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Kosteikkoja
Helen on kahdeksantoista ja yhtä aikaa sekä estoton että epävarma. Eräänä päivänä hän yrittää ajella intiimialueensa, mutta tuleekin vahingoittaneeksi itseään. Maatessaan sairaalavuoteessa Helen haaveilee eronneiden vanhempiensa sovinnosta ja aloittaa tutkimusretken syvälle omaan ruumiillisuuteensa.
Kosteikkoja luo katseen viimeisiin jäljellä oleviin tabuihin. Rohkea, provokatiivinen ja hysteerisen hauska esikoisromaani kapinoi naisen kehoon ja seksuaalisuuteen liitettävää steriiliyttä vastaan. Tämän raikkaan ja railakkaan tarinan sankaritar sanoo ääneen sen, mitä muut eivät uskalla edes ajatella.
Kosteikkoja luo katseen viimeisiin jäljellä oleviin tabuihin. Rohkea, provokatiivinen ja hysteerisen hauska esikoisromaani kapinoi naisen kehoon ja seksuaalisuuteen liitettävää steriiliyttä vastaan. Tämän raikkaan ja railakkaan tarinan sankaritar sanoo ääneen sen, mitä muut eivät uskalla edes ajatella.
196 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2008
295 people are currently reading
6622 people want to read
About the author
Charlotte Roche
8 books188 followersCharlotte Elisabeth Grace Roche is a British-born German television presenter, actress, singer and author.
Roche, who is bilingual in English and German, is the daughter of an engineer and a politically and artistically active mother. She has lived in Germany since the age of eight, having previously lived in London and the Netherlands. She grew up in a rather alternative cultural environment in a family with liberal views.
She left school after the 11th grade, at the age of 17. She obtained initial stage experience in drama groups during her time at school.
Roche left home in 1993 and founded with three female friends the garage rock group The Dubinskis. The members performed several intimate gigs in a small tour before the two other members pulled out. There followed a period where she undertook anything that would shock and offend people — self mutilation in order to paint with blood, drug experiments, or shaving her head. After successfully auditioning for the German music channel Viva, she worked there for several years as a video jockey and presenter.
In 2001, her three brothers died in a car crash on the way to her wedding. Her mother, who was also in the car, survived with serious injuries.
Roche has a daughter and is married to, Martin Keß, co-founder of Brainpool, a media company in Cologne.
Roche's book Feuchtgebiete (in English Wetlands) was the world's best-selling novel in March 2008. Partly autobiographical, it explores cleanliness, sex and femininity, and had sold over 1,500,000 copies in Germany by early 2009. For supporters it is an erotic literary classic; for critics it is cleverly marketed pornography.
Roche, who is bilingual in English and German, is the daughter of an engineer and a politically and artistically active mother. She has lived in Germany since the age of eight, having previously lived in London and the Netherlands. She grew up in a rather alternative cultural environment in a family with liberal views.
She left school after the 11th grade, at the age of 17. She obtained initial stage experience in drama groups during her time at school.
Roche left home in 1993 and founded with three female friends the garage rock group The Dubinskis. The members performed several intimate gigs in a small tour before the two other members pulled out. There followed a period where she undertook anything that would shock and offend people — self mutilation in order to paint with blood, drug experiments, or shaving her head. After successfully auditioning for the German music channel Viva, she worked there for several years as a video jockey and presenter.
In 2001, her three brothers died in a car crash on the way to her wedding. Her mother, who was also in the car, survived with serious injuries.
Roche has a daughter and is married to, Martin Keß, co-founder of Brainpool, a media company in Cologne.
Roche's book Feuchtgebiete (in English Wetlands) was the world's best-selling novel in March 2008. Partly autobiographical, it explores cleanliness, sex and femininity, and had sold over 1,500,000 copies in Germany by early 2009. For supporters it is an erotic literary classic; for critics it is cleverly marketed pornography.
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Displaying 1 - 29 of 1,455 reviews
June 26, 2011
Oh my good God.
Dude.
I can't even -
Ok.
There's a weird thing that sometimes happens where people think that if a book is insistently explicit sexually without coming close to being porn, or even slightly titillating, it must be important. We can call this the Palahniuk Principle. (I mean, right now we can call it that; eventually, we'll move on with our lives and forget that it ever came up).
The thing is, though, these books seldom actually are important. Being sexual without being sexy is not any kind of achievement; in fact, it's the very reason "humping" was coined as a sex verb in the first place. Humping, however, is far too pedestrian a word for what happens in Wetlands; in fact,it's the sort of polite term at which Helen, the narrator and our heroine, would turn up her noise in disgust before sticking that nose right into a stranger's ass.
There really is no way that I can describe to you the lengths to which the 18 year-old Helen will to prove that she understands - and thus enjoys- sex far better than anyone who preceded her on this earth. I can only tell you that, as with the vain boasting of all 18 year-olds who are still a few years away from realizing that just because they've never thought of something before, it doesn't mean no one has, it is much less shocking than it tiresome. And, I can offer you the following guidelines:
Do not read this book if:
1. You are ill - this book is not soothing, it will not make you feel better. (This goes double if you are sad).
2. You are eating - seriously. Seriously. You will not want anything to enter your body in any capacity while you are reading this book.
3. You equate promiscuity with feminism - Yeah, this book is not going to help un-muddy those waters for you. And, while I don't want to get into a whole big thing, I would like to suggest that if you think the greatest gifts you have to offer are your multitude of orifices and that you can have an orgasm simply by taking it up the ass, you maybe are not engaging with the world from a position of power.
4. You don't have time to finish it in one sitting - if you put it down, it will be a struggle to pick it back up.
5. You are thinking about getting a divorce - Helen pretty clearly seems to think all her problems would be solved if only her parents would get back together; so, unless you want your daughter to end up disgusting, you will make that relationship work.
On the other hand, there are a couple of good reasons a person might want to read this book:
1. You've ever wanted to wonder whether if it was necessary to know a character's name once you know she stuffs avocado pits into her chucha as though she were no more than an inedible new age olive - personally, I came up with "No.". And let's be honest, now that I've told you that, do you even care that her name is Helen anymore?
2. You want to feel better about yourself as a parent - we all know that you're not perfect, even though you do the best that you can. And your kids are not perfect. But, so long as they wipe, aren't deliberately walking around with dried semen under their fingernails, and don't ever land in the hospital because the complete stranger who usually shaves their anus is unavailable one day, leading them to cut themselves in a delicate area that quickly becomes infected - you have done a splendid job. Go out and buy yourself a World's Greatest Mom coffee mug and a #1 Dad t-shirt; you deserve it.
3. You've ever wanted to read a classic - I am not implying by any means that Wetlands is a classic; far from it. However, while you are reading it, your mind will wander among all of the other things it could be reading - books where language is beautiful; books that are written by authors who, instead of hauling out the thesaurus when they've run out of ways to talk about their character's assholes, never even bring them up; books where the story, though perhaps at times harrowing, is ultimately worthwhile, one that will stay with you throughout your life, and mean different things to you as you age. You will want a literary palate cleanser after Wetlands, and no simple Oprah Book Club selection or New York Times bestseller will cut it - you'll need a classic. Something that has endured, so you know it will stand up to whatever vile things Wetlands throws at it.
This is why I spent the whole book thinking "You know, I should really read Proust". And, of course, I will let you know how that goes.
Dude.
I can't even -
Ok.
There's a weird thing that sometimes happens where people think that if a book is insistently explicit sexually without coming close to being porn, or even slightly titillating, it must be important. We can call this the Palahniuk Principle. (I mean, right now we can call it that; eventually, we'll move on with our lives and forget that it ever came up).
The thing is, though, these books seldom actually are important. Being sexual without being sexy is not any kind of achievement; in fact, it's the very reason "humping" was coined as a sex verb in the first place. Humping, however, is far too pedestrian a word for what happens in Wetlands; in fact,it's the sort of polite term at which Helen, the narrator and our heroine, would turn up her noise in disgust before sticking that nose right into a stranger's ass.
There really is no way that I can describe to you the lengths to which the 18 year-old Helen will to prove that she understands - and thus enjoys- sex far better than anyone who preceded her on this earth. I can only tell you that, as with the vain boasting of all 18 year-olds who are still a few years away from realizing that just because they've never thought of something before, it doesn't mean no one has, it is much less shocking than it tiresome. And, I can offer you the following guidelines:
Do not read this book if:
1. You are ill - this book is not soothing, it will not make you feel better. (This goes double if you are sad).
2. You are eating - seriously. Seriously. You will not want anything to enter your body in any capacity while you are reading this book.
