I really enjoyed Eileen as I was reading it. I have almost never read a book where the protagonist so thoroughly glories in her own nastiness, who so steams and steeps in her own pathetic, most shameful excesses. Reading Eileen was glorious because she gave life to all the most nasty and terrible thoughts that I don't even admit to myself. It was honest, and that was terrifying. 
 And yet. There is something missing here. Now don't get me wrong - I don't think I'm that sentimental of a reader. Most things reach maudlin before they get to affecting, for me. But reading Eileen was a bit like being shut up in that dirty, rotting, quietly decomposing basement in the final act. Sometimes you need some fresh air. Sometimes, you need a little redemption.