's name like he did; and he vowed that, though he would never forget him, he'd never mention Gunnery Sergeant Miller Jones to anyone again. Once they were on the road, he reached into his duffel and handed Earskell one of the pints along with a German Luger. He'd traded a Japanese ceremonial sword for the pistol at the base in Maryland right before he got discharged. "That's supposed to be the gun Hitler used to blow his brains out," Willard said, trying to hold back a grin.

"Bullshit," Earskell said.

Willard laughed. "What? You think the guy lied to me?"

"Ha!" the old man said. He twisted the cap off the bottle, took a long pull, then shuddered. "Lord, this is good stuff."

"Drink up. I got three more in my kit." Willard opened another pint and lit a cigarette. He stuck his arm out the window. "How's my mother doing?"

"Well, I gotta say, when they sent Junior Carver's body back, she went a little off in the head there for a while. But she seems pretty good now." Earskell took another hit off the pint and set it between his legs. "She just been worried about you, that's all."

They climbed slowly into the hills toward Coal Creek. Earskell wanted to hear some war stories, but the only thing his nephew talked about for the next hour was some woman he'd met in Ohio. It was the most he'd ever heard Willard talk in his life. He wanted to ask if it was true that the Japs ate their own dead, like the newspaper said, but he figured that could wait. Besides, he needed to pay attention to his driving. The whiskey was going down awful smooth, and his eyes weren't as good as they used to be. Emma had been waiting on her son to return home for a long time, and it would be a shame if he wrecked and killed them both before she got to see him. Earskell chuckled a little to himself at the thought of that. His sister was one of the most God-fearing people he'd ever met, but she'd follow him straight into hell to make him pay for that one.

What People are Saying About This

William Gay

This novel fulfills the promise made by Pollock's debut collection, Knockemstiff. He is a real writer, and The Devil All The Time hits you like a telegram from Hell slid under your door at three o'clock in the morning. (William Gay, author of Provinces of Night and The Long Home)