3. You equate promiscuity with feminism - Yeah, this book is not going to help un-muddy those waters for you. And, while I don't want to get into a whole big thing, I would like to suggest that if you think the greatest gifts you have to offer are your multitude of orifices and that you can have an orgasm simply by taking it up the ass, you maybe are not engaging with the world from a position of power.
4. You don't have time to finish it in one sitting - if you put it down, it will be a struggle to pick it back up.
5. You are thinking about getting a divorce - Helen pretty clearly seems to think all her problems would be solved if only her parents would get back together; so, unless you want your daughter to end up disgusting, you will make that relationship work.
On the other hand, there are a couple of good reasons a person might want to read this book:
1. You've ever wanted to wonder whether if it was necessary to know a character's name once you know she stuffs avocado pits into her chucha as though she were no more than an inedible new age olive - personally, I came up with "No.". And let's be honest, now that I've told you that, do you even care that her name is Helen anymore?
2. You want to feel better about yourself as a parent - we all know that you're not perfect, even though you do the best that you can. And your kids are not perfect. But, so long as they wipe, aren't deliberately walking around with dried semen under their fingernails, and don't ever land in the hospital because the complete stranger who usually shaves their anus is unavailable one day, leading them to cut themselves in a delicate area that quickly becomes infected - you have done a splendid job. Go out and buy yourself a World's Greatest Mom coffee mug and a #1 Dad t-shirt; you deserve it.
3. You've ever wanted to read a classic - I am not implying by any means that Wetlands is a classic; far from it. However, while you are reading it, your mind will wander among all of the other things it could be reading - books where language is beautiful; books that are written by authors who, instead of hauling out the thesaurus when they've run out of ways to talk about their character's assholes, never even bring them up; books where the story, though perhaps at times harrowing, is ultimately worthwhile, one that will stay with you throughout your life, and mean different things to you as you age. You will want a literary palate cleanser after Wetlands, and no simple Oprah Book Club selection or New York Times bestseller will cut it - you'll need a classic. Something that has endured, so you know it will stand up to whatever vile things Wetlands throws at it.
This is why I spent the whole book thinking "You know, I should really read Proust". And, of course, I will let you know how that goes.
June 21, 2014
My friend pushed this book onto me, insisting that I read it. I checked it out on Goodreads, and read 1 star review after 1 star review calling this book "the worst book ever". I opened 'Wetlands' expecting something terrible.
This book isn't terrible, this book is fantastic. Yes, things can get a little gross, but its not like the main character's behavior is completely unnatural. And, in the end, I think the author proved the exact point she was trying to make as people (especially women) responded to this book with a one star rating.
Why are you so terrified of your own body and its functions?
Helen (the main character), speaks over and over about how repressed and 'hygienic' her mother and other women are, and I think she has a valid point. In our society, Germany and America and plenty of other Western countries included, we have such a fear and stigma attached to our bodies most basic functions (periods, vaginal discharge), and it's ridiculous! I especially think this fear grows from a sexist sentiment too, as I read this and began to think about how boys feel and act about their bodily functions.
Besides being thought provoking, this book was flat-out entertaining. Helen is funny, likeable, and filled with attitude. She also gained my empathy as she attempted to bring her parents back together, and talked about her various experiences. Wading through Helen's psyche is one hell of a journey. And the ending was fantastic... I finally understood the blurb on the front that compared this novel to 'Catcher in the Rye'.
Dear readers,
Do not be deterred by the negative reviews... Just read it.
This book isn't terrible, this book is fantastic. Yes, things can get a little gross, but its not like the main character's behavior is completely unnatural. And, in the end, I think the author proved the exact point she was trying to make as people (especially women) responded to this book with a one star rating.
Why are you so terrified of your own body and its functions?
Helen (the main character), speaks over and over about how repressed and 'hygienic' her mother and other women are, and I think she has a valid point. In our society, Germany and America and plenty of other Western countries included, we have such a fear and stigma attached to our bodies most basic functions (periods, vaginal discharge), and it's ridiculous! I especially think this fear grows from a sexist sentiment too, as I read this and began to think about how boys feel and act about their bodily functions.
Besides being thought provoking, this book was flat-out entertaining. Helen is funny, likeable, and filled with attitude. She also gained my empathy as she attempted to bring her parents back together, and talked about her various experiences. Wading through Helen's psyche is one hell of a journey. And the ending was fantastic... I finally understood the blurb on the front that compared this novel to 'Catcher in the Rye'.
Dear readers,
Do not be deterred by the negative reviews... Just read it.
February 7, 2011
It’s a book with a buzz. It’s the first German book to top the lists of Amazon bestsellers, and the one to which reviews referred to as a ‘feminist manifesto bordering pornography’. In truth, this book is both a tale of a troubled teenager, and a reaction to the artificial and sanitized model of femininity of the cosmetic ads and glossy magazines covers.
Helen, an 18-year-old heroin, desperately needs warmth and attention, but nobody really cares about her. She wants love; she wants her parents together. She does outrageous things to get a stir from them, but to no avail. She is shameless, provocative and promiscuous, she experiments with drugs; all of that it seems to come to terms with her mother’s failed murder suicide and her parents’ divorce. Just like Helen, the book is outrageous, irreverent, attention seeking, but it’s also funny and very bold. Somewhat scatological as well.
3.5/5
Helen, an 18-year-old heroin, desperately needs warmth and attention, but nobody really cares about her. She wants love; she wants her parents together. She does outrageous things to get a stir from them, but to no avail. She is shameless, provocative and promiscuous, she experiments with drugs; all of that it seems to come to terms with her mother’s failed murder suicide and her parents’ divorce. Just like Helen, the book is outrageous, irreverent, attention seeking, but it’s also funny and very bold. Somewhat scatological as well.
3.5/5
May 22, 2009
When I was a kid, losing myself in stories and in novels, I sometimes wondered why we never read about characters going to the bathroom. Or the outhouse: Why didn't we ever see Laura do that in 'Little House on the Prairie?' Fiction seemed unrealistic to me, as a result, and I thought that when I wrote books myself, I would do it differently.
Charlotte Roche appears to be single-handedly making up for this lack in her novel 'Wetlands.' Problem is: I have to keep reminding myself it is fiction and not autobiography. While initially I applauded the boldness with which she writes about the female body, all orifices and secretions, the complete lack of self-consciousness she has toward her body, the way she embraces each and every aspect, nook and cranny so to speak, and all manner of secretions, it finally seemed she has no more to tell us than this: I like my vagina. I like my arsehole. I like to eat, lick, suck. I am not afraid.
It does not a story make.
A sensation it does, even perhaps a needed one, but...a longish personal essay would have done nicely.
Without the repetition and the subsequent numbing effect.
Charlotte Roche appears to be single-handedly making up for this lack in her novel 'Wetlands.' Problem is: I have to keep reminding myself it is fiction and not autobiography. While initially I applauded the boldness with which she writes about the female body, all orifices and secretions, the complete lack of self-consciousness she has toward her body, the way she embraces each and every aspect, nook and cranny so to speak, and all manner of secretions, it finally seemed she has no more to tell us than this: I like my vagina. I like my arsehole. I like to eat, lick, suck. I am not afraid.
It does not a story make.
A sensation it does, even perhaps a needed one, but...a longish personal essay would have done nicely.
Without the repetition and the subsequent numbing effect.
April 10, 2009
This book starts out "As far back as I remember, I've had hemorrhoids." and only goes downhill from there. There's been alot of buzz around this book and its "new feminism", but there's really nothing worthwhile about this book. I'll give the book one star just in case something was lost in translation, but the writing was horrible, there is no plot, and is trying to shock just for the cheap shock value.
July 9, 2009
Absolutely loved it. It's been a while since I've picked up a book and haven't been able to put it down - Wetlands gave me this pleasure. Not that it was particularly riveting, or absorbing - it was just really easy to read. For me that is, though I guess I can understand why some people had an aversion to the content. People who are uptight about their bodies, or who prefer to avoid thinking about the fact that our bodies secrete substances and smell weird and so on and so forth.
It was so refreshing to read something so in-your-face about the female body. Unashamed. Real. I like the fact that it wasn't deep, it didn't have a complicated story line; it basically just meandered through the mind of this bored girl stuck in hospital. It was like being inside somebody's head (and body) - uncensored. And that's a rare thing. SO many times has a women's body been written about, but so rarely is it described so truthfully.
It was crass, bizarre, filthy and amusing. Pretty much my favourite kind of book content. If it had managed to mix in some pretty prose, or wittier writing then I'd be singing it's praises from the rooves - but it did what it set out to do, I think. Offend and be disgusting, and not particularly cleverly.
And I didn't even care.
