Found this slim book on our shelf at home with no memories of having bought it, and was in the mood to give something a go without reading more than two lines on the back cover. What a strange coincidence, because not three hours earlier over dinner was wrapped up in a long discussion on how erotica seems to have moved out of the bodice rippers back corner shelf and into mainstream bestsellers. I don't mind some steamy scenes, in fact they are welcome additions when in already good books. But the sex of today's literature serves niche escapist ships, has taken over the fantasy/historical fiction world, and is frankly just very boring - a sketch of storyline with trope scaffolding to serve up sexual encounters, all very reminiscent of porn. If a book is labeled "spicy," I've learned to severely lower my expectations or stay away, as I would have with the Harlequin romances of my mom's teenage years. (Also, no shame in reading these books, I do too clearly, but I'd like to call them what they are.)
So I'm making my way through this novella, Latin American boom, maybe some magical realism, likely some melancholic but impassioned prose and class commentary. All cool, and all there... but wait, I think this is very well-written smut? I didn't expect that, having skipped over the introduction and any further Googling on the author. But I loved it! It's weird, it's layered, it's a parody of the erotic, it's a young woman's desire for discovery as she flies too close to the sun, it's seedy and sordid and sensual. It's saying a lot while seemingly saying very little. In just a few hours' read, there's much to chew on and interpret. And Gabriela Wiener's introduction was illuminating, wish I'd started with it.
Having also just watched "Poor Things" the night before, the parallels were fresh in my mind. The timing could not have been better, almost like this book was handed to me by my past self, to give me a little slap upside the head and remind me what literature with the erotic as subject is for. I think enough has been said about men's constant use of women's sexual exploration in their art (even gay men like Donoso). But in the end, I find I'm quite enjoying it, male or female artist. It's not, like in modern-day erotica, about the romance or the interiority of the leading lady and her eye-roll of a male lead, but about the sex itself and what it says about who we are, what we are doing, and why we are doing it. I would put this up there with The Piano Teacher, though thankfully nowhere near as dark. Maybe time to go read some Anais Nin?