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Catherine M
La vie sexuelle de Catherine M.
"Je suis entrée dans la vie sexuelle adulte comme, petite fille, je m'engouffrais dans le tunnel du train fantôme, à l'aveugle, pour le plaisir d'être ballottée et saisie au hasard", déclare la narratrice. En quatre chapitres – le nombre, l'espace, l'espace replié et détails, soit la multiplication des aventures, d'une partouze à l'autre, les relations à l'emporte-pièce, les lieux et le corps apprécié dans ses coins et recoins –, Catherine se livre volontiers et sans fard à toutes les confessions, baisant "comme elle respire". Nulle chronologie, nulle construction véritable dans ce récit débridé conduit tout entier à la première personne.
La quatrième de couverture parle de tradition érotique et de littérature française. Soit. La Vie sexuelle de Catherine M. n'est pourtant pas un texte érotique mais plutôt pornographique. Il a encore moins partie liée avec la littérature. Mais l'œuvre signée par la directrice d'Art Press a cependant un avantage : les vingt premières pages sont égales aux deux cents qui suivent. Le lecteur pourra toujours consommer sur le pouce. Il n'y perdra rien. --Céline Darner
234 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 2000
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 493 reviews
January 19, 2018
1.5/5
Catherine Millet lives and works comfortably in the land of intellectuals, but she went down in my estimations when declaring on French radio only last year "I really regret not having been raped, because I could show that you can recover from it", really?, what a completely idiotic thing to say!. An insult to all victims suffering with the trauma of this heinous crime. Why not go and work in a rape crisis centre for a while, before retracting those words. It's a good job these sexual escapades were kept down to under two hundred pages. Any more and I would have stopped. After the half-way point I was only semi-interested, learnt nothing new, only that she bonked like crazy. As for calling these memoirs a work of art, that's a joke. It's nothing more than a work of smut. And if there is one word I can't stand when talking of the female genitalia, or in other derogatory ways, it's the C word. It's vulgar, and gets used a hell of a lot here. Why not just be more civilized and say my vagina.
So it comes as no surprise this is a book filled to the rafters with sex, most of the time done in threes. Fifty or so pages in, it wasn't bad, but started to go down hill with it's repetitive nature. After losing her virginity at 18, she doesn't hang about, as just two weeks later was involved in her first of many partouzes (orgy), this is theme that carries on for most of the book, she is one for multiple partners that's for sure. She claims to have participated in group sex where there would be up to 150 men and women present, estimating to have gone with a quarter of them, of course, it's only her word, a lot of what she harks on about maybe overly exaggerated, I doubt everything that happened here is 100% true. She also cruised the Bois de Boulogne as well, offering herself to any Tom, Dick and Harry, up for free in a place where famously, professionals were trying to earn a living. It seems men were nothing more to her than human dildos. Where is the love?. She came across as a cold person. I don't like her.
In between the moments when her private parts weren't working overtime she gets all philosophical, with references to contemporary art, metaphysical musings on the nature of perception, and aesthetic theory. But mixing the filth with intellectual talk didn't work for me, I was rapidly losing interest to even care. This is a work of self-gratification. It's dirty and lewd, but nothing new, and after the novelty wore off, I never found it sexy or erotic, was bored after 100 pages, with no emotional pull into her life what so ever. A couple of moments did result in amusement though, when she was all geared up to be taken on the bonnet of a car before a man walking a dog comes out of nowhere, leaving her sexually frustrated for all of about five minutes. And another time wondering around inside the Museum of Modern Art, she and two male accomplices take advantage of a no access door being accidentally left open, pop into a room for a quick threesome, before continuing their tour.
It's not poorly written, so a minor credit there, and her descriptions are very explicit if that's your thing, but apart from a few moments that raised the eyebrows, I can't say anything else in the way of positives. I never felt the heat rise during her sex, and with the exception of the odd chuckle, the rest was incredibly dull.
Catherine Millet lives and works comfortably in the land of intellectuals, but she went down in my estimations when declaring on French radio only last year "I really regret not having been raped, because I could show that you can recover from it", really?, what a completely idiotic thing to say!. An insult to all victims suffering with the trauma of this heinous crime. Why not go and work in a rape crisis centre for a while, before retracting those words. It's a good job these sexual escapades were kept down to under two hundred pages. Any more and I would have stopped. After the half-way point I was only semi-interested, learnt nothing new, only that she bonked like crazy. As for calling these memoirs a work of art, that's a joke. It's nothing more than a work of smut. And if there is one word I can't stand when talking of the female genitalia, or in other derogatory ways, it's the C word. It's vulgar, and gets used a hell of a lot here. Why not just be more civilized and say my vagina.
So it comes as no surprise this is a book filled to the rafters with sex, most of the time done in threes. Fifty or so pages in, it wasn't bad, but started to go down hill with it's repetitive nature. After losing her virginity at 18, she doesn't hang about, as just two weeks later was involved in her first of many partouzes (orgy), this is theme that carries on for most of the book, she is one for multiple partners that's for sure. She claims to have participated in group sex where there would be up to 150 men and women present, estimating to have gone with a quarter of them, of course, it's only her word, a lot of what she harks on about maybe overly exaggerated, I doubt everything that happened here is 100% true. She also cruised the Bois de Boulogne as well, offering herself to any Tom, Dick and Harry, up for free in a place where famously, professionals were trying to earn a living. It seems men were nothing more to her than human dildos. Where is the love?. She came across as a cold person. I don't like her.
In between the moments when her private parts weren't working overtime she gets all philosophical, with references to contemporary art, metaphysical musings on the nature of perception, and aesthetic theory. But mixing the filth with intellectual talk didn't work for me, I was rapidly losing interest to even care. This is a work of self-gratification. It's dirty and lewd, but nothing new, and after the novelty wore off, I never found it sexy or erotic, was bored after 100 pages, with no emotional pull into her life what so ever. A couple of moments did result in amusement though, when she was all geared up to be taken on the bonnet of a car before a man walking a dog comes out of nowhere, leaving her sexually frustrated for all of about five minutes. And another time wondering around inside the Museum of Modern Art, she and two male accomplices take advantage of a no access door being accidentally left open, pop into a room for a quick threesome, before continuing their tour.
It's not poorly written, so a minor credit there, and her descriptions are very explicit if that's your thing, but apart from a few moments that raised the eyebrows, I can't say anything else in the way of positives. I never felt the heat rise during her sex, and with the exception of the odd chuckle, the rest was incredibly dull.
April 23, 2012
I nearly want to reread this to see how she pulls off the remarkable feat of writing about having limitless unbridled ravenous multiorgasmic sex and making it duller than the weekly shop in Sainsburys and less erotic than funny shaped vegetables. "Oh look, dear - there's a two for one offer on lesbians this week." "Hmmm... we just don't have enough room in the fridge. And they look a bit wrinkly to me."
