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Die Exhibitionisten
„Warum wollen die Erwachsenen es immer wieder tun?"
Auf diese unschuldige Frage bekommt die zwölfjährige Merry noch keine Antwort. Als zum Filmstar gewordene Zwanzigjährige weiß sie über es sehr wohl Bescheid. Denn die üppige Erotik der Hollywood-Cliquen ist eine einzige Versuchung. Aber die Abgründe der Triebhaftigkeit sind nur harmlose Extravaganzen, die sich jeder leisten können muß, der ein Star werden will.
Mit zwanzig auf der Höhe des Starruhms angelangt, ist Merry nicht nur mit der Reife einer Vierzigjährigen belastet, sondern auch mit dem Wissen um die unglückseligen Verirrungen ihres Trieblebens. Die glitzernde Starwelt Hollywoods hat nichts zu verschenken. Produzenten und Stars, Manager, Kolumnisten und Starlets rennen den großen Rosinen im Kuchen nach und werden dabei selbst zur wandelnden Ware.
Knisternde Erotik trägt diesen brillanten, dramatischen Roman, der Einblick zu geben versucht in die Kulissen einer durch den Starrummel völlig aus den Fugen geratenen Gesellschaft.
Auf diese unschuldige Frage bekommt die zwölfjährige Merry noch keine Antwort. Als zum Filmstar gewordene Zwanzigjährige weiß sie über es sehr wohl Bescheid. Denn die üppige Erotik der Hollywood-Cliquen ist eine einzige Versuchung. Aber die Abgründe der Triebhaftigkeit sind nur harmlose Extravaganzen, die sich jeder leisten können muß, der ein Star werden will.
Mit zwanzig auf der Höhe des Starruhms angelangt, ist Merry nicht nur mit der Reife einer Vierzigjährigen belastet, sondern auch mit dem Wissen um die unglückseligen Verirrungen ihres Trieblebens. Die glitzernde Starwelt Hollywoods hat nichts zu verschenken. Produzenten und Stars, Manager, Kolumnisten und Starlets rennen den großen Rosinen im Kuchen nach und werden dabei selbst zur wandelnden Ware.
Knisternde Erotik trägt diesen brillanten, dramatischen Roman, der Einblick zu geben versucht in die Kulissen einer durch den Starrummel völlig aus den Fugen geratenen Gesellschaft.
382 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1967
About the author
Henry Sutton
38 books9 followersDavid Rytman Slavitt (born 23 March 1935 in White Plains, New York) is a writer, poet, and translator, the author of more than 100 books.
Slavitt attended Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts, where his first writing teacher was Dudley Fitts. He received an undergraduate degree from Yale University (where he studied under Cleanth Brooks and Robert Penn Warren and was elected class poet, "Scholar of the House," in 1956), graduating with a Bachelor of Arts (magna cum laude), and then a Master's degree in English from Columbia University in 1957
Before becoming a full-time free-lance writer in 1965, Slavitt worked at various jobs in the literary field. These included a stint in the personnel office of Reader's Digest in Pleasantville, New York; teaching English at the Georgia Institute of Technology in Atlanta (1957–1958); and a variety of jobs at Newsweek in New York. Slavitt began there as a mailroom clerk, was promoted to the positions of book reviewer and film critic, and earned the position of associate editor from 1958 to 1963. He edited the movies pages from 1963 to 1965.
Okla Elliott, a professor and Illinois Distinguished Fellow at the University of Illinois at Urbana–Champaign, has written of Slavitt that he "served as an associate editor at Newsweek until 1965, teaching himself Greek on his 35-minute commute. In his last two years at Newsweek, he had a reputation as an astute, sometime cranky, but always readable 'flicker picker' and gained some notoriety for his film reviews there."
Slavitt taught as an assistant professor at the University of Maryland, College Park, in 1977, and at Temple University, in Philadelphia, as associate professor from 1978 to 1980. Slavitt was a lecturer at Columbia University from 1985 to 1986, at Rutgers University in 1987, and at the University of Pennsylvania in 1991. He has served as a visiting professor at the University of Texas at El Paso and other institutions. He has given poetry readings at colleges and universities, at the Folger Shakespeare Library, and at the Library of Congress.