I'm not saying that it was just senseless trash. It was well executed. But I think that the author could have done even more with the content. Dare I say she could have pushed it even further? Or just perhaps had a more intricate plot. An occasional distraction from the rollercoaster ride of secretions. Or maybe that was the author's intention - not letting the reader escape.
I'm passing this book onto every person that I know and I can't wait to hear what they have to say. By giving it four stars and raving about it, I'm not say, comparing it to some of my other four-star books. It's in it's own complete different world. This one has it's own special merits. It has a lot of downfalls. But the fact that it is what it is makes up for them. For me. Whilst I'm in a good mood at least.
It was so refreshing to read something so in-your-face about the female body. Unashamed. Real. I like the fact that it wasn't deep, it didn't have a complicated story line; it basically just meandered through the mind of this bored girl stuck in hospital. It was like being inside somebody's head (and body) - uncensored. And that's a rare thing. SO many times has a women's body been written about, but so rarely is it described so truthfully.
It was crass, bizarre, filthy and amusing. Pretty much my favourite kind of book content. If it had managed to mix in some pretty prose, or wittier writing then I'd be singing it's praises from the rooves - but it did what it set out to do, I think. Offend and be disgusting, and not particularly cleverly.
And I didn't even care.
I'm not saying that it was just senseless trash. It was well executed. But I think that the author could have done even more with the content. Dare I say she could have pushed it even further? Or just perhaps had a more intricate plot. An occasional distraction from the rollercoaster ride of secretions. Or maybe that was the author's intention - not letting the reader escape.
I'm passing this book onto every person that I know and I can't wait to hear what they have to say. By giving it four stars and raving about it, I'm not say, comparing it to some of my other four-star books. It's in it's own complete different world. This one has it's own special merits. It has a lot of downfalls. But the fact that it is what it is makes up for them. For me. Whilst I'm in a good mood at least.
October 12, 2022
Volutamente sgradevole e repulsivo, "Zone umide" è stato un inaspettato bestseller e libro di culto di metà anni '2000 che ora risiede in pile nei Libraccio a 2 euro.
Erroneamente comunicato come libro erotico all'epoca, è in verità un body horror senza l'horror.
La degenza in ospedale di Helen diventa, quindi, un interessante pretesto per esplorare e rivendicare il corpo (soprattutto quello femminile) che insistiamo a sterilizzare con detergenti, profumi, deodoranti e sostanze chimiche.
I ricordi personali, la sfrontatezza adolescenziale e i dolori fisici e emotivi affondano quindi in quelle zone umide, celate con vergogna, in un piglio anarcho-punk femminista.
Non tutto funziona e a volte sembra cadere nella trappola "voglio essere il più edgy possibile", ma preso con lo sguardo giusto è decisamente interessante, capace di colpire anche oggi che il suo tempo e il suo clamore sono finiti da un pezzo.
Erroneamente comunicato come libro erotico all'epoca, è in verità un body horror senza l'horror.
La degenza in ospedale di Helen diventa, quindi, un interessante pretesto per esplorare e rivendicare il corpo (soprattutto quello femminile) che insistiamo a sterilizzare con detergenti, profumi, deodoranti e sostanze chimiche.
I ricordi personali, la sfrontatezza adolescenziale e i dolori fisici e emotivi affondano quindi in quelle zone umide, celate con vergogna, in un piglio anarcho-punk femminista.
Non tutto funziona e a volte sembra cadere nella trappola "voglio essere il più edgy possibile", ma preso con lo sguardo giusto è decisamente interessante, capace di colpire anche oggi che il suo tempo e il suo clamore sono finiti da un pezzo.
September 20, 2011
This book was certainly 'different'. It was absolutely disgusting and made me cringe at most points and laugh at a few, but I was still strangely intrigued by this book. I think the reason why I most enjoyed this book was seeing courage that Roche had to approach the very 'taboo' subjects that it deals with. I've never read anything like this and I wouldn't like to read more, I think I only found this interesting because it's the first of its type that I've read. I can completely understand that this is a book that you would either love or hate and to most peoples tastes, it would most probably be too unsettling to read and I admit that it was very repulsive. Yes, there could have been better ways to break through the barriers of these taboo subjects, but I think Roche is successful in treating these subjects as everyday occurances - though perhaps in a rather exagerrated fashion.
October 27, 2024
Quite emotional at times... but also disgustingly vile.🤢
Helen sure had some very nasty dirty habits which at eighteen years of age left a lot to be desired, and her descriptions of some of them turned my stomach...you wouldn't want to be reading this before ,during or after eating a meal!!!🤮
It was a bit boring and repetitive at times...but it was funny too and made me chuckle many times.😆
4 stars ⭐⭐⭐⭐ just for the bravery it took to write and publish this book!!😳
Worth the read if you like reading about...Arseholes, Dirty Habits, Blood and Cauliflower Piles!!!🤯
Helen sure had some very nasty dirty habits which at eighteen years of age left a lot to be desired, and her descriptions of some of them turned my stomach...you wouldn't want to be reading this before ,during or after eating a meal!!!🤮
It was a bit boring and repetitive at times...but it was funny too and made me chuckle many times.😆
4 stars ⭐⭐⭐⭐ just for the bravery it took to write and publish this book!!😳
Worth the read if you like reading about...Arseholes, Dirty Habits, Blood and Cauliflower Piles!!!🤯
November 2, 2011
The In Your Face Sexuality-- This is the book's greatest strength, and the one part of the book I genuinely loved. Whether Helen – an eighteen year old in hospital for anal surgery to excise an infected haemorrhoid -- was talking about her reasons and methods of shaving body hair, masturbating with her fingers or avacado pits, or leaving behind drops and smears of menstrual blood for others to find and be scandalized by, I was fascinated, titillated and cheering in equal measure.
I loved that her sexuality was inherent in everything that had to do with her body. Every bodily excretion from snot to vaginal “slime” was expressed in minute, loving detail. And even more, I loved that Helen was in control of her sexuality, and having all the sex she wanted, when she wanted, with a thirst for the feeling part of life that she was determined to slake her own way – and that way was through her (nearly) shameless embracing of sex and her sexuality.
Nice Men-- A welcome touch in Charlotte Roche’s novel is that all the men that Helen interacted with –- but Dr. Notz -- were nice, and even he wasn’t nasty, simply an arrogant surgeon. And those men who were the objects of or partners in Helen’s desire were universally cool, and never anything more than supporting characters. This was Helen’s story. She was in control. Her men were merely some of the tools she used to experience her body with her senses. When it came down to it, she just had good taste in men (the story never seemed to suggest that nasty men don't exist, just that Helen naturally stayed away from them).
The Brothel Scene and Shaving Scene = The Novel-- These two fascinating set pieces were too brief, and I felt very shortly after each that Roche needed to go back so that Helen could give us more. It felt as though something wonderful was about to be revealed in these scenes, and then they stopped just short of that revelation. Which, in microcosm, was exactly how I felt about Wetlands itself. The end was too abrupt. And I swear it was just about to get really good.
Crazy Helen-- I am unsure how to feel about the crazier bits of Helen. She spends much of the novel trying to bring her divorced parents back together, while struggling to reconcile herself to an horrifying childhood incident: she came home from school one day to discover her mother in a gas filled kitchen with her younger brother; her Mother had emptied a bottle of sleeping pills into herself and her son, and Helen saved them. From then on, though, the entire family spent their lives pretending the suicide attempt had never happened. This eventually leads Helen to sterilize herself as a late teen and nearly kill herself in an attempt to stay in the hospital long enough to bring her parents back together. All of which helps to create a rich and believable character, but undermines many of the positive aspects of Helen’s sexuality. What could have been an emotionally healthy (though not always physically healthy) embracing of sexuality, slips into implied self-loathing, and suddenly Helen’s fascination with her body becomes morbid shameful.
The Pahlaniuk-ness-- Roche’s Wetlands has been compared to J.G. Ballard’s Crash, but I think it is more akin to a Chuck Pahlaniuk book. Imagine the early, pre-Tyler Durden life of Marla Singer and you’ve Helen. Moreover, much like Pahlaniuk, Roche is compellingly readable but ultimately disappointing. I loved parts of this. I think it will make an amazing, though disturbing, film, and I will definitely read something else of Roche’s, but I can’t consider myself a fan of the author or her book. I am more of a curious onlooker.
(One final note: Roche writes in German, so I've no doubt that something was missing in translation, even if just a bit of readability. If you can read German and you've read the original version of this, I'd love to hear your opinion.)
