Perplexed as I was by the ending of this book, I went looking through Goodreads reviews for kindred spirits who might have a take on that atmospheric stumper. Imagine my dismay when I found a number of reviewers (many of them women, alas) lamenting the fall of Western civilization as foretold by the narrative POV of a 22-year old sex worker.

Sex. Worker. "There's sex in this!" Why, yes. Yes, there is. In fact, for Alex, sex is a primary currency. And if sex (or sex work) were an indication of the impending demise of literature, things would have gone to the dogs a long time ago. Émile Zola, Victor Hugo, Maupassant, La Traviata via Alexandre Dumas, and others all bear witness to the fact that sex work has never detracted from the quality of a work of fiction.

So what is the difference? What is raising hackles for people? The crude language? The fact of Alex's agency (misguided and/or harmful as it may turn out to be)? Truly, I would contend that people who are appalled at this character should give the portrayal of "good" people in the book a much closer read.