The genius of Ira Levin’s fiction is that his prose is so lucid, so simple and straightforward and true, that you can never imagine anything evil happening to any of his (read: ordinary) characters.
And then halfway through you’ll get slapped by a line like, Rosemary found herself chewing on a raw and dripping chicken heart in the kitchen one morning at four-fifteen.
Like I said, genius.
Photo from fantasticfiction.co.uk
Eliza Victoria 