I loved that her sexuality was inherent in everything that had to do with her body. Every bodily excretion from snot to vaginal “slime” was expressed in minute, loving detail. And even more, I loved that Helen was in control of her sexuality, and having all the sex she wanted, when she wanted, with a thirst for the feeling part of life that she was determined to slake her own way – and that way was through her (nearly) shameless embracing of sex and her sexuality.
Nice Men-- A welcome touch in Charlotte Roche’s novel is that all the men that Helen interacted with –- but Dr. Notz -- were nice, and even he wasn’t nasty, simply an arrogant surgeon. And those men who were the objects of or partners in Helen’s desire were universally cool, and never anything more than supporting characters. This was Helen’s story. She was in control. Her men were merely some of the tools she used to experience her body with her senses. When it came down to it, she just had good taste in men (the story never seemed to suggest that nasty men don't exist, just that Helen naturally stayed away from them).
The Brothel Scene and Shaving Scene = The Novel-- These two fascinating set pieces were too brief, and I felt very shortly after each that Roche needed to go back so that Helen could give us more. It felt as though something wonderful was about to be revealed in these scenes, and then they stopped just short of that revelation. Which, in microcosm, was exactly how I felt about Wetlands itself. The end was too abrupt. And I swear it was just about to get really good.
Crazy Helen-- I am unsure how to feel about the crazier bits of Helen. She spends much of the novel trying to bring her divorced parents back together, while struggling to reconcile herself to an horrifying childhood incident: she came home from school one day to discover her mother in a gas filled kitchen with her younger brother; her Mother had emptied a bottle of sleeping pills into herself and her son, and Helen saved them. From then on, though, the entire family spent their lives pretending the suicide attempt had never happened. This eventually leads Helen to sterilize herself as a late teen and nearly kill herself in an attempt to stay in the hospital long enough to bring her parents back together. All of which helps to create a rich and believable character, but undermines many of the positive aspects of Helen’s sexuality. What could have been an emotionally healthy (though not always physically healthy) embracing of sexuality, slips into implied self-loathing, and suddenly Helen’s fascination with her body becomes morbid shameful.
The Pahlaniuk-ness-- Roche’s Wetlands has been compared to J.G. Ballard’s Crash, but I think it is more akin to a Chuck Pahlaniuk book. Imagine the early, pre-Tyler Durden life of Marla Singer and you’ve Helen. Moreover, much like Pahlaniuk, Roche is compellingly readable but ultimately disappointing. I loved parts of this. I think it will make an amazing, though disturbing, film, and I will definitely read something else of Roche’s, but I can’t consider myself a fan of the author or her book. I am more of a curious onlooker.
(One final note: Roche writes in German, so I've no doubt that something was missing in translation, even if just a bit of readability. If you can read German and you've read the original version of this, I'd love to hear your opinion.)
October 23, 2011
Cuando decidí leer Zonas húmedas sabía bien con qué me iba a encontrar. Leí la sinopsis, así que estaba al tanto de la temática escatológica de la novela. También leí las reseñas de Goodreads y otras redes sociales de lectores, por lo tanto sabía bien de su baja puntuación y de las muchas críticas negativas. Aún así decidí darle una oportunidad. "No puede ser tan malo", me decía. Si alguien previamente me hubiera advertido y ahorita me dijera "te lo dije", tendría que darle la razón.
El mayor problema de Zonas húmedas no es, curiosamente, lo escabroso, el culto a lo desagradable ni un erotismo mal entendido. A mi juicio lo peor del libro (aún sabiendo que leí una traducción y que puede haberse perdido algo en comparación con el original) es lo pésimamente escrito que está, lo inconsistente de la historia, o mejor dicho, la casi total ausencia de anécdota, la intrascendencia de los personajes secundarios y la absoluta superficialidad del personaje central, Helen, construido por Charlotte Roche como una especie de caricatura de la adoloscente postmoderna, liberal y liberada de convenciones.
He leído entre las críticas positivas de la novela que ésta preconiza un nuevo feminismo. Feminismo que no veo en lado alguno. No se trata en absoluto de un juicio de valor, pero que un personaje decida despreciar las convenciones de la higiene para hacer de ellas un supuesto rasgo de individualidad me parece descabellado. ¿Qué tiene que ver que a un personaje le parezcan caros los tampones y por ello se introduzca en la vagina compresas caseras de papel higiénico con un nuevo paradigma de libertad de la mujer?
Tras la lectura de Zonas húmedas siento que su autora quiso simplemente ser escandalosa y controversial a juro. No hay mayor erotismo que el encubierto, ya lo dijo George Bataille, y no hay mayor muestra de erotismo que el "Emma se abandonó" de Gustave Flaubert, no descripciones de cómo una mujer decide comerse todas sus excreciones corporales. Charlotte Roche no sólo no es una verdadera transgresora, tampoco sabe crear una atmósfera realmente erótica.
Le doy 1 porque no es posible dar menos, pero esta novela me parece un insulto a la inteligencia de cualquiera. Y no lo digo solamente pensando en lo desagradable que resulta, sino en lo inconsistente de su narrativa.
El mayor problema de Zonas húmedas no es, curiosamente, lo escabroso, el culto a lo desagradable ni un erotismo mal entendido. A mi juicio lo peor del libro (aún sabiendo que leí una traducción y que puede haberse perdido algo en comparación con el original) es lo pésimamente escrito que está, lo inconsistente de la historia, o mejor dicho, la casi total ausencia de anécdota, la intrascendencia de los personajes secundarios y la absoluta superficialidad del personaje central, Helen, construido por Charlotte Roche como una especie de caricatura de la adoloscente postmoderna, liberal y liberada de convenciones.
He leído entre las críticas positivas de la novela que ésta preconiza un nuevo feminismo. Feminismo que no veo en lado alguno. No se trata en absoluto de un juicio de valor, pero que un personaje decida despreciar las convenciones de la higiene para hacer de ellas un supuesto rasgo de individualidad me parece descabellado. ¿Qué tiene que ver que a un personaje le parezcan caros los tampones y por ello se introduzca en la vagina compresas caseras de papel higiénico con un nuevo paradigma de libertad de la mujer?
Tras la lectura de Zonas húmedas siento que su autora quiso simplemente ser escandalosa y controversial a juro. No hay mayor erotismo que el encubierto, ya lo dijo George Bataille, y no hay mayor muestra de erotismo que el "Emma se abandonó" de Gustave Flaubert, no descripciones de cómo una mujer decide comerse todas sus excreciones corporales. Charlotte Roche no sólo no es una verdadera transgresora, tampoco sabe crear una atmósfera realmente erótica.
Le doy 1 porque no es posible dar menos, pero esta novela me parece un insulto a la inteligencia de cualquiera. Y no lo digo solamente pensando en lo desagradable que resulta, sino en lo inconsistente de su narrativa.
November 14, 2017
Schade, dass die Hintergrundgeschichte der Hauptfigur durch die vielen Versuche zu schocken und zu provozieren so kurz gekommen ist. Diese hört sich nämlich eigentlich recht interessant und tragisch an. Meiner Meinung ein Buch mit einem unglaublich hohen verschenktem Potenzial.
July 14, 2018
This was torturous. But not for the reasons you might think. Ten years ago, when this book was first published, everyone was talking about it. Even the 13-year old me couldn't escape the hype, but was I too young to really care what was causing such a row. A decade later, I felt ready to find out for myself.
The plot of Wetlands is quickly told: Eighteen-year old Helen Memel is in hospital, recovering from an operation. To distract herself, the precocious teen begins to explore her body, recounting her sexual encounters and ruminate on her parents' divorce.
So far, so good. However, what caused an unbelievable fuzz ten years ago was how it's written. Helen describes her sexual adventures and intimate behaviors in such blunt and detailed ways, that many people ended up feeling purely grossed out by this novel. But people arguing in its defense claimed that that was the point: to show how far from liberation our composed and polished society was, how prude we all were. How women needed this wake up call, this it's-okay-to-talk-about-this. To take on the language of Roche, the underlying message is that we're all just humans - we fuck, we eat, we shit. And maybe there is bravery in screaming that out to a world that is so keen to keep a guard up.
But it's not enough to make a good novel. My main problem with this was that it just wasn't entertaining to read. Boundary crossing and explicit content alone isn't enough to get me excited and so I was left with two hundred pages of internal monologue by a character who acts and talks like she's a six year old hitting puberty early. Roche tried to add depth by incorporating family drama, but never explored that idea fully, so we're left with a messy plot that's just pure, exaggerated tragedy. It's been a while since I've read anything I wanted to end so badly and I am surely not looking back.
The plot of Wetlands is quickly told: Eighteen-year old Helen Memel is in hospital, recovering from an operation. To distract herself, the precocious teen begins to explore her body, recounting her sexual encounters and ruminate on her parents' divorce.