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The Devil All the Time 4.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 79 reviews.
Adaptoid More than 1 year ago
By the end of the second chapter I felt as though I were reading a contemporary version of Steinbeck. Pollock's writing is somehow similar to moist beauty sucked to a ragged dry poetic carcass. The surrealistic nature of the story helps to counter the terrifying violence and savage outcome of the magnetic characters. At later points in the book the action borders on absurdist, almost to a fault, but Pollack reels the empathy back to the hopeless dilemma of his protagonist. By the end I felt as though there was light where their most obviously shouldn't be. I highly recommend!
tricia819 More than 1 year ago
This was the first book I've read of Donald Pollock and it was crazy. I don't usually take the time to write reviews, but this book has me spinning. The story lines were woven into this spiderweb that just got more and more intense with each chapter. I could not stop reading it and when I got done I just wanted to talk to someone else about it. It was dark, violent and an incredible ride. Fantastic read, will be thinking about this one for a LONG time to come.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I grew up in the 50's and 60's. Visited old timers in smokey cabins just off dirt roads. This book captures the character of the people and the poverty of these places. I have not been so engrossed with characters, even the unsavory ones, since reading John Steinbeck's novels as a youngster. Great work on tough subjects.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I enjoyed this dark story and found myself unwilling to put it down.
BookSakeBlogspot More than 1 year ago
I absolutely loved The Devil All the Time. The characters are the darkest, most sickening creatures I have ever read about and yet, I was completely mesmerized by them. Pollock's writing is so disturbing that I often found myself wondering how I could ever suggest this book to a person without forever changing their opinion of me. There's Willard who sacrifices animals and even a human to save his dying wife, while also subjecting his son, Arvin, to these disturbing rituals. Then we have Carl and Sandy who photograph and kill models. Finally, there's the preacher, Roy, and his wheelchair-bound cousin Theodore who are equally disgusting characters in this novel. Despite the appalling crimes committed by these people, I was fascinated by their lives and couldn't put this book down. My only criticism is that each story could have stood on its own. The Devil All the Time is less like a novel and more like a compilation of short stories. I understood the grand scheme connection, but it seemed a little forced - as if the author just needed a reason to slap the stories together in the same binding. Honestly though, I was not bothered by this; it was just more substance for me to cringe at. Reviewed by Brittany for Book Sake.
Lisa Rich More than 1 year ago
Great read. A little slow at first and jumps around a bit to where you sometimes get confused but after page 125 the momentum gets going and its hard to stop. Good thriller with crazy twists!
Sharon29 More than 1 year ago
I could not put this one down!!!
Cindy Guzman More than 1 year ago
I enjoyed every detail, every character, every word. Though it may be a gruesome story line, it has become one of my favorite novels. A good read that will keep you guessing, and turning each page.
LiteraryOmnivore More than 1 year ago
Very much a pulp fiction/crime crime genre. Graphic, engrossing, and highly entertaining.
Darcia on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I cannot find the zest some other readers have for this book. The word that kept rolling through my mind as I read was 'disjointed'. There is no main character. Almost every character has a point of view and there are countless POV shifts, often within the same paragraph. At times I found it dizzying to keep up with. Eventually, the reader finds the loose common thread holding these people together. The more obvious commonality and the only thing that truly stood out for me was the twisted minds of a large group of disturbed characters. There is no good in anyone here. If each scene is taken on its own, these 'stories' are well written, intense and chilling. As a group, put together in novel form, it didn't work for me. I needed coherence but didn't find it.
Hagelstein on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The Devil All The Time propels several bizarre characters along in converging plotlines that span almost two decades in southern Ohio and West Virginia. The characters are richly drawn and fascinating. Carl and Sandy Henderson are traveling serial killers. Carl, a self-proclaimed photographer, is just terrifying. Roy and Theodore are traveling preachers and deviants. Lee Bodecker is a crooked sheriff, and Sandy¿s brother. Arvin Russell is an orphan whose fanatically religious father tried to save Arvin¿s cancer-ridden mother by sacrificing animals, and in one case a human. Arvin emerges as the driving force as the story concludes.The writing isn¿t as searing as Pollock¿s short stories in Knockemstiff, but there¿s an added depth of character and plot - and restraint - that carries the story along to a brutal and satisfying conclusion.
TooBusyReading on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
(fiction) No doubt about it, Mr. Pollock can write. His cast of characters, his storyline, his way with words, all make for a compelling read. After I received this book but before I started reading it, I read a couple of reviews that caused me to think that there would be too much animal cruelty in the book.And there was, but nothing to compare to the way humans treated one another. I put this book down for a couple of days while my husband was out of town because I didn't want to read it before bed, have nightmares, and have no one to tell me that the serial killers really aren't after me.Arvin's father thinks he can save his wife from cancer by making sacrifices on his prayer log. His mindset comes through in one of his prayers:¿Thank you, God, for giving me the strength to keep my hands off Henry Dunlap's fat [expletive deleted] neck. And let the sonofabitch have everything he wants in this life, though I got to confess, Lord, I sure wouldn't mind seeing him choke on it someday.¿Of course, Arvin is dragged into his father's madness. Sandy, a quiet and shy girl, goes way, way astray when she hooks up with Carl, a very creepy wannabe photographer with no redeeming qualities. Pedophile preachers, carnival freaks, murdering lawmen ¿ there is no shortage of despicable people here.This is a trainwreck of a book, and I mean that in the best possible way. I knew it was a dark and gritty book, and I like reading those at times. The violence in this one was way over the top for my tastes but I can't deny that I couldn't wait to find out what happened next. Still, I had to skim over the parts that were just too much for my mind.I was given an advance reading copy of this book by the publisher. The quote above may change in the finished edition. Even the cover of the ARE I have is very, very disturbing. This book is not for the faint of heart.
