Who Dies In 'These Violent Delights' And Why?

The monsters in 'These Violent Delights' are born from a mix of human greed and ancient alchemy gone wrong. The story hints that a secret society of alchemists in 1920s Shanghai tried to create immortality elixirs, but instead unleashed these creatures. They’re not natural—they’re twisted experiments, part human, part something else, with elongated limbs and mouths that split too wide. The scariest part? They spread like a disease, infecting others through bites or blood. The novel suggests these monsters are metaphors for colonialism’s corruption, physically manifesting the chaos of a city torn between foreign influence and local resistance. Their origins tie directly to the protagonist’s family history, revealing dark secrets buried in Shanghai’s underworld.

As someone who's read both 'These Violent Delights' and Shakespeare's original, I can confirm it absolutely is a retelling—but with way more blood and political intrigue. The star-crossed lovers trope gets a 1926 Shanghai makeover, where the Montagues and Capulets become rival gangs controlling the city's underworld. Juliette Cai and Roma Montagov mirror their Shakespearean counterparts with their forbidden romance, but their world is packed with monster-hunting, poison kisses, and a terrifying contagion spreading through the streets. The core tragedy remains, but the stakes feel fresh with added layers of colonialism and identity crises. If you liked the original's tension but wished for more action, this delivers.

The ending of 'These Violent Delights' left me emotionally wrecked in the best way possible. Juliette and Roma's journey is a rollercoaster of love, betrayal, and sacrifice, culminating in a finale that's both heartbreaking and hopeful. After everything they've been through—the blood feud between their families, the monstrous contagion tearing through Shanghai, and their own tangled loyalties—they finally confront their feelings and the brutal reality of their world. The climax is intense, with Juliette making a gut-wrenching decision to protect Roma, even if it means losing him. The way she embraces her role as a leader while grappling with her love for him is masterfully written. Roma, on the other hand, proves his growth by choosing to trust Juliette despite their history of deception. Their final moments together are charged with raw emotion, blending passion and sorrow as they acknowledge the impossibility of their love in the current circumstances. The book doesn't give them a neat, happy ending—instead, it leaves their future ambiguous, with just a sliver of hope that they might find their way back to each other. The symbolism of the white flowers returning to Shanghai hints at renewal, mirroring the fragile possibility of reconciliation between them. It's a bittersweet conclusion that stays with you long after the last page.

I just finished 'These Violent Delights' and immediately went hunting for more. Good news—it has a sequel called 'Our Violent Ends,' which wraps up the explosive romance and gang wars between Juliette and Roma. The stakes get even higher with biological weapons, betrayals, and that heart-stopping finale. The author, Chloe Gong, also wrote 'Foul Lady Fortune,' a spin-off set in the same universe but years later, following a superpowered assassin during the Second Sino-Japanese War. If you loved the original’s blend of historical Shanghai and fantasy, these are must-reads. Gong’s writing stays sharp, and the new characters? Chef’s kiss.

The 1920s Shanghai backdrop in 'These Violent Delights' isn't just scenery—it's a character itself. The city's jazz-filled streets and opium dens ooze danger, mirroring the tension between the rival gangs. Foreign concessions create a powder keg of colonial power plays, forcing characters to navigate both local turf wars and international politics. The glamour of flapper dresses clashes with bloody alleyway brawls, showing how progress and violence coexist. Shanghai's riverfront becomes a battleground for control, while its underground tunnels hide secrets that fuel the plot. This era's social upheaval amplifies the protagonists' struggles, making their choices feel urgent and their world vibrantly alive.

I've read 'Blood Meridian' more times than I can count, and its violence isn't just shock value—it's the backbone of the book's brutal honesty about the American frontier. Cormac McCarthy doesn't flinch from showing the raw, unromanticized truth of that era, where survival often meant slaughter. The prose itself feels like a knife scraping bone: sparse, sharp, and relentless. The Glanton gang's atrocities aren't glorified; they're laid bare in a way that forces you to confront the darkness lurking in humanity's scramble for power. The Judge, that towering nightmare of a character, embodies this philosophy—his speeches about war being the ultimate game make violence feel inevitable, almost natural. It's not gratuitous; it's geological, like erosion carved into the narrative. The book's violence also serves as a mirror to its landscape. The desert isn't just a setting; it's a character that grinds down everyone equally, indifferent to morality. Scenes like the massacre at the ferry aren't exciting—they're exhausting, numbing, which I think is intentional. McCarthy strips away any notion of heroism, leaving only the mechanics of cruelty. Even the language reflects this: sentences about scalpings are delivered with the same detached rhythm as descriptions of campfire meals. That consistency makes the violence feel woven into the fabric of existence in that world, not tacked on for drama. The absence of traditional plot armor drives it home—when characters die mid-sentence, it underscores how cheap life was in that time and place.

Comparing 'American Psycho' the movie to Brett Easton Ellis's novel is like comparing a flickering candle to a wildfire. The book drowns you in grotesque, hyper-detailed violence—Patrick Bateman’s murders are described with clinical precision, from the tools he uses to the way blood spatters. It’s relentless, almost numbing. The film, while brutal, had to tone it down for ratings. Scenes like the rat torture or the homeless man’s mutilation are omitted entirely. Even the infamous chainsaw moment feels tame next to the book’s slow, methodical carnage. The novel’s violence isn’t just physical; it’s psychological. Pages of brand-name obsessions and hollow dialogue lull you before hitting with graphic horror. The movie captures Bateman’s detachment but can’t replicate the book’s suffocating monotony, which makes the violence even more jarring. Ellis forces you to linger on every cut; the film lets you look away. Both are disturbing, but the book is a marathon of dread.

'Battle Royale' stands as one of the most brutally visceral novels in the survival genre. The violence isn’t just frequent; it’s grotesquely intimate, forcing readers to confront every broken bone, every spray of blood, every moment of despair. Unlike dystopian stories that gloss over gore, this novel lingers on the physical and psychological toll of its death game. Characters aren’t faceless casualties—they’re classmates, each death etched with backstories that make the carnage resonate deeper. The brutality escalates beyond mere weaponry. Betrayals, suicides, and accidental killings heighten the horror, stripping away any glamour. Compared to 'The Hunger Games', where violence feels sanitized for younger audiences, 'Battle Royale' refuses to look away. It’s raw, chaotic, and unsettlingly realistic, mirroring the desperation of trapped animals. The novel doesn’t just shock; it immerses you in a world where morality unravels under pressure, making the violence unforgettable.