So far, so good. However, what caused an unbelievable fuzz ten years ago was how it's written. Helen describes her sexual adventures and intimate behaviors in such blunt and detailed ways, that many people ended up feeling purely grossed out by this novel. But people arguing in its defense claimed that that was the point: to show how far from liberation our composed and polished society was, how prude we all were. How women needed this wake up call, this it's-okay-to-talk-about-this. To take on the language of Roche, the underlying message is that we're all just humans - we fuck, we eat, we shit. And maybe there is bravery in screaming that out to a world that is so keen to keep a guard up.
But it's not enough to make a good novel. My main problem with this was that it just wasn't entertaining to read. Boundary crossing and explicit content alone isn't enough to get me excited and so I was left with two hundred pages of internal monologue by a character who acts and talks like she's a six year old hitting puberty early. Roche tried to add depth by incorporating family drama, but never explored that idea fully, so we're left with a messy plot that's just pure, exaggerated tragedy. It's been a while since I've read anything I wanted to end so badly and I am surely not looking back.
July 30, 2018
Not for everyone but if you like weird shit you’ll like this.
February 19, 2009
This book featured on the cover of the Sunday Times magazine and I got it because I was morbidly attracted to the controversy and cringing sickness that the review highlighted. I have got to say that the review was very accurate as I couldn't help but feel sick to my stomach while reading the story. I also spent a reasonable amount of time pondering on the controversial statement that the main character, eighteen-year old Helen, makes about hygiene. According to her, we are all slaves of hygiene, except for her, who's a maverick of dirtiness. She loves to taste and swallow her own mucus, pus, body flow and liquids, including her own blood, vomit, vaginal mucus discharge, menstruation, zits, tears and boogers. And, mischievously, she also likes to have other people taste her "delicatessens" without knowing. As a result, being the hygiene freak that I am (but had no idea until I read this book), I found Helen a very disgusting character from the outset and it took me a while to warm up to her.
What is more, hygiene matters aside, I thought this book was very poorly written, but then I don't know if that's the author or the translator's fault. The first chapters are a pain to read and to follow as paragraphs go unconnected and different ideas and states of mind are expressed in the same paragraph. Only after one has "conquered" the first part of the book does the writing become more fluid and enjoyable.
And it's here, on the second part, that the story also becomes surprisingly warmer and more interesting. The aim is no longer to scandalise the reader with Helen's lack of hygiene but to open her heart to the world. She becomes a rather endearing person, as she reflects on her loveless family life and concocts a plan to get her estranged parents together. The whole story takes place in the hospital, where Helen is being treated for an anus ailment. So her plan revolves around getting her parents reunited in her hospital room.
You cannot help but sympathise with Helen's family predicament. And suddenly all that cringe makes sense. She is disgusting because she doesn't love herself enough to take care of herself. Her mother and father are two aliens who can barely maintain a conversation with her for more than two seconds. Helen doesn't know what her father does for a living and she resents her mother for attempting to kill her younger brother while failing to commit suicide. In the end, she doesn't feel loved because she was never truly loved by these two strangers. She actually seems to have a healthier relationship with her avocado pits, which she nourishes like children, than with her own parents.
Overall, this is a very clever and innovative book, but unfortunately poorly written and too cringy for my taste.
What is more, hygiene matters aside, I thought this book was very poorly written, but then I don't know if that's the author or the translator's fault. The first chapters are a pain to read and to follow as paragraphs go unconnected and different ideas and states of mind are expressed in the same paragraph. Only after one has "conquered" the first part of the book does the writing become more fluid and enjoyable.
And it's here, on the second part, that the story also becomes surprisingly warmer and more interesting. The aim is no longer to scandalise the reader with Helen's lack of hygiene but to open her heart to the world. She becomes a rather endearing person, as she reflects on her loveless family life and concocts a plan to get her estranged parents together. The whole story takes place in the hospital, where Helen is being treated for an anus ailment. So her plan revolves around getting her parents reunited in her hospital room.
You cannot help but sympathise with Helen's family predicament. And suddenly all that cringe makes sense. She is disgusting because she doesn't love herself enough to take care of herself. Her mother and father are two aliens who can barely maintain a conversation with her for more than two seconds. Helen doesn't know what her father does for a living and she resents her mother for attempting to kill her younger brother while failing to commit suicide. In the end, she doesn't feel loved because she was never truly loved by these two strangers. She actually seems to have a healthier relationship with her avocado pits, which she nourishes like children, than with her own parents.
Overall, this is a very clever and innovative book, but unfortunately poorly written and too cringy for my taste.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
June 19, 2024
WAT WAS DIT?!
Ik ben best open-minded, maar een avocadofamilie beginnen door de avocado's in je vagina bij je te dragen gaat mij echt te ver.
En waarom stopt deze meid alles, maar dan ook echt alles (wondkorsten, pus, bloed en al het andere van haar lichaam), in haar mond?!!!
Ik hoopte dat het nog wat beter zou worden, maar het werd met de bladzijde erger. Soms sloeg ik na twee pagina's het boek dicht, omdat ik gewoon even moest bijkomen van wat ik had gelezen.
Ik dacht dat dit een boek zou zijn over de taboes rondom vrouwelijke seksualiteit en het vrouwlijk lichaam, maar het was alles behalve dat.....
Ik heb echt geen idee wat ik nou gelezen heb, maar ik weet wel dat ik na dit boek een therapiesessie nodig heb.
Niet alleen ik trouwens, want de schrijster en de hoofdpersonage kunnen ook wel een sessie gebruiken. Ik snap dat je als kind van gescheiden ouders hoopt dat ze weer bij elkaar komen, maar je anuswond in het ziekenhuis openmaken door de rem van je ziekenhuisbed in je anus te steken zodat je langer in het ziekenhuis kan blijven en je ouders misschien aan je ziekenhuis bed weer bij elkaar komen lijkt mij niet de meest gepaste manier.
Dit was een gevalletje 'Ik heb het gelezen, zodat jullie dit niet hoeven te doen.' Take one for the team I guess?
0/5 ⭐️
Ik ben best open-minded, maar een avocadofamilie beginnen door de avocado's in je vagina bij je te dragen gaat mij echt te ver.
En waarom stopt deze meid alles, maar dan ook echt alles (wondkorsten, pus, bloed en al het andere van haar lichaam), in haar mond?!!!
Ik hoopte dat het nog wat beter zou worden, maar het werd met de bladzijde erger. Soms sloeg ik na twee pagina's het boek dicht, omdat ik gewoon even moest bijkomen van wat ik had gelezen.
Ik dacht dat dit een boek zou zijn over de taboes rondom vrouwelijke seksualiteit en het vrouwlijk lichaam, maar het was alles behalve dat.....
Ik heb echt geen idee wat ik nou gelezen heb, maar ik weet wel dat ik na dit boek een therapiesessie nodig heb.
Niet alleen ik trouwens, want de schrijster en de hoofdpersonage kunnen ook wel een sessie gebruiken. Ik snap dat je als kind van gescheiden ouders hoopt dat ze weer bij elkaar komen, maar je anuswond in het ziekenhuis openmaken door de rem van je ziekenhuisbed in je anus te steken zodat je langer in het ziekenhuis kan blijven en je ouders misschien aan je ziekenhuis bed weer bij elkaar komen lijkt mij niet de meest gepaste manier.
Dit was een gevalletje 'Ik heb het gelezen, zodat jullie dit niet hoeven te doen.' Take one for the team I guess?
0/5 ⭐️
June 27, 2025
An eighteen-year-old girl named Helen Memel cuts her anus whilst shaving and goes to hospital for an operation. While there she contemplates and reminisces about her sexual experiences, specifically from the point of view of detailing the various bodily fluids she excretes. So here it is, a novel about vaginal discharge. Finally!
She spends the whole novel in a hospital bed, recovering, going over her experiences, her desires, her thoughts. We learn that she loves her pussy juices, that her parents divorce is upsetting her, that she often visits female prostitutes, that an old man taught her about shaving her pussy. it's all very standard transgressive stuff. I rather enjoyed the opening third and found it very entertaining. To be honest, the transgressive aspects meant nothing to me and I don't really know why people would consider any of it off putting or disgusting. I had an ex who also liked the taste of her own fluids. And I'm also in full agreement with Helen that women shouldn't wear perfume, they should finger themselves and lightly dab their delicious pungent feminine scent on their necks (far more enticing). But as much as I was enjoying it, there did come a point towards the middle where it felt like we were going in circles. Anal leakage, transparent discharge, crusting blood, tampons being lost up there (also had an ex who did this so I suspect it's not uncommon), and eating pussy when the painters are in. It was entertaining but there came a point where it all just got a little... samey.