March 28, 2023
A ver, es un libro en el que la autora narra, a detalle, sus encuentros sexuales con varios hombres en diversas circunstancias, sin ningún tipo de prejuicio, cosa que le admiro, sin embargo, por momentos me resultó lento. La última parte creo que es la más interesante porque conocemos un poco su sentir al respecto, la relación que mantiene con su cuerpo y su placer. No hay sentimentalismo alguno.
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February 23, 2016Please note due to issues with space the start of this, the first 23 days are here: http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/5...
Day 24 I’ve been trying to work out how to describe my latest knitwear creation. Just imagine you were getting too much. Honestly, way too much. You can’t wake up in the morning or walk down the street for lunch without somebody wanting it. So you put on this jumper and I’m buggered if I understand what happens next. Something to do with quantum physics, at any rate. You are size 6 or so, you put on this jumper and voila. You are an enormous, completely shapeless blob. In the movies this wouldn’t happen. Somehow everybody would know the truth of what was underneath this jumper.
But this, as Detective-Constable Luke would say, is real life. Nobody wants to have sex with you who sees you in this jumper. Even people who know for a certain fact what is underneath this jumper, perhaps because they personally gave it a close examination no more than just before you put it on, do not want to sex you. Even people who have no more than a genetic memory of their neanderthal ancestors seeing you in this jumper do not want to fuck you. If you ever want this to be the case, drop me a line. I will rent you my jumper.
Well, all yesterday I was trying to figure what the bright side of this thing is. I have it on right now, just to ward off the cat who has taken an inordinate liking to me. She hasn’t actually suggested consumating our relationship, but….
Day 25 So, I wake up yesterday morning in bed with a rather nice looking erection. Not mine, it was just next to me. It’s warm enough that we are bare and it is hard not to notice. Unfortunately I’ve become a bit of a scientist over the last year or so…so instead of just hopping right on it, which would normally be my wont, I felt duty bound to conduct a small experiment.
You remember the jumper I was talking about yesterday. I couldn’t help it. I said ‘just hang on for a moment, I want to show you something’. And I raced off, slipped on the jumper and came back. I was half way through asking ‘Do you like it?’ when – Oh my God!! ‘Where’s it gone?’ I asked, looking at where it had been just a moment ago. ‘Where’s what gone?’ he asked, looking down at - ? Exactly. My jumper had made a penis disappear. Not just an erection, a whole penis had left the room. I’m thinking of advertising for volunteers. Imagine you could find the penis who could stand up to this jumper, laugh at it like it was Leonard Cohen looking down the abyss, and carry on doing its thing. Imagine what a fine thing that would be. I think I woke up then. I don’t want to call this a nightmare because it had a very nice penis in it, but.
Day 26 So I’m walking down a rather dodgy street yesterday, and a man jumps out from an even grottier looking side street and says ‘Come with me’, beckoning behind him. I should have scurried on, head down, but I don’t seem to be made like that. I stopped and looked questioningly. ‘Come with me to that phone box,’ he said, pointing, and to round off this invitation – which sounded more like a command – he said ‘I am Russian,’ as if that were a complete explanation of the situation. Well…some of you will know that Polish men on the wrong side of middle-aged, corpulent in ill-fitting suits make me weak at the knees and here was a Russian…the next best thing. I managed to keep my clothes on, but I trotted off after him, we entered the phone box and he said ‘I have card’. I was about to say ‘Sorry, mate, I’m strictly cash only’ when he pulled it out – his card, girls, his card…I’d like to pop a penis into this story, but in all conscience… – and ah. Of course. The light bulb did that extra little twist, connection is made with the socket. A phone card. He somehow thinks being Russian and illiterate in English is a disadvantage in a public phone box. I hated to disavow him of this idea, but.
God. When was the last time I was in a phone box? And why? If not to have sex, then surely at the very least to organise it. I have no idea how phone boxes work, let alone ones that don’t take money. Still, let me see…if we slot this in here and then push these - soon enough he was happily talking away in Russian and I was dismissed with a small wave of the hand.
Oh. So that’s it? Somehow I expected more of an encounter with a strange man in a phone box.
Day 27 There are all these days lately where humour is lost in a wasteland of how things really are. I'm sorry.
Days where you simply see things with straighforward clarity. I take it all back about the jumper, it was most unchivalrous. There is nothing about me that anybody would want to come near with a barge pole. I'd be better off with any other body in the world. Pop another brain in it and I could even become a human being. I am unfuckable. Which at least means I can wear the jumper and not feel like I'm damaging my chances. I have none.
Day 28
It so happens that my best ideas often make people laugh. And that my being sad does too. So, I’m in a clothes shop earlier and I pick out a large shapeless green T-shirt to try on and ask my friend Heather what she thinks of it. ‘Great, if you are giving it to a man.’
I end up in the changeroom with the thing I want and the things other people want me to try on. The green T-shirt first, which is a large and I am an extra-small. I come out, look in the mirror and sum it up: ‘It says I don’t even try to get sex any more. I’ve given in.’ For some reason everybody in the shop laughs. I have this absolute compulsion to want to look sexy in oversized men’s clothes. Other girls look gorgeous in men’s shirts. Why can’t I????
So then I try on this dress Heather has said will look great on me. It’s empire-line, so you know, how on earth anybody could possibly think of giving it to a short girl with tits is beyond me…I come out, look in the mirror and observe ‘It makes me look like I’m pregnant without the advantage of having had sex first.’ Honestly. Shop cracks up. Lady comes out of the booth opposite to apologise for laughing in the closet. ‘Well, it does. Look at me…’ And this is really true, I was even standing in that way pregnant women and really tall skinny men stand on a backward slant. ‘See?’ I said rubbing my pregnant stomach. ‘I can’t even stand up straight in it.’ ‘You do not look pregnant.’ I’m told. ‘You look cute.’
I was so depressed I bought the maternity dress, a skirt and two tops. NOT the I-don’t-want-sex one…I just haven’t quite given up hope yet. Now I’m trying to decide if I want a boy or a girl and what I’m going to call it. Just in case. I mean probably I’m not pregnant….
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Day 29 Remember the anti-sex-penis-disappearing jumper? Well, I've done a deal. I've managed to give it away. It's a story involving a dildo, a packet of strawberry cake mix and an Elvis Presley movie. I can't say more, I promised not to, but suffice to say that everything that ensued was worth it. The jumper is no longer a blemish on my life. It's made me feel like maybe I can get sex after all....I'm hopelessly optimistic, sigh.
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Day 30 Earlier this year I saw a friend I hadn't seen since uni days. I lusted after David back then. I mean couldn't look at, smelled lust, desperately hoped it wasn't stamped on my forehead. Surely it dripped off me. He had the body of a labourer, a gravelly voice that sent shivers up your spine and he spoke like a poet. Hey, he was a poet. In lieu of being able to do anything about my terrible lust I organised for my family's publishing business to put out a book of his poetry.
Now he is fat, and I mean really fat and his skin is horrible and, oh, fuck David, I sort of wish I had been left with that memory of a craving that was never satisfied but now no longer wishes to be.