His first work, a book of poems titled Suits for the Dead, was published in 1961.
In the 1960s, Slavitt was approached by Bernie Geis & Associates to write a big book, a popular book, which he agreed to if he could use a pseudonym. As Henry Sutton, in 1967 he published The Exhibitionist, which sold more than 4 million copies. He followed this with The Voyeur in 1968 and three more novels as Henry Sutton. He has also published popular novels under the names of David Benjamin, Lynn Meyer, and Henry Lazarus.
Slavitt has published numerous works in translation, especially classics, from Greek, Latin, Hebrew, Spanish and French.
Henry S. Taylor, winner of the 1986 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, has written, "David Slavitt is among the most accomplished living practitioners" of writing, "in both prose and verse; his poems give us a pleasurable, beautiful way of meditating on a bad time. We can't ask much more of literature, and usually we get far less."
Novelist and poet James Dickey wrote, "Slavitt has such an easy, tolerant, believable relationship with the ancient world and its authors that making the change-over from that world to ours is less a leap than an enjoyable stroll. The reader feels a continual sense of gratitude."
Georgia Jones-Davis, a poet and journalist, has said, "Slavitt is brilliant and he writes with grace, passion and humor."
Awards and honors
Edgar Award Nominee for Best First Novel for Paperback Thriller, 1976
Grant from Pennsylvania Council on the Arts, 1985
National Endowment for the Arts Translation Fellowship, 1988
Literature award, American Academy of Arts and Letters, 1989
Rockefeller Foundation artist's residency, 1989. Slavitt used the time period of the retreat (November 3 - December 12, 1989) to work on a translation of the curse poem Ibis by the Latin poet Ovid.
Kevin Kline Award, 2011, for Outstanding New Play or Musical
Slavitt attended Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts, where his first writing teacher was Dudley Fitts. He received an undergraduate degree from Yale University (where he studied under Cleanth Brooks and Robert Penn Warren and was elected class poet, "Scholar of the House," in 1956), graduating with a Bachelor of Arts (magna cum laude), and then a Master's degree in English from Columbia University in 1957
Before becoming a full-time free-lance writer in 1965, Slavitt worked at various jobs in the literary field. These included a stint in the personnel office of Reader's Digest in Pleasantville, New York; teaching English at the Georgia Institute of Technology in Atlanta (1957–1958); and a variety of jobs at Newsweek in New York. Slavitt began there as a mailroom clerk, was promoted to the positions of book reviewer and film critic, and earned the position of associate editor from 1958 to 1963. He edited the movies pages from 1963 to 1965.
Okla Elliott, a professor and Illinois Distinguished Fellow at the University of Illinois at Urbana–Champaign, has written of Slavitt that he "served as an associate editor at Newsweek until 1965, teaching himself Greek on his 35-minute commute. In his last two years at Newsweek, he had a reputation as an astute, sometime cranky, but always readable 'flicker picker' and gained some notoriety for his film reviews there."
Slavitt taught as an assistant professor at the University of Maryland, College Park, in 1977, and at Temple University, in Philadelphia, as associate professor from 1978 to 1980. Slavitt was a lecturer at Columbia University from 1985 to 1986, at Rutgers University in 1987, and at the University of Pennsylvania in 1991. He has served as a visiting professor at the University of Texas at El Paso and other institutions. He has given poetry readings at colleges and universities, at the Folger Shakespeare Library, and at the Library of Congress.
His first work, a book of poems titled Suits for the Dead, was published in 1961.
In the 1960s, Slavitt was approached by Bernie Geis & Associates to write a big book, a popular book, which he agreed to if he could use a pseudonym. As Henry Sutton, in 1967 he published The Exhibitionist, which sold more than 4 million copies. He followed this with The Voyeur in 1968 and three more novels as Henry Sutton. He has also published popular novels under the names of David Benjamin, Lynn Meyer, and Henry Lazarus.
Slavitt has published numerous works in translation, especially classics, from Greek, Latin, Hebrew, Spanish and French.
