The Voyeur: In the Shadow of Illusions
by Oscar Lorenz
We are shaped by what we silence.
Not by what we proclaim, defend or decorate —
but by the fractures we hide behind the smile,
by the words we never say because we fear their truth.
We become what we bury. And it grows with us.
“The Voyeur” by Oscar Lorenz is a novel that deliberately defies genre — it exists as much in the realm of psychological thriller as it does in the domain of philosophical inquiry into the human condition. With surgical precision, Lorenz peels away layers of illusion to expose the unsettling mechanics of perception, memory, and isolation. This is a story not merely about watching others, but about being trapped within the act of watching — especially when the gaze turns inward.
Human identity in “The Voyeur” emerges as a fragile construct built from denial, desire, and the fear of truth. Lorenz does not offer resolutions — instead, he asks questions so precise they cut. Drawing from the traditions of European existentialism and psychoanalysis, he crafts a narrative that resembles a labyrinth — only here, the walls are made of mirrors.
This is a novel about duality: fascination and shame, the body and the soul, light and shadow — and the impossibility of separating them without fracture. The unease that lingers after reading it is not a flaw, but its greatest achievement. At a time when fiction often shies away from darkness, Oscar Lorenz walks directly into it — not to horrify, but to remind us that only through shadow can we learn to truly see.
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E-book: The Voyeur by Oscar Lorenz
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What we hide from the world is often the truest reflection of who we are — not the face we present, but the parts we fear, the wounds we conceal, the truths too fragile or too raw to expose. The masks we wear say little; it is in our silence that the real story unfolds. In the glance we avoid, in the gesture we restrain, in the word left unspoken — there, the self reveals itself. What remains hidden does not disappear; it grows quietly within us, shaping our thoughts, our fears, our desires. We are not defined by what we show, but by what we guard. That is where the soul lives.
She returned to the room wrapped in a towel. White, plain, clinging tightly to her body, still releasing wisps of steam. Droplets of water slid down her calves, and I saw them—every one—as if they were sliding down my own skin. She stood still for a moment, as though searching for something. A thought, perhaps. Or a precise movement to be made before the night swallowed her in the silence of sleep. I watched as she adjusted the towel across her chest, tilted her head slightly—and for a second, a brief and aching second, I had the feeling she was looking straight at me. But no. Impossible. I’ve been sitting here for weeks. I know exactly where the line of sight ends, where the light from her room no longer touches the shrubs. I am only a shadow—more whisper than man.
Oscar Alexander Lorenz (b. 1985) is a Polish-American novelist and composer, a master of psychological narrative and atmosphere. He is the author of deeply intimate prose, suspended between the silence of inner solitude and the scream of hidden desires. Born into a family of Polish descent, he grew up between New York and Kraków—and it is between these two cities that he now divides his life and creative work.
As a writer, he is known for his dense, introspective style, where the aim is not so much to tell stories as to expose the soul. His novels explore lives entangled in routine, unfulfillment, and love tinged with obsession. As a composer, he creates minimalist, atmospheric scores for films, stage productions, and his own narrative projects—treating sound as an equal language of expression.
He made his debut in the second decade of the 21st century and has since established himself as one of the most incisive voices in contemporary psychological literature. In both his prose and his music, emotional rawness meets aesthetic precision and an uncompromising gaze into the human condition.
I write because I believe that every human being — even the most ordinary — carries within them a depth they will never reveal willingly. I’m not interested in action for action’s sake. I don’t create to entertain. I create to open. Wounds, eyes, souls. I search for truth that hurts. Cracks through which the light breaks in. Madness that needs no diagnosis.
I believe literature should be a mirror — but not one that reflects the external, rather one that exposes what’s most deeply hidden. I’m drawn to the human being at the breaking point. The moment when decency ends and truth begins. When the masks fall away and all that’s left is the heart muscle, beating in panic and silence.
I write about what we fear. About loneliness. About meaninglessness. About life that doesn’t scream — but suffocates, slowly, in the routine. I don’t want to offer hope. I want to offer recognition. Because sometimes, all it takes is for someone to name what you feel — and suddenly, you’re not alone anymore.
Art has no obligation to be beautiful. It must be true. And truth is rarely comfortable.