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Day 31 So my friend Jane calls me the other day and I ask her what her sex life's like and she says, quick as a flash, 'better than yours' - no, actually, she says 'definitely better than yours' and I think fuck. I'd only asked because she's the one person in the world I can safely consider myself to have a better sex life than. She has four young children, her husband's in gaol, she's working and studying to get a better job. How can she have any sex life at all, let along a good one? Meanwhile, my sex life's completely fucked. Not fucked. Fucked. I don't know. You tell me.
She filled me in and I'm torn between scratching her off my list of friends because she is happy as, and being so, so pleased for her because she's the most gorgeous girl with the best eyes in the world and lips men must desperately want to kiss, and she's brave and inspirational and she deserves every good thing that could happen to her.
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Day 32 If I might start off with an apology. Jane, you are totally my best friend again since it turns out this person you've been laying has a dicky heart and is too scared to get excited. I'm truly sorry that your sex life is at least as bad as mine again.
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Day 33 Wherein our intrepid scientific researchers explore whether eating way, way too much food puts you off sex. I mean, not 'you'. That's unscientific. I mean 'one'. Or 'Us'. Maybe we can say 'us'. We cannot give you the results yet because we are waiting for the peer review. We apologise for this delay. Our investigation has been thorough and we did achieve statistical significance. But still. We wait. Sorry.
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Day 34 I go past the newsagent and buy a packet of chips. Scoff it down. Walking back ten minutes later I buy another packet. 'Trying to fatten myself up', I explained. 'You don't often hear ladies saying that,' he replied. And he continued 'but why do you want to?' I was a bit lost at that. Was it a compliment?? An insult?? I mean, a guy says why do you want to LOSE weight, that's a compliment. What was this? I was wearing this huge shapeless poncho thing Mandy lent me because my jeans are so close to falling off that most of my knickers show. I was never never young enough to see that as a fashion statement. I'm certainly not now. 'Why do I want to?' 'Because I don't have a belt?' Somehow it was a bit of a relief when we got onto how crap the Australian cricket team is.
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Day 35 Fuck. Honestly. You just don't expect to open up Bloomberg in the morning and find out your sex life's just become comparatively worse. Yep. My friend Jane's husband is getting out of gaol several years early. I'm happy, okay? OKAY!!!
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Day 36 5.30am I’m doing something that is making the cat dribble with the sheer pleasure of it – and yes, I can do it to boys too, but unlike the cat, you get a bib. I can’t help reflecting on what a life the cat has. Pleasure on tap, without any of the human failings that might prevent that for us. There’s no not-in-the-mood, no I-don’t-seem-quite-able-maybe-tomorrow, there’s just cat-wants-cat-gets.
Oh, and should I ever do it to you, please don’t do what the cat did, please don’t dribble in my cup of tea.
Not, ummm…not that I’d be drinking tea while I was...you know....
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Day 37 A small South Kensington adventure. One moment you are thinking hamburger and fries for dinner and the next something catches your eye down a little sidestreet. Bookshop. You discover a little French quarter. A couple of French bookshops, crepes, grocery stores, patisseries. And what’s over there? A bakery with a queue of people waiting to get in – it’s raining, it is 5.15pm. All in all it seem improbable. The Hummingbird Bakery. Never heard of it. Look it up. A bit more of America infiltrates. Australia is to come, I guess.
Then I come upon something I’ve really only begun to eat since I came to the UK earlier this year: Moroccan.
Now I’m feeling like you do when you haven’t had enough for a while and suddenly you get too much. I hadn’t eaten a proper meal since breakfast yesterday, I’d been awake all night courtesy of residing in a railway station for the duration. Now I tucked into this:
Harira
Traditional moroccan vegetables soup with chickpeas, lentils, tomato, coriander and argan oil, served with
home-made Moroccan Bread
Couscous merguez
Traditional Moroccan fluffy fine couscous, served with lamb spicy sausages, with seasonal vegetables broth, harissa, and
sweet chickpeas.
I would have thought it divine even if I hadn’t been not getting enough. But now….Excuse me while I take my jeans off and lie down for a bit.
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Day 38 So I'm sitting in this Moroccan restaurant and while I'm waiting for my food I watch the lady a couple of tables away. She looked like a socialite, slender as one must be, but she was hoeing into a large quantity of food. This was a lady who enjoyed her tucker bigtime - as long as nobody was watching. That somehow doesn't surprise me.
But come getting the bill time she looked at it and said to the waiter 'No, I'm sorry, I'm not paying this. This is a bill for about six people. Look at me. I eat like a bird.' I would have choked on my food if I'd been eating at the time. 'Call the press' I felt like saying. 'The Giant Prehistoric Moa Bird is not extinct after all. Alive and well in South Kensington.'
What the hell. It worked. The poor waiter took the bill away, brought it back and whatever amount it now was the woman was willing to pay it. Yes, in case you are wondering. There were prices on the menu she ordered from.
I know this has nothing to do with sex. Not even to do with not sex. Sorry.
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Day 39 I have sex on the brain. I can't help thinking there are better places for it.
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Day 40 I’m in the bath, got in a bit early, watching bits of me slowly disappear. Toes, knees, thighs, pubic hair, stomach and –. It occurs to me after a while that breasts are unsinkable. I could have drowned to death in there, breasts would have remained standing tall. Not so much shining beacons as beacons with hard red bits on top. Sailors on planks of wood desperately paddling about the bath looking for salvation would have said to each other ‘Land ahoy’ and as they climb up onto my breasts I hope they have the gratitude to afix their mouths, one apiece to those little hard red bits, and make them happy. While the rest of me drowns.
It’s obvious in hindsight. The Titantic should have been tethered to a large pair of breasts. Then it really would have been indestructible. They would have had to rename it, of couse. Titanic Tits. I like that. Class. Pure class.
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July 26, 2007
I was really looking forward to reading this, albeit in a "trashy-Nora Roberts" kind of way. If anything, I was hoping it might be some triumph for women's lib, that Catherine Millet was able to own her sexuality and not be afraid of "having sex like a man". However, she somehow takes a subject that should be interesting and juicy and makes it dull and lifeless.
This was easily the most boring thing I have read. a coveted spot formerly reserved for Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Those promoting abstinence should issue this as required reading because nobody is going to want to have sex after this. I gave it one star only because the beginning provided a promising set up that it failed to deliver on. If I may go out on a limb, I'll venture to say the most interesting part of this book was the cover/dust jacket typography.
This was easily the most boring thing I have read. a coveted spot formerly reserved for Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Those promoting abstinence should issue this as required reading because nobody is going to want to have sex after this. I gave it one star only because the beginning provided a promising set up that it failed to deliver on. If I may go out on a limb, I'll venture to say the most interesting part of this book was the cover/dust jacket typography.
November 1, 2021
2003 read: Two Star Read! Well apparently that's what I made of this explicit best selling French (translated to English) sexual biography when I read it in 2003. Looks like, after a quick look at the book summary that my older self may appreciate this book better now.