Henry S. Taylor, winner of the 1986 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, has written, "David Slavitt is among the most accomplished living practitioners" of writing, "in both prose and verse; his poems give us a pleasurable, beautiful way of meditating on a bad time. We can't ask much more of literature, and usually we get far less."
Novelist and poet James Dickey wrote, "Slavitt has such an easy, tolerant, believable relationship with the ancient world and its authors that making the change-over from that world to ours is less a leap than an enjoyable stroll. The reader feels a continual sense of gratitude."
Georgia Jones-Davis, a poet and journalist, has said, "Slavitt is brilliant and he writes with grace, passion and humor."
Awards and honors
Edgar Award Nominee for Best First Novel for Paperback Thriller, 1976
Grant from Pennsylvania Council on the Arts, 1985
National Endowment for the Arts Translation Fellowship, 1988
Literature award, American Academy of Arts and Letters, 1989
Rockefeller Foundation artist's residency, 1989. Slavitt used the time period of the retreat (November 3 - December 12, 1989) to work on a translation of the curse poem Ibis by the Latin poet Ovid.
Kevin Kline Award, 2011, for Outstanding New Play or Musical
Ratings & Reviews
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Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews
May 22, 2018
When Henry Sutton's THE EXHIBITIONIST shot toward the top of the New-York Times best-seller list in the fall of 1967 Jacqueline Susann...
http://sleaze-factor.blogspot.ca/2018...
http://sleaze-factor.blogspot.ca/2018...
October 11, 2015
A really enjoyable representation of life without social boundaries once one becomes removed from the restraints of middle class concern.
Not one for snobs or pseudo literati.
Not one for snobs or pseudo literati.
May 20, 2010
I don't recommend this for anyone. Though the dated language, horrible dialogue, amazingly specific metaphors, and introduction of new characters throughout the book made for a pretty entertaining read.
So they'd ridden down to town, and that was how she met the good-looking fellow with the paper fans.
'All right,' he said. 'That's enough lemonade.'
His tongue felt like a shoe that had been kicked into the back of a closet somewhere and left there for years and then, for no reason, put into his mouth. And it wasn't even his own shoe. It felt like a size 14 EEE.
He stepped out of his patent leather dancing pumps, drew off his socks, and took off his shorts. They he joined her in the bad.
He could not have said why he expected his maneuver to work, much less how he expected it to work, but it felt right, and whether it is that happy people are more in tune with the pulse of the world's workings or that people who are happy are blessed, or lucky, it is nevertheless true that he had the confidence at that moment to trust his impulse.
Harry Novotny had done well for himself, or the world had done well by him. The new television shows, with talking dogs, horses, porpoises, and mules, had kept him busy.
She had gone to the beach with them, and driven along on the Palisades Highway to look down on the sand and spy out the sleeping bags they were always sure to find, writhing like beached dugongs.
Bill invited the girls over to his house that evening for a modest blast, as he put it.
There was somehow, in some way, a vibration, an intonation, a resonance, however faint, that led Melissa to suspect that in another country, and at another time, Miss Preston might have been courting her, rather than herself courting one of Miss Preston's students.
The audience laughed and applauded, and it was like drinking champagne to hear them--but better, as if one ignored the gross liquid and drank only the pure bubbles.
the effect of the meeting was that of a waterfall's turbulence meeting the calm water of a mountain pool and setting up a curtain of mist which, in the right light, discloses a rainbow.
She told Merry that Novotny had been slashed to death by and ostrich.
He stroked his beard, but it did not entirely hide the smile which his gesture had been intended to conceal. It was the cat who swallowed the canary smile. And it was funny to see it on the canary.
Go have a hamburger somewhere. Some coffee shop. Or a hot dog at Chock Full o' Nuts. In two months you won't be able to do that any more.
That huge, obscene picture, those larger than life size genitals, had changed things. She had seen too much.
He got out at Astor Place to take a fencing lesson. She went on to Columbus Circle for a body movement class.
They were a tangle of arms and legs and bodies, a sexual kaleidoscope in which each new design was more fascinating than the one that had gone before it.