Then we have the problem of authenticity. I don't believe a word of this book. I suspect Roche included some genuine thoughts and desires but then forced herself to push further into total made-up nonsense. I didn't buy it and felt I was reading a lot of perfomative stuff designed to shock (but without ever really doing so). I feel like it was a mistake to make Helen eighteen; she probably should have been much older given her unrealistic experiences. Had she truly wanted to explore this stuff then a narrative of some sort would have been better too. The book Cows by Matthew Stokoe, for example, has similar bodily functions and disgust but it comes in the form of an actual plot. Here, she just lays in bed thinking about some new way to describe her fanny juice. Great, but it doesn't really add up to much. I've seen some positive reviews of this book which promote the always tedious feminist perspective, nonsense about using blue liquid in tampon adverts to avoid the powerful truth of female bodily existence. Yawn. No, idiot, they use blue liquid because most of us don't want to see blood when we're eating a Greggs sausage roll on the couch at 4pm. It's the same reason toilet roll manufacturers don't make adverts where they show close ups of anuses with massive smears of shit on them. It's common decency and nothing to do with hiding the glorious truth of human anatomy.
Anyway, this was interesting. I kinda liked it. But the truth is... either I'm immune to transgressive stuff (oh look, more globules of slime are emanating from her swollen orifice) or it just isn't really that transgressive at all. I mean, we live in a world of neo-liberal politics where everyone and every opinion is so insipid and safe. Women eating their own fanny slop just won't cut it. If you truly want to scare the establishment, the normies, the groovy left-wing outsiders... then write a novel about how there are too many darkies in the country and we should send them all back. Yeah, that's what I thought. Too spicy for ya!! Books like this exist precisely because we're so dull, because we crave something dangerous. But the truth is none of you have the balls to truly explore that. So instead, here's a plate of excrement and fanny juice. Bon appetit!
She spends the whole novel in a hospital bed, recovering, going over her experiences, her desires, her thoughts. We learn that she loves her pussy juices, that her parents divorce is upsetting her, that she often visits female prostitutes, that an old man taught her about shaving her pussy. it's all very standard transgressive stuff. I rather enjoyed the opening third and found it very entertaining. To be honest, the transgressive aspects meant nothing to me and I don't really know why people would consider any of it off putting or disgusting. I had an ex who also liked the taste of her own fluids. And I'm also in full agreement with Helen that women shouldn't wear perfume, they should finger themselves and lightly dab their delicious pungent feminine scent on their necks (far more enticing). But as much as I was enjoying it, there did come a point towards the middle where it felt like we were going in circles. Anal leakage, transparent discharge, crusting blood, tampons being lost up there (also had an ex who did this so I suspect it's not uncommon), and eating pussy when the painters are in. It was entertaining but there came a point where it all just got a little... samey.
Then we have the problem of authenticity. I don't believe a word of this book. I suspect Roche included some genuine thoughts and desires but then forced herself to push further into total made-up nonsense. I didn't buy it and felt I was reading a lot of perfomative stuff designed to shock (but without ever really doing so). I feel like it was a mistake to make Helen eighteen; she probably should have been much older given her unrealistic experiences. Had she truly wanted to explore this stuff then a narrative of some sort would have been better too. The book Cows by Matthew Stokoe, for example, has similar bodily functions and disgust but it comes in the form of an actual plot. Here, she just lays in bed thinking about some new way to describe her fanny juice. Great, but it doesn't really add up to much. I've seen some positive reviews of this book which promote the always tedious feminist perspective, nonsense about using blue liquid in tampon adverts to avoid the powerful truth of female bodily existence. Yawn. No, idiot, they use blue liquid because most of us don't want to see blood when we're eating a Greggs sausage roll on the couch at 4pm. It's the same reason toilet roll manufacturers don't make adverts where they show close ups of anuses with massive smears of shit on them. It's common decency and nothing to do with hiding the glorious truth of human anatomy.
Anyway, this was interesting. I kinda liked it. But the truth is... either I'm immune to transgressive stuff (oh look, more globules of slime are emanating from her swollen orifice) or it just isn't really that transgressive at all. I mean, we live in a world of neo-liberal politics where everyone and every opinion is so insipid and safe. Women eating their own fanny slop just won't cut it. If you truly want to scare the establishment, the normies, the groovy left-wing outsiders... then write a novel about how there are too many darkies in the country and we should send them all back. Yeah, that's what I thought. Too spicy for ya!! Books like this exist precisely because we're so dull, because we crave something dangerous. But the truth is none of you have the balls to truly explore that. So instead, here's a plate of excrement and fanny juice. Bon appetit!
May 15, 2009
Okay, let’s get this one out of the way. I consider myself a feminist and I do agree that women are held up to ridiculous standards of cleanliness and beauty. I dislike shaving, plucking, flossing, moisturizering, but I do it all despite my dislike of forced standards. I would love to read a book which pushes these boundaries and truly explores what it means to be a woman today; however Wetlands is not this book. It is one of the most disgustingly repulsive and unsettling of books. Reading this book is like trying to avoid eye contact with the creepy man at a party who appears to have some sort of monstrous social disease. Yes, you try to quickly extricate yourself from the situation, but still find yourself inexplicably draw to him. There are some (okay, quite a few) scenes that I am too horrified to visualize, let alone recant here, but here is a fairly modest one to give you all an idea of the gross-out level. At one point, Helen (the heroine) decides that it is a great idea to take some sips from a water bottle and then spit all of it back into the bottle, and then offer a glass of this spit-water to one of her nurses. Her motivation…because it is sort of like French kissing the nurse! I believe that Helen has some very serious mental disorders, which is why I feel compelled to question all the “Wetlands is a modern feminist manifesto” reviews. In my opinion, a more likely comparison is a gross-out version of Girl, Interrupted. However, this book does satisfy one of my main “I-sort-of-like-this-book” criteria…it made me feel something; albeit more unhinged than happy. I love reading books which make me feel sad, angry, loving, enlightened, bitter, etc. just as long as they make me feel something other than bored. I can only recommend this book to those with a strong constitution and possibly an even stronger stomach.
April 11, 2015
Good for the way it ends: just like in ‘les amants de pont neuf’, and not so good for the way it begins: just like Triers’ ‘Nymphomaniac’.
As to the denoument: a good book to read on the back of Geoff Dyer’s ‘Jeff in Venice, Death in Varnasi’. Where the narrative learns you (sic) that life is a pile of shite, and then...you die. Here, though, be an alternative ending: Find the pearl in the poo. Heres cheers to happy endings.
As to the beginning: well sigh. Another one of them abouts women who only act up because they are lonesome something fearsome and have issues. By act up I mean being sexually explicit. The idea being that a happy woman (meaning she has snagged abloke and a white picket fence) can now finally pack up the Cleopatra Grip technique in favour of ...um...baking chocolate chip cookies? The only women who defy this seem to be the lesbians. I’m sorry, but its just the way it...seems...it is. Check out Edna St Vincent:
I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity, —let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again
Charlotte Roche’s Helen seems to be acting out due to lonliness incurred from the divorce of her parents. Yet another missed opportunity to assert female sexuality independent of some underlying emotional emptiness.
Charlotte Roche is playful, though. In this, her first novel, theres experimentation. Which is to say there is a tentative stretching of the boundaries (hers. Not mine), like a lion cub taking its first forays into game territory: bold and assertive but....not yet at its peak. Roche chooses scatology as her playground. She is going to wallow in, smear, imbibe, spray blood and excrement, thats what she is going to do.The problem is, it feels like she only knows her subject academically, with insufficient ‘on the ground’ experience. I say this because of how protag Helen, having described all these acts of ....willful..discharge.....all of a sudden seems to be racing half way through a hospital with her sphincter wide open trying to reach her lavatory before ‘busting one out’. What Roche lacks here, is MY experience of a M&S middle class toilet where a lady of middle eastern origin, faced with the long queue winding its way out and past the roche china bowls and starter sets, hoisted up her skirts and bent down and let one drop on the floor right in front of the row of sinks. Now, if she had witnessed this, as I have, she would not have had her protag runing around hospital floors in agonising pain after said person just plopped out tampons on the elevator floor just because it seemed like a good idea. Honestly, these amateur authors: Charlotte. Go the whole hog, please. Or let me tell you how to do it.
Still. Someone had to come out and write a novel about bodily fluids and functions. In all their wondrous dexterity. And charlotte Roche does step up to the task, with an appropriate degree of grossness. So credit where its due.