I do remember the book, and think maybe it was the writing or the way the narrator feels removed from the story she's telling, that made it not work for me, although I think that was purposefully done. 2 out of 12.
I do remember the book, and think maybe it was the writing or the way the narrator feels removed from the story she's telling, that made it not work for me, although I think that was purposefully done. 2 out of 12.
October 1, 2025
There have been lots of great reviews for this book so go read some of the 4 and 5 star ones.....most of the reviews for 3 stars and below really miss the point of this book, they're either looking for a porn style tittilation, an erotic 'story', or literature (with no knowledge of either erotica or porn) this provides neither. I wouldn't even call it a memoir, more an exploration into why and how Ms Millet explores her sexuality through her numerous erotic encounters, and how her mind and body are affected by those encounters. It's written in a beautiful stlye. Intelligently written it allows the reader to ponder as an observer rather than a participant (and this is why it's not porn or erotica)Ms Millets enjoyments. I found myself wondering about personality traits, and if other influences had abounded in my life could I have been as libertine as she? This book opened a door for me, I didn't question whether or not the activities Ms Millet took part in where morally right or wrong and I don't think that's meant to be the point of the book, the reader is not meant to make a moral judgement, but to just think and maybe reflect on their own sexuality.
March 23, 2009
“Millet’s sexual memoir...actually succeeded in taking the sexy out of sex, surely her greatest obscenity,” writes one reviewer of The Sex Life of Catherine M. Mario Vargas Llosa described the book as a “carnal gymnasium, devoid of any sentiment or emotion.” Even Jean Baudrillard chaffed at Millet’s exposure: “If one lifts one’s skirt, it is to show one’s self, not to show oneself naked like truth.” Written with the precise eye of an art critic, the book is a fantastically detailed, if detached, inventory of endless fucks on rain-slicked car hoods, in photographic darkrooms, analingus in the alley, orgies at the Bois de Boulonge, or anywhere. Most importantly, however, Millet looks: among the “ochre-colored buildings” and “the crumpled surface of his balls” is the “brownish crater of her asshole,” her “swollen vulva,” “sticky clitoris,” she peels back a man’s foreskin to reveal a “very red cock.”
Orgies aren't for everyone; neither is monogamy. The point remains--its not your sex life, its hers.
Orgies aren't for everyone; neither is monogamy. The point remains--its not your sex life, its hers.
November 1, 2020
No es un prodigio de narrativa, pero es una novela entretenida. El título no engaña: prácticamente todo es sexo. No hay parafilias, sino que se puede encasillar dentro del sexo "normal".
It's not a narrative prodigy, but it's an entertaining novel. The title is not misleading: practically everything is sex. There are no paraphilias, but it can be pigeonholed into "normal" sex.
It's not a narrative prodigy, but it's an entertaining novel. The title is not misleading: practically everything is sex. There are no paraphilias, but it can be pigeonholed into "normal" sex.
December 6, 2007
I loooved this book, it's sexually explicit, but ultimately more of a philosophy-of-sex book than straight erotica. The sex acts described are daring but dryly written in most cases, not necessarily meant to titillate, but to provoke thought, written by this highly intelligent French art historian woman.
May 7, 2008
Catherine M is sexless (at least towards men), as cold and clinical as a mortician. Fuck that! She has no passion, no fire, no desire even. She just does--in every imaginable way, which isn't shocking, just curiously boring and unexciting. The only scene that showed a peep of desire was, no surprise, when she was with a woman, which makes it clear she can fuck men (and many at one time) to her heart's content with no strings attached because she doesn't give a damn for guys. If she'd only explore her lesbian leanings more, she'd produce a much more spirited, personal, touching, and sexy book.
March 28, 2009
Frank, dirty, forthright. I celebrated every disgusting detail she shared. There were so many things she's "into" that I'm not (ex. gang bangs) but I *recognized* her as a sexual being and woman and could relate to her motivations and casual attitude towards immersing herself in sex while successfully maintaining a career. While I'm not personally a big fan of dirty assholes, I totally GET how they turn HER on. Fantastic stuff. I don't know if the translation adds to the matter-of-fact tone or if that's really there in the French since I had to read it in English. Because that's all I'm capable of.
March 14, 2015
À la lecture de ce qui s'apparente vraiment à une "tentative d'épuisement de la sexualité", je me suis sentie tour à tour : impressionnée, envieuse, curieuse, voyeuse, amoindrie, puritaine, déprimée, incrédule, impatiente, insensible, excitée, étrangère, vieille... Catherine Millet a ce don méticuleux d'observer et de décrire froidement. On assiste à la sexualité d'une femme qui s'en empare comme un homme. Ce récit va me hanter quelque temps.
September 6, 2016
I suppose this was supposed to be propaganda for a lifestyle of casual sex with whoever comes your way. God knows I'm open-minded, but I don't think I've ever been so turned off by a naughty book. She seems completely checked out of all the fucking she's doing, often narrating from a distance as she's getting stuffed full of cock. If she think it's this wonderful, liberating thing she's discovered, she certainly isn't selling it very well. I winced and made my 'yuck' face through the whole thing.
November 20, 2013
I can think of no other book so smartly written and probing of the human sexual condition than The Sexual Life of Catherine M. The author of this personal memoir, Catherine Millet, sought throughout her adult life to become indifferent to her every orifice in ways most of us would find entirely unacceptable behavior for a woman of her standing and intelligence. The fact that she is a respected art critic who publishes a high brow art publication lends credence for me to everything she has to say. She is not in any way a caricature of her environment. She is constantly involved in the comings and goings of the fluctuating circumstances surrounding her. Always susceptible to the sexual escapades devised by others for no other reason than to thoroughly prove her committed indifference to what the rest of the sexually repressed world likes to believe is normal. Catherine Millet has rocked my world.
Catherine suggests the reader may deduce from her behavior an "inclination for self-abasement, mixed with the perverse intention of dragging others into that same abasement." But it was a freedom she termed extraordinary that motivated her behavior. "To fuck above and beyond any sense of disgust was not just a way of lowering yourself, it was, in a diametrically opposite move, to raise yourself above all prejudice."
Through her book Catherine Millet is teaching us about our own sexuality by revealing her sexual self shamelessly to the hyper-critical world we live in. This book is a completely mesmerizing memoir written wonderfully in beautifully explicit language. There is no other female writer I have ever known who could write as honestly as Catherine Millet. There is absolutely no male writer who could even come close to what she has accomplished on these pages.
Catherine suggests the reader may deduce from her behavior an "inclination for self-abasement, mixed with the perverse intention of dragging others into that same abasement." But it was a freedom she termed extraordinary that motivated her behavior. "To fuck above and beyond any sense of disgust was not just a way of lowering yourself, it was, in a diametrically opposite move, to raise yourself above all prejudice."
Through her book Catherine Millet is teaching us about our own sexuality by revealing her sexual self shamelessly to the hyper-critical world we live in. This book is a completely mesmerizing memoir written wonderfully in beautifully explicit language. There is no other female writer I have ever known who could write as honestly as Catherine Millet. There is absolutely no male writer who could even come close to what she has accomplished on these pages.
