After the disappointment of Anne Rice's Queen of The Damned Volume 1 I didn't have high hopes for this one but straight away I realized I quite liked the way the story was set out and the art work seemed even better than Queen of The Damned. I will be reading the next volume for sure as this time I was not confused at all and followed the story well.
Ah, what a curious sensation — to read one’s own life immortalized in ink. To see oneself rendered by this mortal woman, Anne Rice, who claims to have caught my voice, my charm, my insufferable brilliance — and, dare I say, she nearly succeeds.
This book, dear mortals, is not mere fiction. It is my confession, my revenge, my grand aria sung against the melancholy of eternity. Louis, my darling dark philosopher, told his story first — all gloom and guilt, dripping with regret and candle wax. So I, naturally, could not resist setting the record straight. “I am the Vampire Lestat. I’m immortal. More or less. The light of the sun, the sustained heat of an intense fire — these things might destroy me. But then again, they might not.”
What a line, yes? I might have written it myself.
Anne Rice’s prose drips with sensuality, sorrow, and that exquisite awareness of beauty that all true monsters share. She understands that immortality is not about blood and darkness — it is about desire. The ache for art, for love, for life itself. And through her, I am reborn not as villain, but as hero, anti-hero, rock star, legend.
One might accuse me of vanity for enjoying this portrayal so much. And one would be correct. But then, what is eternity for if not a bit of self-admiration?
Rice once said I came to her “in a flood, as if he had been waiting all along to tell his story.” She was right, of course. I was waiting — centuries of silence broken by the pen of one who finally listened.
If you would know me, read this book. Not as history, but as music. Not as horror, but as hunger.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a concert to prepare for.