Praise for Finding Bartholomew
Reviewed May 4, 2016
This book is a brilliant portrait of the depressed mind. The author is an artist at describing both inner and outer environments. The main character exhibits authentic traits, including the projection of his own inner loathing on to his partner, and keeping the company of a hyper-manic friend in an attempt to feel alive. There's also the use of suicidal and sexual fantasies to self-medicate psychological pain.
I believe the core question in the story is whether the main character was depressed because he was in a loveless marriage or whether it became a loveless marriage because of his untreated depression. Each reader will need to make this determination on their own, but having been through a similar experience, my vote would be for the latter. I would highly recommend this book to anyone looking for an understanding of what it feels like to suffer from depression.
Reviewed August 23, 2016
I usually like action-filled books. But I heard about this story written by a local author so I bought it. I really enjoyed the story much more than I expected. It's the story of a man trying to figure out life. I couldn't put it down! Chris Lemme keeps the reader engrossed through interesting characters, crazy adventures and scary dreams. And that's not even mentioning the hot sex scenes!
Reviewed June 9, 2016
This book was recommended by a friend, so even though it is not in my typical genre, I picked it up. It turns out that I thoroughly enjoyed it. The writing was crisp and the story never bogged down. One of the reasons I liked the book so much was that I could really relate to the main character in certain ways (but certainly not in all ways) and have personally experienced some the of same types of events narrated in the book (I don't want to spoil anything, so you'll just have to guess what I'm referring to). The dynamics between the main character and others was quite satisfying. I definitely recommend it.
It is difficult to hold, heavy for such a small thing. Awkward, yet somehow reassuring. So much power in a small package. I kneel before the white porcelain, barely noticing the soap scum and the few stray hairs. I rest my forearms on the tub’s edge. My head sags forward. The only hope of relief is in the cool steel weighing heavily in my hand.
I lift it behind my head, twisting my wrist so that the hard metal end rests where my skull attaches to my spine. In a surprising moment of calculation, I review again why this is such an effective position. And how much easier it will be to clean up.
My thumb slowly pulls the hammer back until it makes a metallic and satisfying click. I am suddenly at peace. All of the pain disappears. No anxiety twists my gut. Tranquility flows over my body. The sharp retort reverberates off the smooth tile, an echo too large for the small space. But the cleanup will be much easier here.
I leave my daydream as if she is my lover. The warmth of the intimacy flows over me, followed by the cold fear that she will somehow use it later in her betrayal. I’m late for work. Again. I don’t care. Stephanie has taken Alex to the sitter’s and gone on to work herself. I’m all alone in the house. In my life. I frequently feel like I am outside looking in. I see someone else filling my role as father. Husband. Lover. It is someone pretending to be me. Getting away with an elaborate deception. And the worst part is I don’t know that person. The person occupying my life. In a schizophrenic feeling of déjà vu I am constantly remembering I am not who I thought I was.