March 7, 2011
Contrary to many others, I really enjoyed this. Did not find it dull at all. A satisfying challenge to the idea that women only want sex with love. Also a great exercise in fantasy without prudishness or restraint. A freedom of thought and expression I envy.
And I did find it filthy. Shows sex can be enjoyed from many different perspectives. She does not expect us to do what she does but says she does what she does and wants us to accept it.
Huge complexity of character when reading between the lines too.
And I did find it filthy. Shows sex can be enjoyed from many different perspectives. She does not expect us to do what she does but says she does what she does and wants us to accept it.
Huge complexity of character when reading between the lines too.
November 11, 2016
There's no doubt that this is a bold treatise on sex beyond piffling morality and should be applauded as such. But by the time the writer tells us (on page 202), 'But fucking can be boring too,' it is too late. This reader had already come to the same opinion long, long before.
June 9, 2018
Ne znam što da mislim.. Ne sjećam se kada sam zadnji put preskakala odlomke, letimično tražila interesantne riječi.. Jedva sam čekala da se ova knjiga i ja rastanemo!
Moram reći da skidam kapu što je Catherine odlučila svoj seksualni život podijeliti s drugima, jer ono što ona živi, definitivno nije svakodnevno (zato pozitivna ocjena, inače nula bodova).
No, način na koji je to napravila je uspavljujući! Na početku sam bila nadobudna i čitala sve redom. Ali nakon par stranica, oči bi mi se zatvarale. Silna nabrajanja poza, mjesta seksualnih orgija, muškaraca i žena, odjeće... bez trunke ičeg drugog, ne razumijem! Izgleda da nisam shvatila bit pisanja ovakve vrste knjige na takav način, osim ako je sama raskalašenost bit. Tada bi naslov bio sasvim dovoljan! :P
Nevjerojatno je kako se može nešto što nije svakidašnje napraviti da bude toliko dosadno! Za to joj dajem nagradu!
Moram reći da skidam kapu što je Catherine odlučila svoj seksualni život podijeliti s drugima, jer ono što ona živi, definitivno nije svakodnevno (zato pozitivna ocjena, inače nula bodova).
No, način na koji je to napravila je uspavljujući! Na početku sam bila nadobudna i čitala sve redom. Ali nakon par stranica, oči bi mi se zatvarale. Silna nabrajanja poza, mjesta seksualnih orgija, muškaraca i žena, odjeće... bez trunke ičeg drugog, ne razumijem! Izgleda da nisam shvatila bit pisanja ovakve vrste knjige na takav način, osim ako je sama raskalašenost bit. Tada bi naslov bio sasvim dovoljan! :P
Nevjerojatno je kako se može nešto što nije svakidašnje napraviti da bude toliko dosadno! Za to joj dajem nagradu!
March 17, 2023
Everyday we stray further from god
May 31, 2017
I'm not being a moralist here, the book was (for me) simply a terribly boring one. Narrated without any emotion, if feels like one is reading about a sexual life of a robot, and not like one of those complex robots described by Asimov, more like an autobiography of a machine without emotions. I don't think that extreme promiscuity (who does?) is a great thing, but that is not what put me away from this book. Honestly, I wasn't shocked, I was bored. The writing isn't any good, I think that's all there is to it really. I don't have an idea who this woman is or was, I don't have any opinions about her, neither positive nor negative ones...I feel like I have read her description of doing the laundry...and not poetical descriptions, but rather very mechanical description. Her writing told me very little about her. Maybe it gave her satisfaction to write in this way? To each their own as they say.
May 20, 2010
WARNING! IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW TOO MUCH ABOUT ME... AND A MEAN TOO TOO MUCH, DON'T READ. IF YOU GET OFFENDED, WELL, I WARNED YOU SO TOO BAD.
As always with a book that can be controversial with those I surround myself with, this is book stands alone in its "No one but me should read" Status. Catherine Millet is a beautiful author, gifted with the ability to be frank about the most excruciating of topics: sex. And not just sex, but lots of sex and lots of sexual activities (things that if my mother had read in this book- her eyes would bleed and I would be disowned for life). But don't be discouraged to read this. It's dirty but charming in a way that the French can be so utterly honest about. This is not necessarily a book meant for women, because there are plenty of men who like to read about sex, but it makes more sense to women, I think, because of it's blatant hetero-sexual content. I mean to say, yes men, if you would like a clear, four paragraph explanation as to why the author likes to suck, then by all means read on. But honestly... I don't know a lot of men who would take much away from that. As for me, and other women who read romance novels particularly for their sexual content, then there is a lot to be gained. This is a woman who has been there, done that and still does many things that I'm sure some women fantasize. It's a light, a dark red one, but a light. Readers have to grasp that the book is classified as nonfiction as nonfiction and not some housewife's daydream. The book is endearing in it's honesty and upholds characteristics of such a violent and care-free lifestyle. One day, when I study my french more, I will re-read this in French, to gather the shock and dirty dreams all over again.
As always with a book that can be controversial with those I surround myself with, this is book stands alone in its "No one but me should read" Status. Catherine Millet is a beautiful author, gifted with the ability to be frank about the most excruciating of topics: sex. And not just sex, but lots of sex and lots of sexual activities (things that if my mother had read in this book- her eyes would bleed and I would be disowned for life). But don't be discouraged to read this. It's dirty but charming in a way that the French can be so utterly honest about. This is not necessarily a book meant for women, because there are plenty of men who like to read about sex, but it makes more sense to women, I think, because of it's blatant hetero-sexual content. I mean to say, yes men, if you would like a clear, four paragraph explanation as to why the author likes to suck, then by all means read on. But honestly... I don't know a lot of men who would take much away from that. As for me, and other women who read romance novels particularly for their sexual content, then there is a lot to be gained. This is a woman who has been there, done that and still does many things that I'm sure some women fantasize. It's a light, a dark red one, but a light. Readers have to grasp that the book is classified as nonfiction as nonfiction and not some housewife's daydream. The book is endearing in it's honesty and upholds characteristics of such a violent and care-free lifestyle. One day, when I study my french more, I will re-read this in French, to gather the shock and dirty dreams all over again.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
April 28, 2023
"It would frighten me if the denatured bird that I am did not fall in love with the scarecrow."