ElizaJane on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Reason for Reading: I love dark southern fiction. The type of book where the characters reach redemption by the end or at least try to, but they all, mostly, end up dead anyway.This is indeed a dark book and I just loved it! The story revolves around three separate pairs of individuals who eventually share some ties, but most of all they connect with Arvin Eugene Russell, the orphan of one of the individuals. The book starts out with the story of Willard and Charlotte Russell. Willard marries Charlotte soon after he comes back from WWII, they move out into the back country, have a son and then Willard is tormented as his wife is ravished by cancer and he sacrifices buckets of blood to his "prayer log." Next are spider handling preacher Roy and his crippled guitar playing sidekick Theodore, fakers, who end up running from the law for murder. And finally there is photographer Carl and Sandy Henderson husband-and-wife serial killer team who every summer "go on the road" and randomly brutalize and kill men. But joining all three together is Arvin Eugene Russell, orphaned son of Will and Charlene, who grows up to be a good man but with a violence of his own.This was a page-turner for me that I completed easily over the course of two days. Not only was the story compelling in an often-times gut-wrenchingly perverse manner, but there were times when one saw how some of the antagonists had started off as victims themselves. The writing is topnotch and the characterization of a whole cast of people who are mostly downright unlikable and unsympathetic yet somehow ultimately human is finely-tuned. A mixture of religion, southern Gothic and haunting people, places and plots creates a dark story indeed. Not suitable for those who like happy endings. I found the ending redemptive and satisfying but those who like most characters to be alive at book's end will find this is not the book for them.
4daisies on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is southern gothic writing at its very best! I could not put it down. A devout southern mama, a traumatized veteran, a spider-wrangling preacher, a crooked sheriff, a couple of orphans, oh- and a husband-wife serial killing team; Pollock weaves together the lives of several characters taking them from the end of WWII through the 60s. What I learned: Don't make bargains with God... and read all of the Donald Ray Pollock work I can get my hands on! I want to know more about a place in Ohio called Knockemstiff.
chuewyc on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I really like this book. The way mr pollock writes keeps my interest the whole way through(which isn't easy to do). Again this story takes place near his home town of Knockemstif, Ohio. Really has some interesting characters to follow and get disgusted with. Although you do find yourself routing for some of them. Overall definitly worth your time to read
taletreader on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is a book definitely not for the faint of heart (or stomach for that matter). Like others have said, every character in the book has some disgusting flaw, but the audience is driven towards them like a moth towards light (horrible comparison, I know). I love how all the characters eventually intersect and that there is still a main character through all of it. The dialogue is what first made me love this book. Being southern, Pollock was spot on with how we hillbillies talk. I love how you also get a sense of Tennessee and Ohio through his dialogue as well. There was really nothing about this book I disliked. I appreciated the plot twists because they honestly were surprises to me, and I loved how the short chapters made for easy reading. I wish I could go on and on about how much I enjoyed this book, but I usually only write long reviews when I thoroughly disliked a book. At least I know I will have Arvin Eugene Russell stuck in my head for the next days. Or weeks. Or months even.
kraaivrouw on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This book definitely suffered because I read it right after Winter's Bone. I was still looking for something redneck (for lack of a better term) and this seemed a good prospect. Well-written, but too disjointed to really hold together as a novel. It's dark and violent (that's not a problem), but I need a novel to hang together as a novel and this just didn't. Ultimately its brutality was just boring for me.
wilsonknut on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I¿ve described The Devil All the Time to friends in the following two ways: It¿s brutal. It¿s David Lynch meets Rob Zombie in West Virginia.Pollock¿s book takes the Southern Gothic to new and bizarre lows. The book is soaked through with violence and suffering. The characters are essentially a testament to the depravity of humankind- a man broken by war and loss, a serial killer, a statutory rapist preacher, a corrupt small town cop, and several lonely women who just go along with it all. I want to call the characters absurdly tragic, but as I was reading the book the national news reported that a man hit his two sons with a hatchet and set their trailer on fire killing them all in a murder-suicide. That would fit in this book. Pollock offers the reader a little twisted humor here and there. He has a superb sense of timing and lets the reader come up for air right before it all gets to be too much, but he has no mercy for his characters. What¿s disconcerting is that the book is engrossing. You want to know what happens to these people, although you don¿t care if it¿s something terrible. In some cases you may want something terrible to happen to them. On top of all of that, Pollock¿s prose captures each disturbing scene perfectly. There¿s a sinewy beauty to it.
bobbolls1 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This book was so captivating! Dark, violent, depraved and it never stopped fascinating. I went out and purchased "Knockemstiff" because I'm now hooked on Donald Ray Pollack's storytelling.
brandonb543 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Read in early 2012 on Kindle. This was a gripping, dark, violent and gritty tale of interweaving stories coming together. The chapters (and book) are very short which increases its readability.
muddyboy on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The book is dark, dark, dark, but if you can stand the heat it is a roller coaster of bloody mayhem. It has one of the most memorable anti heroes I have read in fiction in a long time. The bullets fly, the nooses fall and the knives slash but all in a folksy kind of way that hearkens to a much less bloody plot. Bad behaviors told in Mayberry.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
What a tale. Fascinating horrible riveting characters. Highly recommended!!! The novel includes murder, photos, suicide, religious fever, crooked cop, sex, children, chicken livers, and much more. It does trash Republicans, but that is the way to get published now. As a former resident in the area, the only way to be employed there was to be a registered Democrat. The book and story has some truly horrible characters and I could not stop reading it. The book deserves an A++++++++
TulaneGirl More than 1 year ago
This is a story in twos. The first starts off in the late 1940's when Arvin is a boy. His mother is dying of cancer and his father, a religious zealot, fervently believes he can save her with violent offerings to God. When that doesn't work, he offs himself and leaves Arvin in the care of his grandmother. Meanwhile, a duo preacher group comes to town and one marries a homely local girl. They have a child together. The preacher starts to lose his faith and charm and comes to believe that if he performs a resurrection, all will be well. Thinking to start off with a small animal, his partner, who never liked his friend's wife, convinces him to start big - with his wife. Well, you can imagine how that went and the two run off to Florida. Fast forward to the early 1960's. The story focuses primarily on a murderous couple that saves up their money to take a killing trip once a year. They're on year 6 or 7 now and the seams are starting to fall apart. Along the way, their paths converge with the murderous preacher and Arvin. Sprinkle in a corrupt brother cop and it's a recipe full of unsavory characters trying to survive. The book started off strong, became pretty muddled, and ended too cleanly. I really liked Arvin and the murderous couple's story, but the rest was just distracting. It became convoluted at times and I really lost interest when the other characters were the focus.
B-Cyr More than 1 year ago
The Devil All the Time is an amazing story with great writing. Read my full review here:
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book came too close to reality for comfort, terrifying tales of some backwards people