As to the denoument: a good book to read on the back of Geoff Dyer’s ‘Jeff in Venice, Death in Varnasi’. Where the narrative learns you (sic) that life is a pile of shite, and then...you die. Here, though, be an alternative ending: Find the pearl in the poo. Heres cheers to happy endings.
As to the beginning: well sigh. Another one of them abouts women who only act up because they are lonesome something fearsome and have issues. By act up I mean being sexually explicit. The idea being that a happy woman (meaning she has snagged abloke and a white picket fence) can now finally pack up the Cleopatra Grip technique in favour of ...um...baking chocolate chip cookies? The only women who defy this seem to be the lesbians. I’m sorry, but its just the way it...seems...it is. Check out Edna St Vincent:
I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity, —let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again
Charlotte Roche’s Helen seems to be acting out due to lonliness incurred from the divorce of her parents. Yet another missed opportunity to assert female sexuality independent of some underlying emotional emptiness.
Charlotte Roche is playful, though. In this, her first novel, theres experimentation. Which is to say there is a tentative stretching of the boundaries (hers. Not mine), like a lion cub taking its first forays into game territory: bold and assertive but....not yet at its peak. Roche chooses scatology as her playground. She is going to wallow in, smear, imbibe, spray blood and excrement, thats what she is going to do.The problem is, it feels like she only knows her subject academically, with insufficient ‘on the ground’ experience. I say this because of how protag Helen, having described all these acts of ....willful..discharge.....all of a sudden seems to be racing half way through a hospital with her sphincter wide open trying to reach her lavatory before ‘busting one out’. What Roche lacks here, is MY experience of a M&S middle class toilet where a lady of middle eastern origin, faced with the long queue winding its way out and past the roche china bowls and starter sets, hoisted up her skirts and bent down and let one drop on the floor right in front of the row of sinks. Now, if she had witnessed this, as I have, she would not have had her protag runing around hospital floors in agonising pain after said person just plopped out tampons on the elevator floor just because it seemed like a good idea. Honestly, these amateur authors: Charlotte. Go the whole hog, please. Or let me tell you how to do it.
Still. Someone had to come out and write a novel about bodily fluids and functions. In all their wondrous dexterity. And charlotte Roche does step up to the task, with an appropriate degree of grossness. So credit where its due.
July 30, 2025
Dear Charlotte,
Some thoughts are best left unspoken, and some books are best left unwritten. Unfortunately, this one made it to print. A burden to read and impossible to enjoy, some things truly are better left unsaid.
Some thoughts are best left unspoken, and some books are best left unwritten. Unfortunately, this one made it to print. A burden to read and impossible to enjoy, some things truly are better left unsaid.
May 6, 2020
I can't recommend this book to anyone. It is disgusting on purpose, in order to provoke. All the disgusting things have absolutely no effect on the story - if there is even a story. In the end the writer tried to create a story, how this girls is just seeking for attention bla bla, divorced parents, how groundbreaking.
Does having divorced parents mean you eat your menstrual blood and boogers? Does it mean you exchange used tampons with a friend and wear it? Does it mean you eat your own and your friends puke? (that last one really made me almost throw up).
We all do disgusting stuff we don't admit, especially as teenagers. I'm am sure there are people that have done (or regularly do) 1 or 2 things this girl is doing. But not all of the 10-15 disgusting things!
I saw some reviews mentioning that it is a "feminist manifesto". Because nothing says feminism like eating puke. There were sexual stuff this girl is into that didn't bother me at all. Maybe this is the feminism the writer was going for? Then remove the parts that are disgusting and have a descent book!
In any case, I will give one or two stars because I will definitely remember this book. And because it tried to have a story at some point, I guess.
If people are liking this book (there are 4 and 5 star reviews) then maybe I can become a successful writer too. Just write anything disgusting that comes into my mind and then call it "provocative". That's so easy...
Does having divorced parents mean you eat your menstrual blood and boogers? Does it mean you exchange used tampons with a friend and wear it? Does it mean you eat your own and your friends puke? (that last one really made me almost throw up).
We all do disgusting stuff we don't admit, especially as teenagers. I'm am sure there are people that have done (or regularly do) 1 or 2 things this girl is doing. But not all of the 10-15 disgusting things!
I saw some reviews mentioning that it is a "feminist manifesto". Because nothing says feminism like eating puke. There were sexual stuff this girl is into that didn't bother me at all. Maybe this is the feminism the writer was going for? Then remove the parts that are disgusting and have a descent book!
In any case, I will give one or two stars because I will definitely remember this book. And because it tried to have a story at some point, I guess.
If people are liking this book (there are 4 and 5 star reviews) then maybe I can become a successful writer too. Just write anything disgusting that comes into my mind and then call it "provocative". That's so easy...
July 13, 2014
I liked it.
I know I am far in the minority, but still: I liked it. I thought it was honest, I thought it was funny, I thought it was sad. And it was completely unsentimental. Since I am quite sentimental myself, this was very refreshing. Yes. I liked it very much indeed.
I know I am far in the minority, but still: I liked it. I thought it was honest, I thought it was funny, I thought it was sad. And it was completely unsentimental. Since I am quite sentimental myself, this was very refreshing. Yes. I liked it very much indeed.
Read
December 23, 2016There is great praise for Wetlands out there, and very legitimate criticism, but the most-liked negative reviews on GoodReads all read as purposely reductive, and in some cases, unwittingly offensive.
Authors can use immature, unreliable narrators to make their point, and Roche does. The gap between readers’ expectations of a female eighteen-year-old and the character presented by the novel partially illustrates why a book like this is feminist. The “common sense” adage that girls mature faster than boys, which creates expectations that young women behave themselves as little adults while “boys will be boys,” can rob girls of the opportunity to experience their own bodies and development. As soon as they begin to develop secondary sex characteristics, female bodies become a subject of control, fear and shame, and to a greater degree than their male counterparts, girls are forced to distance their sense of identity from the reality of their physical flesh because of how it may make other people feel. Society, represented in Wetlands by Helen’s hygiene-obsessed mother, does not condone women or girls loving or representing their bodies as they are versus how they are made desirable or sterile. Shave your legs. Wear perfume. Buy bras and tampons.
Helen says no: society won’t make her afraid of her own menstrual blood. Whether it is a mature, high-minded, paradigm-shifting rebellion to commit tiny acts of hygiene-terrorism with menstrual blood and pubic hair doesn’t denigrate that it is meant as rebellion in spirit by our troubled young narrator. As is the writing of this book. Perhaps more so than the gross-out passages that describe drinking vomit and genital contact with public toilets, it’s a shock that despite the fact that Helen is proudly unwashed—purposely working semen under her fingernails, wearing exclusively stained underwear, showing off her hemorrhoids to lovers—she still is allowed to enjoy sex, and with multiple partners. Her sexuality isn’t dependent on a sanitized, “pure” presentation of her body for the enjoyment of a male gaze, and she is deliciously free of anxiety or shame when it comes to her experience of sex.
Roche is not implying, as some reviewers are degrading the central message to, that you need to eat your own smegma to be liberated or feminist. But you do need to allow young women to explore their bodies without disgust. The quintessential Helen-as-feminist moment may be her experimentation with the natural variations in her vaginal secretions. “The consistency varies a lot,” she explains during a taste test of her own genitals on route to what she expects to be a casual sexual encounter with an older stranger. “Sometimes it’s like cottage cheese, other times like olive oil. […] Lots of guys prefer cottage cheese. You wouldn’t think so. But it’s true. I always ask in advance.”
Is it true? Who among us knows? Do we ask? Do we even know our bodies well enough to know what to ask?
Helen is immature. Helen is unreliable, admitting herself she suffers from drug-induced amnesia and delusional panics in which she fabricates the smell of gas and the death of her family—I have my doubts, for these reasons, that the conclusion of the novel happens anything like she says it does. But Helen should be allowed to exist without being forced into a one-dimensional idea of what a “good” feminist looks or sounds like. An eighteen-year-old girl can espouse contradictory beliefs. She can be a gutter punk queen, an unapologetic picture of anarchic freedom, and a pathetically lonely child, self-mutilating to get her parents’ attention. At least she experiences herself and her body the way that she is rather than as something inherently repulsive in its natural state.
Roche has partially explained her motivation in writing Wetlands as jealousy: “men have this whole range of different names for their sexual organs, beautifully detailing what state of arousal they’re in, while us women still don’t really have a language for our lust.” This statement has been picked apart—in more scholarly reviews—as, already, an outdated blast-from-the-past. It’s true that the author, like her narrator, is not extensively, obviously informed by a deep reading of feminist history and theory. But there’s something hideously regressive in making that a requirement to join the conversation. To either dismiss the book because it’s “not as shocking as the hype”, or to stamp a “been there, done that” on the cover because the core idea of it has been typed out before only makes it more difficult to represent women’s stories as stories, plain and simple, and not a purely academic or marginal sub-genre of art and fiction dealing with narrow issues only of interest to a few. That kind of thinking is exactly what keeps women’s fiction corralled in its corner of the book store, and “feminism” a dirty word our young female celebrities won’t touch with a ten-foot pole.