I first heard about this book very briefly in Maggie Nelson's THE ART OF CRUETY. I've had it in my sights for probably five years but I just now got my hands on a copy. Eileen Myles said about I LOVE DICK by Chris Kraus something to the effect of '[this book] made possible a new kind of female life.' I think the same could be said of this book in terms of sexuality. Millet has a beautiful frankness with which she talks about her own sex--something she mentions gets her off in a sexual way. There is something so fucking hot about the baldness of her descriptions. There are so many bad reviews of this book on here and I'm really trying not to let them anger me, but it's like.. Did you read the book? I've seen reviews criticizing her for being boring or conceited or only talking about sex. But.. it's a sex memoir? What do you want from her? And as IF it's only about sex! Millet has a keen observational eye and a philosophical mind. She takes herself seriously, and not seriously, completely. If a man wrote this, there would be 8 journal articles in some Parisian lit mag about how groundbreaking he was for thinking to connect sex and philosophy and how profound his observations are. People just.. can't take Catherine! They can't take women wanting to talk about sex seriously. It implodes them. I am so incredibly moved by this book. I read this at the perfect time. Millet's generous reading of her own desire makes it possible for me to imagine my own sexuality, untethered to correctness or particular order. The denatured bird of my sex is also attracted to the scarecrow!!! And GOD think if it wasn't!!!
[sp. edit sorry]
I first heard about this book very briefly in Maggie Nelson's THE ART OF CRUETY. I've had it in my sights for probably five years but I just now got my hands on a copy. Eileen Myles said about I LOVE DICK by Chris Kraus something to the effect of '[this book] made possible a new kind of female life.' I think the same could be said of this book in terms of sexuality. Millet has a beautiful frankness with which she talks about her own sex--something she mentions gets her off in a sexual way. There is something so fucking hot about the baldness of her descriptions. There are so many bad reviews of this book on here and I'm really trying not to let them anger me, but it's like.. Did you read the book? I've seen reviews criticizing her for being boring or conceited or only talking about sex. But.. it's a sex memoir? What do you want from her? And as IF it's only about sex! Millet has a keen observational eye and a philosophical mind. She takes herself seriously, and not seriously, completely. If a man wrote this, there would be 8 journal articles in some Parisian lit mag about how groundbreaking he was for thinking to connect sex and philosophy and how profound his observations are. People just.. can't take Catherine! They can't take women wanting to talk about sex seriously. It implodes them. I am so incredibly moved by this book. I read this at the perfect time. Millet's generous reading of her own desire makes it possible for me to imagine my own sexuality, untethered to correctness or particular order. The denatured bird of my sex is also attracted to the scarecrow!!! And GOD think if it wasn't!!!
[sp. edit sorry]
May 5, 2012
Modern art critic Catherine M. here details her sexual life, both in acts and in thought, from childhood to marriage in a way which provokes more thought than titillation.
I can understand the frustrations of people who have read this book and found it tedious in the extreme, however coming from a background of studying sociology and focusing especially on the sexual, I found it fascinating. Catherine's level of detachment allows for a more nuanced appraisal of her own sexual experiences, bringing in things from pseudo-psychoanalysis through to postmodern concepts of space. The ability to bring all this into a book centring on her own experiences of group sex and swinging is a feat in itself.
I would urge people to restrain themselves from running their own psychological profiling on Catherine M. in favour of accepting her own perceptions and accounts. I certainly felt I got a lot from this book simply by reading with an open mind.
In short, I wouldn't recommend this to someone simply for a thrill, however I would suggest it to anybody with a deeper interest in human sexuality.
I can understand the frustrations of people who have read this book and found it tedious in the extreme, however coming from a background of studying sociology and focusing especially on the sexual, I found it fascinating. Catherine's level of detachment allows for a more nuanced appraisal of her own sexual experiences, bringing in things from pseudo-psychoanalysis through to postmodern concepts of space. The ability to bring all this into a book centring on her own experiences of group sex and swinging is a feat in itself.
I would urge people to restrain themselves from running their own psychological profiling on Catherine M. in favour of accepting her own perceptions and accounts. I certainly felt I got a lot from this book simply by reading with an open mind.
In short, I wouldn't recommend this to someone simply for a thrill, however I would suggest it to anybody with a deeper interest in human sexuality.
September 4, 2008
The five stars are for the title. I wish I'd thought of that. One also has to admire her honesty. I liked the bits where she recounted her fantasies - how I laughed.
The title specifically describes the content as her "sex life". One should not therefore expect anything else from this.
Forget not that she is elderly now, and the events she describes wouldn't be crammed that close together in time. One suspects that her detachment reflects the fact that she is now someone else - maybe the fire is out. And we are reading a translation - who here has read the French? Either way, a lot of poor reviews don't credit her for being a pioneer of sorts. She transports her habits to the wary outsider, which is a great use of words. And generous, from a person whose life appears fully lived.
The title specifically describes the content as her "sex life". One should not therefore expect anything else from this.
Forget not that she is elderly now, and the events she describes wouldn't be crammed that close together in time. One suspects that her detachment reflects the fact that she is now someone else - maybe the fire is out. And we are reading a translation - who here has read the French? Either way, a lot of poor reviews don't credit her for being a pioneer of sorts. She transports her habits to the wary outsider, which is a great use of words. And generous, from a person whose life appears fully lived.
March 14, 2015
Acheté chez un bouquiniste à Bruxelles, édition France Loisirs laide.
Je n'ai pas compris. L'écriture est telle que j'ai eu l'impression d'une passivité totale de la part de l'auteure. Il arrive des choses à cette Catherine, beaucoup de pénis se mettent dans son vagin/sa bouche mais on ne comprend pas pourquoi.
Je n'ai pas compris. L'écriture est telle que j'ai eu l'impression d'une passivité totale de la part de l'auteure. Il arrive des choses à cette Catherine, beaucoup de pénis se mettent dans son vagin/sa bouche mais on ne comprend pas pourquoi.
December 1, 2024
les reviews d'aquest llibre a goodreads són tan draguejants i hilariants com les d'autodefensa a filmaffinity i la veritat es q ho entenc perquè flopeja hora greu!! entenc que, al 2001, que una dona dediqués 220 pàgines a parlar de com ha singat moltíssim amb molta gent i de moltes maneres fos una cosa forta, però avui dia es fa simplement pesat: no hi ha cap reflexió gaire elaborada, la senyora parle de les seues parres i activament les deslliga de qualsevol factor estructural o discurs polític.
en fi, idees sobre el llibre:
- fa q les lletres de la tokischa semblin salms
- mataria d'un infart a la lectora de yaoi més marrana i tot (com totes les escriptores franceses fornoses tot sigui dit)
- hi ha cançons de la jane birkin (moi non plus i pardon tu dormais) q hi casen bé
- tots els sinònims q dona per a tita i figa semblen el vídeo de la senyora del pp dient "xixi xoxo parrús conillet cony"
en fi, idees sobre el llibre:
- fa q les lletres de la tokischa semblin salms
- mataria d'un infart a la lectora de yaoi més marrana i tot (com totes les escriptores franceses fornoses tot sigui dit)
- hi ha cançons de la jane birkin (moi non plus i pardon tu dormais) q hi casen bé
- tots els sinònims q dona per a tita i figa semblen el vídeo de la senyora del pp dient "xixi xoxo parrús conillet cony"
January 15, 2019
"(Dirty words) need less reciprocation than caresses do (and are) always more stereotyped, and perhaps some of their power derives from the very fact that they belong to the most immutable inheritance. So, in the end, even words--which should help to distinguish us from each other--serve to fuse us all together and to accelerate the annihilation of the senses that we are all trying to achieve in these moments." -page 33
A thoughtful insight in a book that, so far, has been a stunningly fulsome litany of mainly gang-bang fantasies and real-life orgies. This is a sexual autobiography, and I don't think it aspires to be much more than that. It is a confession, and very hot --if you like matter-of-fact graphic descriptions of debauchery drenched in ample bodily fluids. I must admit, I kind of do. Millet talks frankly and the tome is very much in the line of highly regarded French (autobiographical) erotica that reaches back from the Marquis de Sade to Pierre Louys and Louis Aragon to Pauline Reage. Because she jumps into all this abruptly, we don't know very much about her, other than some short bits about her upbringing in a Catholic household. One wonders why she brings this up if she's not going to use it as a springboard from "sex is dirty" to the typical rebellion that follows that kind of oppression. But, anyway, there's nothing original in that either. Quite frankly, I just wanted a dirty book to read, and, so far, this one delivers.
