The Silent Patient

A Comprehensive Book Review of The Silent Patient

ALICIA BERENSON WAS THIRTY-THREE YEARS OLD when she murdered her better half.
I don't think enough about craftsmanship to state whether Alicia Berenson will stand the trial of time as a painter.
A vehicle gathered him at 5:15 a.m. from the house he imparted to Alicia in northwest London, on the edge of Hampstead Heath, and he was headed to a shoot in Shoreditch.
Alicia appeared to be negligent of the nearness of the police.
At that point, something flashed in the torchlight—a blade was on the floor by Alicia's feet.
Another light emission uncovered the blood splashed on Alicia's white dress.
Alicia warded off the endeavors to spare her life; it took three officers to control her.
As indicated by the court-selected mental medical attendant, Alicia scarcely ate or rested all she did was paint.
Alicia regularly toiled weeks, even months, leaving off on another image, making unlimited outlines, orchestrating and improving the synthesis, trying different things with shading and structure, a long incubation pursued by an extended birth as each brushstroke was carefully connected.
Let us not overlook that while Alicia Berenson might be a killer, she was likewise a craftsman.


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