The attitude that these kinds of narratives about female sexuality are already blasé, paradoxically, de-normalizes the subject, and it implies a counter-productive competition rather than collaboration between female artists. Helen doesn’t need to be the first female character to masturbate on the page, and Roche doesn’t need to have invented the idea of renaming individual sexual organs with something more personal than the medical terms clitoris and labia (snail’s tails and ladyfingers). These ideas still aren’t in the mainstream to the extent that their male counterparts are. Pointing out they’ve been done before, when they’re still not done very often outside of critically-marginalized erotica, and using that as justification to stop listening, keeps it that way.
Authors can use immature, unreliable narrators to make their point, and Roche does. The gap between readers’ expectations of a female eighteen-year-old and the character presented by the novel partially illustrates why a book like this is feminist. The “common sense” adage that girls mature faster than boys, which creates expectations that young women behave themselves as little adults while “boys will be boys,” can rob girls of the opportunity to experience their own bodies and development. As soon as they begin to develop secondary sex characteristics, female bodies become a subject of control, fear and shame, and to a greater degree than their male counterparts, girls are forced to distance their sense of identity from the reality of their physical flesh because of how it may make other people feel. Society, represented in Wetlands by Helen’s hygiene-obsessed mother, does not condone women or girls loving or representing their bodies as they are versus how they are made desirable or sterile. Shave your legs. Wear perfume. Buy bras and tampons.
Helen says no: society won’t make her afraid of her own menstrual blood. Whether it is a mature, high-minded, paradigm-shifting rebellion to commit tiny acts of hygiene-terrorism with menstrual blood and pubic hair doesn’t denigrate that it is meant as rebellion in spirit by our troubled young narrator. As is the writing of this book. Perhaps more so than the gross-out passages that describe drinking vomit and genital contact with public toilets, it’s a shock that despite the fact that Helen is proudly unwashed—purposely working semen under her fingernails, wearing exclusively stained underwear, showing off her hemorrhoids to lovers—she still is allowed to enjoy sex, and with multiple partners. Her sexuality isn’t dependent on a sanitized, “pure” presentation of her body for the enjoyment of a male gaze, and she is deliciously free of anxiety or shame when it comes to her experience of sex.
Roche is not implying, as some reviewers are degrading the central message to, that you need to eat your own smegma to be liberated or feminist. But you do need to allow young women to explore their bodies without disgust. The quintessential Helen-as-feminist moment may be her experimentation with the natural variations in her vaginal secretions. “The consistency varies a lot,” she explains during a taste test of her own genitals on route to what she expects to be a casual sexual encounter with an older stranger. “Sometimes it’s like cottage cheese, other times like olive oil. […] Lots of guys prefer cottage cheese. You wouldn’t think so. But it’s true. I always ask in advance.”
Is it true? Who among us knows? Do we ask? Do we even know our bodies well enough to know what to ask?
Helen is immature. Helen is unreliable, admitting herself she suffers from drug-induced amnesia and delusional panics in which she fabricates the smell of gas and the death of her family—I have my doubts, for these reasons, that the conclusion of the novel happens anything like she says it does. But Helen should be allowed to exist without being forced into a one-dimensional idea of what a “good” feminist looks or sounds like. An eighteen-year-old girl can espouse contradictory beliefs. She can be a gutter punk queen, an unapologetic picture of anarchic freedom, and a pathetically lonely child, self-mutilating to get her parents’ attention. At least she experiences herself and her body the way that she is rather than as something inherently repulsive in its natural state.
Roche has partially explained her motivation in writing Wetlands as jealousy: “men have this whole range of different names for their sexual organs, beautifully detailing what state of arousal they’re in, while us women still don’t really have a language for our lust.” This statement has been picked apart—in more scholarly reviews—as, already, an outdated blast-from-the-past. It’s true that the author, like her narrator, is not extensively, obviously informed by a deep reading of feminist history and theory. But there’s something hideously regressive in making that a requirement to join the conversation. To either dismiss the book because it’s “not as shocking as the hype”, or to stamp a “been there, done that” on the cover because the core idea of it has been typed out before only makes it more difficult to represent women’s stories as stories, plain and simple, and not a purely academic or marginal sub-genre of art and fiction dealing with narrow issues only of interest to a few. That kind of thinking is exactly what keeps women’s fiction corralled in its corner of the book store, and “feminism” a dirty word our young female celebrities won’t touch with a ten-foot pole.
The attitude that these kinds of narratives about female sexuality are already blasé, paradoxically, de-normalizes the subject, and it implies a counter-productive competition rather than collaboration between female artists. Helen doesn’t need to be the first female character to masturbate on the page, and Roche doesn’t need to have invented the idea of renaming individual sexual organs with something more personal than the medical terms clitoris and labia (snail’s tails and ladyfingers). These ideas still aren’t in the mainstream to the extent that their male counterparts are. Pointing out they’ve been done before, when they’re still not done very often outside of critically-marginalized erotica, and using that as justification to stop listening, keeps it that way.
February 3, 2026
Es un libro de esos que te curan de espanto, lo mejor es que consigue su objetivo provocarte aunque sea una arcada (Creo que no se ha dejado ningún fluido del que hablar con eso lo digo todo).
El lenguaje y su forma de narrar es fresca y espontánea, no hay tabús, no hay límites y por eso la narración es divertida y ágil.
Se recrea en lo escatológico en todo aquello que a las personas corrientes les daría un ataque y eso es de admirar atraverse a hablar de todo esto de la manera que ella lo hace.
No doy más porque hay partes tan asquerosas que voy a tardar en olvidar. 😅
Leedlo si queréis leer algo distinto pero avisados estáis
El lenguaje y su forma de narrar es fresca y espontánea, no hay tabús, no hay límites y por eso la narración es divertida y ágil.
Se recrea en lo escatológico en todo aquello que a las personas corrientes les daría un ataque y eso es de admirar atraverse a hablar de todo esto de la manera que ella lo hace.
No doy más porque hay partes tan asquerosas que voy a tardar en olvidar. 😅
Leedlo si queréis leer algo distinto pero avisados estáis
March 30, 2008
Charlotte Roche - Heldin meiner Jugend - schreibt ein Buch und ich muss es lesen! Sofort! Es geht in dem Buch um ganz andere Dinge als der blöde Skandal erwarten lässt. Ich konnte es zumindest nicht weglegen und fand das Ende wirklich rührend. Irgendwie wächst einem die Heldin des Buches doch ans Herz. Viele Passagen sind schon eklig und ganz schön.. krank, aber dann auch wieder lustig. Das Buch ist vor allem aber intelligent und ehrlich. Den Mut zu so einem Buch muss man erst einmal haben und es dann auch noch schreiben können. Ich fand es großartig! Danke Charlotte!
February 21, 2013
Creo que aún no estoy lista para esto que llaman posporno feminista. Así que no sé qué opinar de Zonas húmedas. Es curioso, grotesco y muy visual. Quizás más de lo debido porque hubo partes en donde sentí que quería cerrar los ojos (como cuando estás viendo una película de terror) Sin embargo, así es, hay un sin embargo, la voz femenina me cayó muy bien. Tanto que si existiera Helen sería su mejor amiga. Entonces, estoy como a medias.
May 20, 2013
Este es el típico libro que hubiera querido leer a los catorce años, como cuando leí "Marranadas" de Marie Darrieussecq (también en Anagrama), y me quedé flipando entre tantos cerdos, culos y tetas.
"Zonas húmedas" comenzó gustándome mucho y luego fue perdiendo la gracia, sin embargo tiene momentos memorablemente guarros y divertidísimos.
Si queréis volver a la adolescencia: adelante. Leed a Roche.
"Zonas húmedas" comenzó gustándome mucho y luego fue perdiendo la gracia, sin embargo tiene momentos memorablemente guarros y divertidísimos.
Si queréis volver a la adolescencia: adelante. Leed a Roche.
December 27, 2021
man i do love hygiene a lot
December 2, 2025
Wet pussy. Finger your wet pussy. Eat snot. Drink menstrual blood. Suck dicks. Eat pussy. Piss and saliva. Go to hospital. Anal fissure. Wet pussy.
Wet pussy.
Hmmm, wet pussy.
Wet pussy.
Hmmm, wet pussy.
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