Reading on...
OK, well I'm in the latter stages. I don't think it would be a slander to say that Catherine Millet is a complete slut and whore. I don't think she would disagree; in any case this book disallows her from denying it. There doesn't seem to have been anyone or anything she wouldn't do. Right now I'm reading about her finger fucking in the ass a garbage man with rotten teeth...
Throughout most of this book, Millet the art critic tries to overlay some kind of pretentious aesthetics about space and spatial perception (eg., how she fits into or sees her surroundings,etc.) as she's going about her carnal biz. Some of it is cool but most of it contrived and boring. The autobiographical elements are not chronological, we find out more about her formative years much later in the book. I think a lot of people who checked out of this book early on and wonder about her attitudes and motivations might well have stuck with it to this point before rendering final judgment.
FINAL: It took me a long time to read this. I engaged it in chunks and set it aside often. For every pretentious thing Millet has to say, she also says something fairly insightful. I found this a worthwhile read in the literature of sexuality. Near the end, Millet explains her distanced approach to seeing and conveying sexuality; something a lot of readers seem to be complaining about without having stuck with it to see why she has that attitude. It does seem that Millet's best thoughts are reserved for the latter half of the book, by which time many are turned off and have bailed due to the carefree promiscuity fulsomely and repetitively detailed early on. That's too bad. I can't say that I like Millet after reading this; there's something ungenerous about her despite her frankness. But I am envious at all the fucking. She realizes that we don't have these bodies and this skin for very long, so why not enjoy it to the max? I can't argue with that line of pursuit.
A thoughtful insight in a book that, so far, has been a stunningly fulsome litany of mainly gang-bang fantasies and real-life orgies. This is a sexual autobiography, and I don't think it aspires to be much more than that. It is a confession, and very hot --if you like matter-of-fact graphic descriptions of debauchery drenched in ample bodily fluids. I must admit, I kind of do. Millet talks frankly and the tome is very much in the line of highly regarded French (autobiographical) erotica that reaches back from the Marquis de Sade to Pierre Louys and Louis Aragon to Pauline Reage. Because she jumps into all this abruptly, we don't know very much about her, other than some short bits about her upbringing in a Catholic household. One wonders why she brings this up if she's not going to use it as a springboard from "sex is dirty" to the typical rebellion that follows that kind of oppression. But, anyway, there's nothing original in that either. Quite frankly, I just wanted a dirty book to read, and, so far, this one delivers.
Reading on...
OK, well I'm in the latter stages. I don't think it would be a slander to say that Catherine Millet is a complete slut and whore. I don't think she would disagree; in any case this book disallows her from denying it. There doesn't seem to have been anyone or anything she wouldn't do. Right now I'm reading about her finger fucking in the ass a garbage man with rotten teeth...
Throughout most of this book, Millet the art critic tries to overlay some kind of pretentious aesthetics about space and spatial perception (eg., how she fits into or sees her surroundings,etc.) as she's going about her carnal biz. Some of it is cool but most of it contrived and boring. The autobiographical elements are not chronological, we find out more about her formative years much later in the book. I think a lot of people who checked out of this book early on and wonder about her attitudes and motivations might well have stuck with it to this point before rendering final judgment.
FINAL: It took me a long time to read this. I engaged it in chunks and set it aside often. For every pretentious thing Millet has to say, she also says something fairly insightful. I found this a worthwhile read in the literature of sexuality. Near the end, Millet explains her distanced approach to seeing and conveying sexuality; something a lot of readers seem to be complaining about without having stuck with it to see why she has that attitude. It does seem that Millet's best thoughts are reserved for the latter half of the book, by which time many are turned off and have bailed due to the carefree promiscuity fulsomely and repetitively detailed early on. That's too bad. I can't say that I like Millet after reading this; there's something ungenerous about her despite her frankness. But I am envious at all the fucking. She realizes that we don't have these bodies and this skin for very long, so why not enjoy it to the max? I can't argue with that line of pursuit.
February 23, 2009
I needed to read something interesting and fluffy enough to read that could hold my interest while I'm back stage in the dressing room waiting for my cue to enter and throw up fake vomit on stage. So far, so good. This book can definitely underscore the screaming of obscenities and feigned sexual acts on stage.
...
I like talking about sex. I like thinking about sex. I thought I was fairly free and adventurous when it came to sex. This book proved me wrong. I'm small potatoes. Little bitty potatoes. Plus, I just really can't get into anal all that much, Catherine. But you have fun with that. It's fascinating to hear how you co-ordinate all of your orifices... Fascinating.
...
I like talking about sex. I like thinking about sex. I thought I was fairly free and adventurous when it came to sex. This book proved me wrong. I'm small potatoes. Little bitty potatoes. Plus, I just really can't get into anal all that much, Catherine. But you have fun with that. It's fascinating to hear how you co-ordinate all of your orifices... Fascinating.
October 27, 2025
Treinramp van een boek, maar wel bijna in één trok uitgelezen gisteren.
De recensies zijn hilarisch. Man.
« (…) het enige interessante, dat evenwel niet in het boek staat, is dat de mogelijkheid bestaat dat ze het ook met Michel Houellebecq heeft gedaan, want die bezocht dezelfde clubs, maar omdat anonimiteit de sleutel is tot dit hele gedoe zullen we het natuurlijk nooit weten, te meer ook omdat het (boek) slecht geschreven is. »
De recensies zijn hilarisch. Man.
« (…) het enige interessante, dat evenwel niet in het boek staat, is dat de mogelijkheid bestaat dat ze het ook met Michel Houellebecq heeft gedaan, want die bezocht dezelfde clubs, maar omdat anonimiteit de sleutel is tot dit hele gedoe zullen we het natuurlijk nooit weten, te meer ook omdat het (boek) slecht geschreven is. »
May 2, 2020
Το βιβλίο πρωτοκυκλοφόρησε το 2002 και είχε τύχει εκείνο το διάστημα να διαβάσω την παρουσίαση του. Χαρακτηριζόταν πολύ τολμηρό, όχι με την έννοια του τι έγραφε αλλά για το θάρρος της επώνυμης και πολύ πετυχημένης κριτικού τέχνης να περιγράψει και να ομολογήσει την ερωτική της ζωή.
