Sharp Objects

“A belly. A smell. Cigarettes and old coffee. My editor, esteemed, weary Frank Curry, rocking back in his cracked Hush Puppies. His teeth soaked in brown tobacco saliva.”

Since the novel is told in first-person point of view, this observation establishes the keen attention to detail that Camille places on the grotesque details around her. While this technique will be furthered in later chapters, her observations reveal the inner darkness that plagues her psyche.

“I had no pets to worry about, no plants to leave with a neighbor. Into a duffel bag, I tucked away enough clothes to last me five days, my own reassurance I’d be out of Wind Gap before week’s end. As I took a final glance around my place, it revealed itself to me in a rush. The apartment looked like a college kid’s: cheap, transitory, and mostly inspired.”

Camille’s comment illustrates her detachment from her life in Chicago. Although she’s moved here to start a new life, she hasn’t settled in or made any lasting connections. She felt like she didn’t belong in Wind Gap, and through this comment she’s revealing that she doesn’t feel like she belongs in Chicago, either.

“I take baths. Not showers. I can’t handle the spray, it gets my skin buzzing, like someone’s turned on a switch.”

This is the first time Camille mentions her skin, which, as we will find out in later chapters, is covered in self-inflicted scars. Her skin is a constant source of discomfort. Not only is she ashamed of her scars, keeping them constantly hidden from sight, she’s also plagued by the feeling of her scars, as if they are alive and chiding her.