Love made one feel beautiful, she reflected the following morning as she looked into her mirror, but she wasn't sure that it actually made one look one's best.
You've been seventeen kinds of fool.
The womb of agreement seemed to be a safe place to be.
She went to the water-cooler-cum-coffee-machine, made some instant coffee, and went back to her desk.
To women, of course it did. But men, she thought, were rather easily pleased and found all sorts of bosoms attractive.
But it was impossible for her, as a woman, entirely to ignore the fact--and it was a fact, a hard fact, even a journalistic face--that she and Meredith Houseman had made love.
Even in this crazy life there are moments. Would you like some brandy with your coffee?
She had already learned that happiness was a fleeting thing, a matter of luck, like the goldfish one buys in dime stores: ninety nine die, and the hundredth gets fat, thrives, and lives for years.
You'll find it has a fresh, pure taste. It's the taste of contemplation.
He was holding the tray when Jim Twan, his Chinese houseboy, entered. He had the telephone on a tray.
It was an evening of spun sugar and champagne foam, insubstantial, delicious but unsatisfying, beautiful but fleeting. It was like a good moment with a kaleidoscope, when there is a fine pattern. The pattern falls into something sels and is impossible not only to retrieve but even to recall.
Occasionally she was introduced to Senor So-and-so, or M. Something, or Herr von Someplace.
'The mind,' he said, intruding on and descanting upon her thoughts, 'is the least commonly acknowledged erogenous zone.'
So they'd ridden down to town, and that was how she met the good-looking fellow with the paper fans.
'All right,' he said. 'That's enough lemonade.'
His tongue felt like a shoe that had been kicked into the back of a closet somewhere and left there for years and then, for no reason, put into his mouth. And it wasn't even his own shoe. It felt like a size 14 EEE.
He stepped out of his patent leather dancing pumps, drew off his socks, and took off his shorts. They he joined her in the bad.
He could not have said why he expected his maneuver to work, much less how he expected it to work, but it felt right, and whether it is that happy people are more in tune with the pulse of the world's workings or that people who are happy are blessed, or lucky, it is nevertheless true that he had the confidence at that moment to trust his impulse.
Harry Novotny had done well for himself, or the world had done well by him. The new television shows, with talking dogs, horses, porpoises, and mules, had kept him busy.
She had gone to the beach with them, and driven along on the Palisades Highway to look down on the sand and spy out the sleeping bags they were always sure to find, writhing like beached dugongs.
Bill invited the girls over to his house that evening for a modest blast, as he put it.
There was somehow, in some way, a vibration, an intonation, a resonance, however faint, that led Melissa to suspect that in another country, and at another time, Miss Preston might have been courting her, rather than herself courting one of Miss Preston's students.
The audience laughed and applauded, and it was like drinking champagne to hear them--but better, as if one ignored the gross liquid and drank only the pure bubbles.
the effect of the meeting was that of a waterfall's turbulence meeting the calm water of a mountain pool and setting up a curtain of mist which, in the right light, discloses a rainbow.
She told Merry that Novotny had been slashed to death by and ostrich.
He stroked his beard, but it did not entirely hide the smile which his gesture had been intended to conceal. It was the cat who swallowed the canary smile. And it was funny to see it on the canary.
Go have a hamburger somewhere. Some coffee shop. Or a hot dog at Chock Full o' Nuts. In two months you won't be able to do that any more.
That huge, obscene picture, those larger than life size genitals, had changed things. She had seen too much.
He got out at Astor Place to take a fencing lesson. She went on to Columbus Circle for a body movement class.
They were a tangle of arms and legs and bodies, a sexual kaleidoscope in which each new design was more fascinating than the one that had gone before it.
Love made one feel beautiful, she reflected the following morning as she looked into her mirror, but she wasn't sure that it actually made one look one's best.
You've been seventeen kinds of fool.
The womb of agreement seemed to be a safe place to be.
She went to the water-cooler-cum-coffee-machine, made some instant coffee, and went back to her desk.
To women, of course it did. But men, she thought, were rather easily pleased and found all sorts of bosoms attractive.