Τότε, κράτησα μία νοερή σημείωση να αγοράσω κάποια στιγμή το βιβλίο και να το διαβάσω από περιέργεια αλλά όχι βέβαια δίνοντας τα ωραία μου λεφτά, στην υπερτιμημένη πρώτη κυκλοφορία.
Η νοερή σημείωση παρέμενε εν υπνώσει αλλά ποτέ δεν την ξεχνούσα.
Περίεργο για όλα αυτά τα χρόνια αλλά έτσι ήταν!
Πρότινος βρήκα το βιβλίο σε αγγελία με μεταχειρισμένα βιβλία. Νομίζω ήταν 3 ευρώ και αποφάσισα να τελειώνω και με αυτή την εκκρεμότητα.
Το διάβασα αποσπασματικά, μεταξύ άλλων βιβλίων του τέλους του 2019.
Περίεργο βιβλίο.
Και όντως τολμηρό.
Όχι για όσα περιγράφει αλλά για εκείνο το θάρρος (που κάποιοι ίσως να ζήλευαν) που βρήκε να εκθέσει τον εαυτό της στα μάτια όλου του κόσμου.
Για αυτό το 99% του θάρρους, διότι το 1% ανήκει στη δειλία της να το εκδώσει ζώντων των γονιών της.
Κριτικός τέχνης από τη μια λοιπόν και σαβουριάρα από την άλλη.
Σαβουριάρα παρτουζιάρα, ψυχιατρικώς πάσχουσα αναμφιβόλως.
Δωρεάν διάγνωση.
Επαληθεύεται αυτό το οποίο εντρυφά σε κάποιους κύκλους και μεταξύ κάποιων ανθρώπων : άβυσσος η ψυχή του ανθρώπου.
Διότι εάν εμένα μου αρέσει να κάνω βόλτα στο δάσος ιδιαιτέρως το φθινόπωρο, σε εκείνη άρεσε να πηγαίνει σε ένα δωμάτιο, να ξεβρακώνεται και να την πηδάει μια ουρά από 15 - 20 άγνωστους άντρες, που περίμεναν κρατώντας τα βρακιά τους.
Αν το δει κάποιος από μια άλλη οπτική γωνία, ίσως το παράλογο να είναι το δικό μου και το απολύτως λογικό το δικό της. Ιδιαιτέρως εάν είσαι άντρας.
Τέλος πάντων, ας μην πολυλογώ.
Δεν κατάλαβα τι ήθελε να πει η νοσούσα.
Δεν κατάλαβα γιατί έπρεπε να περιγράψει το πώς και πού τον έπαιρνε, από ποια/ποιες οδούς και από πόσους μαζί. Τι με νοιάζει εμένα και κατ' επέκταση τον αναγνώστη, εάν θέλει η νοσούσα κριτικός να αποτελεί ένα δοχείο ανακούφισης του κάθε περαστικού.
Ίσως προσπάθησε να το πλασάρει ως απόσταγμα διανόησης και πρωτοπορίας μιας καλλιτεχνικής ψυχής.
Προσωπικά δεν μάσησα.
Η θέση της είναι στον ψυχίατρο αλλά επίφοβο φαίνεται κι αυτό, διότι πολύ εύκολα θα έκανε κουιντέτο με τον ψυχίατρο, τη γραμματέα, το παιδί του ασανσέρ και τον διανομέα που έφερε το ανταλλακτικό μελάνι του εκτυπωτή.
Τότε, κράτησα μία νοερή σημείωση να αγοράσω κάποια στιγμή το βιβλίο και να το διαβάσω από περιέργεια αλλά όχι βέβαια δίνοντας τα ωραία μου λεφτά, στην υπερτιμημένη πρώτη κυκλοφορία.
Η νοερή σημείωση παρέμενε εν υπνώσει αλλά ποτέ δεν την ξεχνούσα.
Περίεργο για όλα αυτά τα χρόνια αλλά έτσι ήταν!
Πρότινος βρήκα το βιβλίο σε αγγελία με μεταχειρισμένα βιβλία. Νομίζω ήταν 3 ευρώ και αποφάσισα να τελειώνω και με αυτή την εκκρεμότητα.
Το διάβασα αποσπασματικά, μεταξύ άλλων βιβλίων του τέλους του 2019.
Περίεργο βιβλίο.
Και όντως τολμηρό.
Όχι για όσα περιγράφει αλλά για εκείνο το θάρρος (που κάποιοι ίσως να ζήλευαν) που βρήκε να εκθέσει τον εαυτό της στα μάτια όλου του κόσμου.
Για αυτό το 99% του θάρρους, διότι το 1% ανήκει στη δειλία της να το εκδώσει ζώντων των γονιών της.
Κριτικός τέχνης από τη μια λοιπόν και σαβουριάρα από την άλλη.
Σαβουριάρα παρτουζιάρα, ψυχιατρικώς πάσχουσα αναμφιβόλως.
Δωρεάν διάγνωση.
Επαληθεύεται αυτό το οποίο εντρυφά σε κάποιους κύκλους και μεταξύ κάποιων ανθρώπων : άβυσσος η ψυχή του ανθρώπου.
Διότι εάν εμένα μου αρέσει να κάνω βόλτα στο δάσος ιδιαιτέρως το φθινόπωρο, σε εκείνη άρεσε να πηγαίνει σε ένα δωμάτιο, να ξεβρακώνεται και να την πηδάει μια ουρά από 15 - 20 άγνωστους άντρες, που περίμεναν κρατώντας τα βρακιά τους.
Αν το δει κάποιος από μια άλλη οπτική γωνία, ίσως το παράλογο να είναι το δικό μου και το απολύτως λογικό το δικό της. Ιδιαιτέρως εάν είσαι άντρας.
Τέλος πάντων, ας μην πολυλογώ.
Δεν κατάλαβα τι ήθελε να πει η νοσούσα.
Δεν κατάλαβα γιατί έπρεπε να περιγράψει το πώς και πού τον έπαιρνε, από ποια/ποιες οδούς και από πόσους μαζί. Τι με νοιάζει εμένα και κατ' επέκταση τον αναγνώστη, εάν θέλει η νοσούσα κριτικός να αποτελεί ένα δοχείο ανακούφισης του κάθε περαστικού.
Ίσως προσπάθησε να το πλασάρει ως απόσταγμα διανόησης και πρωτοπορίας μιας καλλιτεχνικής ψυχής.
Προσωπικά δεν μάσησα.
Η θέση της είναι στον ψυχίατρο αλλά επίφοβο φαίνεται κι αυτό, διότι πολύ εύκολα θα έκανε κουιντέτο με τον ψυχίατρο, τη γραμματέα, το παιδί του ασανσέρ και τον διανομέα που έφερε το ανταλλακτικό μελάνι του εκτυπωτή.
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