Elliot Rodger left behind a 107,000 word memoir called My Twisted World, a catchy title one can imagine on a book by the YA prince or princess of the day.

The book—and it is a full-length readable manuscript—took some time and effort. I will guess he spent many months, possibly a year, writing it. It is chronological and simple, heavy on adverbs and repetition, yet good at setting up a scene. Like many a bestseller it is not well written and yet it is a light easy read.

Experiences of joy and sadness are expressed in detached prose, a prose not designed to provoke but rather one that shows the limits of a 22-year-old. There isn’t much in the way of suspense or action, and much of it is unbelievable (or delusional.) There is no structure aside that of a diary, a record of daily triumphs, daily failures, rehashed through a deluded mind. But there are paragraphs of quiet remembrance, of straight reporting, that read well and true.

There is much in My Twisted World that is risible, especially memories of disgust and cruelty. Rodger, attempting to build sympathy for his plight(s), invents reactions and remembrances; the invention is given away by the banality of his responses, imagined responses that come from reflection, not real-time experience.

But some of the writing works. Here is a bit of adolescent fear many of us know or knew, public speaking:

It took place in the evening. As I lined up, I could feel myself shaking. I was scared even to speak in front of a classroom. To speak in a microphone to hundreds of people was too much. I didn’t understand how everyone else seemed to be fine with it. I envied their bravery. When my name was called, I didn’t want to go, but it was required of me, and I pushed myself to do it. I walked up to the microphone and nervously said “My name is Elliot, and I plan on going to Crespi High School”. I heard my own voice in the speakers and saw everyone staring at me. It made me cringe. I quickly walked away for the next person to go up. It was over. Eighth Grade was over. Middle School was over.

Direct and to the point, if not unique. And here’s a fair bit of new-age critique:

My father gave me a book called The Secret after I had dinner at his house in February. He said it will help me develop a positive attitude. The book explained the fundamentals of a concept known as the Law of Attraction. I had never heard or read anything quite like this before, and I was intrigued. The theory stated that one’s thoughts were connected to a universal force that can shape the future of reality. Being one who always loved fantasy and magic, and who always wished that such things were real, I was swept up in a temporary wave of enthusiasm over this book. The prospect that I could change my future just by visualizing in my mind the life I wanted filled me with a surge of hope that my life could turn out happy. The idea was ridiculous, of course, but the world is such a ridiculous place already that I figured I might as well give it a try. In addition, I was so desperate for something to live for that I wanted to believe in the Law of Attraction, even if it was proven to me that it wasn’t real.

The memoir’s misogyny is getting much notice, but the book is more than that sick condition; discussing it requires a full reading, no matter how dispiriting. There are familial and financial crises within the book familiar to all.

So who is Elliot Rodger? The dim headline writers of the Internet will tell us in the coming days. But if you can’t wait…

He is not Verloc, he is Stevie drawing endless circles, eavesdropping on the men sitting in the parlor as they speak of a world out of reach. He is not Fowler, settled with his pretty girl and his opium pipe, but rather he is Pyle, bumbling along with received ideas and a violent third-force; a quiet American indeed.