But it was impossible for her, as a woman, entirely to ignore the fact--and it was a fact, a hard fact, even a journalistic face--that she and Meredith Houseman had made love.
Even in this crazy life there are moments. Would you like some brandy with your coffee?
She had already learned that happiness was a fleeting thing, a matter of luck, like the goldfish one buys in dime stores: ninety nine die, and the hundredth gets fat, thrives, and lives for years.
You'll find it has a fresh, pure taste. It's the taste of contemplation.
He was holding the tray when Jim Twan, his Chinese houseboy, entered. He had the telephone on a tray.
It was an evening of spun sugar and champagne foam, insubstantial, delicious but unsatisfying, beautiful but fleeting. It was like a good moment with a kaleidoscope, when there is a fine pattern. The pattern falls into something sels and is impossible not only to retrieve but even to recall.
Occasionally she was introduced to Senor So-and-so, or M. Something, or Herr von Someplace.
'The mind,' he said, intruding on and descanting upon her thoughts, 'is the least commonly acknowledged erogenous zone.'
January 27, 2018
Is this the best book you'll ever read from a literary standpoint? No.
To say that the book would ever win any awards is a big overstatement.
With that said if you enjoy a book on the standpoint of being entertained I think many would. The story is a good one and a familiar one. And when the writer deals with Merry's search for happiness and especially the relationship with her father who was often absent in her life, the book works.
To me the book's biggest problem is with the writing. Some parts get mired down and just dull for awhile. And the way some of the new characters were introduced in portions of the book all by themselves left you wondering for pages how in the world they fit in or what was going on. Once they got blended in with the main characters things were all right again. There were also parts that could have been left out and the story would have flowed better especially the explanation of how films were chosen for the Cannes film festival. Those were definitely pages I could have done without.
Overall I enjoyed the book and can see why it was a best seller. It goes into my file as another guilty pleasure.
To say that the book would ever win any awards is a big overstatement.
With that said if you enjoy a book on the standpoint of being entertained I think many would. The story is a good one and a familiar one. And when the writer deals with Merry's search for happiness and especially the relationship with her father who was often absent in her life, the book works.
To me the book's biggest problem is with the writing. Some parts get mired down and just dull for awhile. And the way some of the new characters were introduced in portions of the book all by themselves left you wondering for pages how in the world they fit in or what was going on. Once they got blended in with the main characters things were all right again. There were also parts that could have been left out and the story would have flowed better especially the explanation of how films were chosen for the Cannes film festival. Those were definitely pages I could have done without.
Overall I enjoyed the book and can see why it was a best seller. It goes into my file as another guilty pleasure.
May 16, 2013
So bad it's sometimes very funny.
September 28, 2014
This was a bestseller when it was first published. I remember getting it out of the cupboard where my mother kept her books and reading it when she was out. I was 14 and it was an adult book, I liked it.
December 20, 2021
He is a big star, gets a divorce, the girl stays with her mom. Later he wants to have a child and "buys" her for 50000 from her mother. But he does not have much time for her, so he often puts her in a boarding school.
I am generally bored by family stories. The fact that it´s about actors does not make it any more interesting for me. I quit after about 100 pages.
I am generally bored by family stories. The fact that it´s about actors does not make it any more interesting for me. I quit after about 100 pages.
April 28, 2017
disappointing attempt to ape Harold Robbins, Sutton avoids Robbins flaws by telling his story from beginning to end, without changing between first an thirdperson-passages, but most of the scenes are uinnispiring. Bland mixture of Carpetbeggars and the follow up
March 17, 2026
Dnf
50 pages in and it’s all over the place, i don’t care for anyone and there isn’t really a.. story.. just shots of moments
50 pages in and it’s all over the place, i don’t care for anyone and there isn’t really a.. story.. just shots of moments
November 25, 2019
My sister got this book when she was an exchange student in Mexico when she was 16 in 1969. She gave it to me the following year when I was 14. I read it every year. It was considered a sort of soft porn in those days. It is definitely a fun read.
lookedinto-decidedagainst
March 6, 2014
May 27, 2014
It was a rough read
Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews