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My Secret Life
My Secret Life, by "Walter", is the memoir of a Victorian gentleman's sexual development and experiences. It was first published in a private edition, which appeared over seven years beginning around 1888. In spite of "Walter's" obsessive womanising over a period of several decades, only a few of his partners are of his own social class. The great majority are either prostitutes, servants or working class women. The frank discussion of sexual matters and other hidden aspects of Victorian life make this book a rare and valuable social document. It has been described as "one of the strangest and most obsessive books ever written".
749 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1888
443 people are currently reading
2001 people want to read
About the author
Henry Spencer Ashbee
72 books14 followersHenry Spencer Ashbee was a book collector, writer, and bibliographer, notorious for his massive, clandestine three volume bibliography of erotic literature written under the pseudonym of Pisanus Fraxi. He is also speculated to be the author of the erotic novel A Night in a Moorish Harem, written under the pseudonym of Lord George Herbert.
Ashbee was born in Southwark, London. He was by occupation a textile trader, the senior partner in the London branch of the firm of Charles Lavy & Co. He travelled extensively during his life, including Europe, Japan, and San Francisco, collaborating with Alexander Graham on Travels in Tunisia, published in 1887. He was an avid book collector, with perhaps the world's most extensive collections of Cervantes and erotica. Influenced by a friendship with the Belgian diplomat Joseph Octave Delepierre, his erotica collecting proceeded with purchases in Amsterdam, Brussels and Paris.
Ashbee was a part of a loose intellectual fraternity of English gentlemen who discussed sexual matters with a freedom that was at odds with Victorian mores; this fraternity included Richard Francis Burton, Richard Monckton Milnes, Algernon Charles Swinburne, and others. He also amassed thousands of volumes of pornography in several languages. He wrote on sex under the pseudonyms "Fraxinus" (Ash) and "Apis" (Bee), and sometimes combined them as "Pisanus Fraxi".
Ashbee's will left his entire collection to the British Museum, with the condition that the erotic works had to be accepted along with the conventional items. Because the trustees wanted the materials related to Cervantes, they decided to accept the bequest. The trustees were allowed to destroy any of the books if they had a duplicate, but in practice went much further and destroyed six boxes "of offensive matter which is of no value or interest" including cheaply produced Victorian erotica. The remainder of the works formed the core of the Private Case which were kept hidden from readers in the British Library for many years; they include a work by William Simpson Potter.
Ashbee married Elisabeth Lavy in Hamburg, Germany in 1862. They had one son, Charles (the designer Charles Robert Ashbee, born 1863), and three daughters. His family life grew unhappier as he aged. As he became more conservative, his family followed the progressive movement of the era. "The 'excessive education' of his daughters irritated him, his Jewish wife's pro-suffragism infuriated him, and he became tragically estranged from his socialist homosexual son, Charles". Henry and Elisabeth separated in 1893. Henry Spencer Ashbee is buried in Kensal Green Cemetery.
Ashbee was born in Southwark, London. He was by occupation a textile trader, the senior partner in the London branch of the firm of Charles Lavy & Co. He travelled extensively during his life, including Europe, Japan, and San Francisco, collaborating with Alexander Graham on Travels in Tunisia, published in 1887. He was an avid book collector, with perhaps the world's most extensive collections of Cervantes and erotica. Influenced by a friendship with the Belgian diplomat Joseph Octave Delepierre, his erotica collecting proceeded with purchases in Amsterdam, Brussels and Paris.
Ashbee was a part of a loose intellectual fraternity of English gentlemen who discussed sexual matters with a freedom that was at odds with Victorian mores; this fraternity included Richard Francis Burton, Richard Monckton Milnes, Algernon Charles Swinburne, and others. He also amassed thousands of volumes of pornography in several languages. He wrote on sex under the pseudonyms "Fraxinus" (Ash) and "Apis" (Bee), and sometimes combined them as "Pisanus Fraxi".
Ashbee's will left his entire collection to the British Museum, with the condition that the erotic works had to be accepted along with the conventional items. Because the trustees wanted the materials related to Cervantes, they decided to accept the bequest. The trustees were allowed to destroy any of the books if they had a duplicate, but in practice went much further and destroyed six boxes "of offensive matter which is of no value or interest" including cheaply produced Victorian erotica. The remainder of the works formed the core of the Private Case which were kept hidden from readers in the British Library for many years; they include a work by William Simpson Potter.
Ashbee married Elisabeth Lavy in Hamburg, Germany in 1862. They had one son, Charles (the designer Charles Robert Ashbee, born 1863), and three daughters. His family life grew unhappier as he aged. As he became more conservative, his family followed the progressive movement of the era. "The 'excessive education' of his daughters irritated him, his Jewish wife's pro-suffragism infuriated him, and he became tragically estranged from his socialist homosexual son, Charles". Henry and Elisabeth separated in 1893. Henry Spencer Ashbee is buried in Kensal Green Cemetery.
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November 13, 2020
“I began these memoirs when about twenty-five years old, having kept from youth a diary of some sort, which perhaps from habit made me think of recording my inner and secret life…”
- Anonymous, My Secret Life
Don’t judge me.
I have a very good reason for reading this excessively graphic, insistently perverse, Victorian-era sex memoir. I’m researching, you see, for this, ah, for this book I’m writing about mid-19th century London scullery maids.
Or something.
Let us be honest with each other. We all know why I read Anonymous’ My Secret Life. The reason is simple. Because it’s there. I am the Mallory of prurient interest and this is my Everest.
I can still sense you judging me.
Alas, this is who I am. I read a lot of books. Books on the Civil War. On World War I and II. Biographies about presidents. Biographies about generals. But every once in a while, I feel the need to read something bawdy. Something outré.
And so we arrive at this place. This sunken, lowbrow place.
Do you remember video stores, where you could rent VHS or DVDs and buy super-expensive candy bars and popcorn? Do you remember how some of those stores had a room in the back with an Adults Only sign? And do you remember that sometimes there would be a curtain of beads covering the entrance, so that if you wanted to enter, there would be that inimitable sound of beads knocking into each other, like the first molecules of the universe?
Well, this book is the equivalent to that room with the bead curtains.
My wife took it rather well. The look on her face when I added this to my bookshelf was pretty amazing. I didn't know a person could have so many conflicted feelings reflected on their face simultaneously.
To her credit, she didn't say a thing. Just pulled out the ol’ pre-printed divorce forms and made a few updates. Eventually, she also came up with a list of ground rules for reading My Secret Life. To wit: I was not allowed to read it in public, including the patio, where people might see. I wasn’t allowed to bring it to work, lest I lose my job. I couldn’t read it in our bedroom, or in my office, or in the kids’ rooms, or in any room the kids ever entered, or in the kitchen where food was prepared. I also couldn’t read it in the bathroom unless I was simultaneously taking an ice-cold shower. Or alone. Or in the presence of our children. I was not allowed to read this while sitting or lying down.
I finished this standing in our front hall.
The last thing you need – or want – is a sex lecture from me. But I think we can all agree on a natural law: that people have always engaged in sexual activity. And they’ve liked it. For long stretches of human history, this reality has been cleverly hidden by various scolds and inquisitors. Yet it has always been there. From pornographic cave art and the Kama Sutra to the whalebone dildos of Nantucket housewives and patent-machines sold to alleviate a woman’s “hysteria”, there has always been a sexually charged undercurrent to life on Earth.
In the history of sex, the Victorian Era has always been held up as a time of high moral dudgeon, a subdued period of restrained language, conservative dress, and oh-so-proper behavior. This is a generality, of course, and generalities are always wrong in the specifics, which My Secret Life aptly proves.
This book originally came from an eleven volume opus totaling 4,000 or so pages. It is important to note – so that you don’t get a LifeLock alert every time I enter your neighborhood – that I did not read anywhere near 4,000 pages. My Secret Life is firmly in the public domain, meaning that there are a lot of versions to read. Through Kindle, you can even get the whole eleven volumes (though I will definitely form an unfavorable mental picture of you if you do). The print version I read was slapped together by some internet publisher and put onto 324 pages, sized 11x8.5. The editing is horrible. The grammar and spelling errors rampant. It is impossible for me to know whether this is the fault of Anonymous (you can go to Wikipedia to read the debate as to the author’s true identity – I’m in no position to say whether this is a good use of your time or not), or the fault of the “publisher.” It is also, therefore, impossible for me to know what was excised.
The version I read answers a philosophical question I have long pondered: Why do pornographic films bother with plots. The answer, surprisingly, is that sex can get boring. (Somewhere on the space-time continuum, my fourteen-year-old self is shaking his head in disbelief). You need some sort of moral context for sexual activity, or else it becomes this primitive mechanical act that is initially attention grabbing but eventually meaningless. This fundamental truth has long been known to smut purveyors, which is why there are so many libidinous aliens and horny copy machine repairmen floating through XXX movies.
For the most part, my edition of My Secret Life is nothing more than a list of graphically described sexual conquests. At first, I was okay with this. The author, whoever he is, is a provocateur, and he certainly got my attention. It takes a lot to shock me, and he succeeded.
At the start of this memoir, you find the author hidden beneath the privy, staring up at women who are going to the bathroom. Disgusted already? He’s just warming up. You will follow him as he purchases prostitute after prostitute, often using his last farthing. You will read about every farmer’s daughter and scullery maid he ever seduced. Every conquest of his life is told in rather graphic detail utilizing his own very unique lexicon of euphemisms.
One of the indicators that this might be a true account, rather than an epic of Victorian erotica, is that the narrator never attempts to place himself in a positive light. This is not an irresistible specimen of manhood having his way with an endless procession of beautiful damsels. Quite the contrary, most of his action is purchased, and since he is often nearly broke, there is a lot of begging involved. (Also, since he does not like to use French letters, he gets the clap). You have to read this stuff to believe it. Take this excerpt, for instance:
Or this section:
Sorry about that. It turns out there is absolutely nothing in this book suitable for quoting.
Eventually, shock gives way to tedium, with brief moments of reprehensibility. Whoever the author was, he seems a mostly terrible person. The only interlude in which he approaches humanity is in his affair with a maid, with whom he appears truly in love. This portion of My Secret Life is just about the only palatable one. Again, I’m not a moralist, but without any emotional framework, this guy is just a junkie looking to score his next hit.
Since My Secret Life, at least the version I read, is mostly disembodied sex, you don’t learn a whole lot about the author or his friends. (He claims to be keeping them anonymous). At one point, he mentions some buddies who went off to fight in Crimea, which gives us a time-point. If you look closely enough, though, you will find interesting details about Victorian life. However, this takes a bit of squinting, and getting this just for some Victorian flavor is akin to the way men used to read Playboy for the articles.
This is a book that you probably shouldn’t read. There are other books more deserving of your time. Actually, literally every other book that has ever been written is probably more deserving of your time.
Every. Book.
Of course, that’s the very reason I got this in the first place.
So govern yourselves accordingly.
- Anonymous, My Secret Life
Don’t judge me.
I have a very good reason for reading this excessively graphic, insistently perverse, Victorian-era sex memoir. I’m researching, you see, for this, ah, for this book I’m writing about mid-19th century London scullery maids.
Or something.
Let us be honest with each other. We all know why I read Anonymous’ My Secret Life. The reason is simple. Because it’s there. I am the Mallory of prurient interest and this is my Everest.
I can still sense you judging me.
Alas, this is who I am. I read a lot of books. Books on the Civil War. On World War I and II. Biographies about presidents. Biographies about generals. But every once in a while, I feel the need to read something bawdy. Something outré.
And so we arrive at this place. This sunken, lowbrow place.
Do you remember video stores, where you could rent VHS or DVDs and buy super-expensive candy bars and popcorn? Do you remember how some of those stores had a room in the back with an Adults Only sign? And do you remember that sometimes there would be a curtain of beads covering the entrance, so that if you wanted to enter, there would be that inimitable sound of beads knocking into each other, like the first molecules of the universe?
Well, this book is the equivalent to that room with the bead curtains.
My wife took it rather well. The look on her face when I added this to my bookshelf was pretty amazing. I didn't know a person could have so many conflicted feelings reflected on their face simultaneously.
To her credit, she didn't say a thing. Just pulled out the ol’ pre-printed divorce forms and made a few updates. Eventually, she also came up with a list of ground rules for reading My Secret Life. To wit: I was not allowed to read it in public, including the patio, where people might see. I wasn’t allowed to bring it to work, lest I lose my job. I couldn’t read it in our bedroom, or in my office, or in the kids’ rooms, or in any room the kids ever entered, or in the kitchen where food was prepared. I also couldn’t read it in the bathroom unless I was simultaneously taking an ice-cold shower. Or alone. Or in the presence of our children. I was not allowed to read this while sitting or lying down.
I finished this standing in our front hall.
The last thing you need – or want – is a sex lecture from me. But I think we can all agree on a natural law: that people have always engaged in sexual activity. And they’ve liked it. For long stretches of human history, this reality has been cleverly hidden by various scolds and inquisitors. Yet it has always been there. From pornographic cave art and the Kama Sutra to the whalebone dildos of Nantucket housewives and patent-machines sold to alleviate a woman’s “hysteria”, there has always been a sexually charged undercurrent to life on Earth.
In the history of sex, the Victorian Era has always been held up as a time of high moral dudgeon, a subdued period of restrained language, conservative dress, and oh-so-proper behavior. This is a generality, of course, and generalities are always wrong in the specifics, which My Secret Life aptly proves.
This book originally came from an eleven volume opus totaling 4,000 or so pages. It is important to note – so that you don’t get a LifeLock alert every time I enter your neighborhood – that I did not read anywhere near 4,000 pages. My Secret Life is firmly in the public domain, meaning that there are a lot of versions to read. Through Kindle, you can even get the whole eleven volumes (though I will definitely form an unfavorable mental picture of you if you do). The print version I read was slapped together by some internet publisher and put onto 324 pages, sized 11x8.5. The editing is horrible. The grammar and spelling errors rampant. It is impossible for me to know whether this is the fault of Anonymous (you can go to Wikipedia to read the debate as to the author’s true identity – I’m in no position to say whether this is a good use of your time or not), or the fault of the “publisher.” It is also, therefore, impossible for me to know what was excised.
The version I read answers a philosophical question I have long pondered: Why do pornographic films bother with plots. The answer, surprisingly, is that sex can get boring. (Somewhere on the space-time continuum, my fourteen-year-old self is shaking his head in disbelief). You need some sort of moral context for sexual activity, or else it becomes this primitive mechanical act that is initially attention grabbing but eventually meaningless. This fundamental truth has long been known to smut purveyors, which is why there are so many libidinous aliens and horny copy machine repairmen floating through XXX movies.
For the most part, my edition of My Secret Life is nothing more than a list of graphically described sexual conquests. At first, I was okay with this. The author, whoever he is, is a provocateur, and he certainly got my attention. It takes a lot to shock me, and he succeeded.
At the start of this memoir, you find the author hidden beneath the privy, staring up at women who are going to the bathroom. Disgusted already? He’s just warming up. You will follow him as he purchases prostitute after prostitute, often using his last farthing. You will read about every farmer’s daughter and scullery maid he ever seduced. Every conquest of his life is told in rather graphic detail utilizing his own very unique lexicon of euphemisms.
One of the indicators that this might be a true account, rather than an epic of Victorian erotica, is that the narrator never attempts to place himself in a positive light. This is not an irresistible specimen of manhood having his way with an endless procession of beautiful damsels. Quite the contrary, most of his action is purchased, and since he is often nearly broke, there is a lot of begging involved. (Also, since he does not like to use French letters, he gets the clap). You have to read this stuff to believe it. Take this excerpt, for instance:
[EXPLICIT CONTENT DELETED]
Or this section:
[EXPLICIT CONTENT DELETED]
Sorry about that. It turns out there is absolutely nothing in this book suitable for quoting.
Eventually, shock gives way to tedium, with brief moments of reprehensibility. Whoever the author was, he seems a mostly terrible person. The only interlude in which he approaches humanity is in his affair with a maid, with whom he appears truly in love. This portion of My Secret Life is just about the only palatable one. Again, I’m not a moralist, but without any emotional framework, this guy is just a junkie looking to score his next hit.
Since My Secret Life, at least the version I read, is mostly disembodied sex, you don’t learn a whole lot about the author or his friends. (He claims to be keeping them anonymous). At one point, he mentions some buddies who went off to fight in Crimea, which gives us a time-point. If you look closely enough, though, you will find interesting details about Victorian life. However, this takes a bit of squinting, and getting this just for some Victorian flavor is akin to the way men used to read Playboy for the articles.
This is a book that you probably shouldn’t read. There are other books more deserving of your time. Actually, literally every other book that has ever been written is probably more deserving of your time.
Every. Book.
Of course, that’s the very reason I got this in the first place.
So govern yourselves accordingly.
June 16, 2020
Popsugar challenge 2020 - A banned book
This isn't just a book, it's a project, and at 1,969 pages probably the biggest book project I'll ever take on. I started this back in January and therefore its taken me 6 months to get through so it's really hard to review as there's a lot that hasn't stuck in my mind.
There was no middle ground for me with this book, either I was loving it or absolutely hating on it.
This is the secret life of Walter, his memoir which he left with a friend to be released after his death. Walter is a sex addict and this is his diary of his sexual experiences from an early age, through his teens and into much later life during the Victorian era.
If you are thinking of taking this book on just beware, this focuses purely on Walter's sex life, he doesn't write about popping to the shops etc etc, each chapter is his memory of a particular sexual experience. I love a book like this, but almost 2,000 pages on sex felt like wading through treacle at times.
This book is problematic in today's society, not being around in the Victorian era myself I've no idea how his adventures would have been perceived then but certainly now he would have been locked up for some of his experiences.
My favourite part of this book were the volumes featuring Sarah, a prostitute who was with Walter for many years and I just adored their relationship. The sexual journey they encouraged in each other, the mental hurdles they overcome. I felt this was the period of time when Walter really stepped outside his comfort zone and grew as a sexual being. After Sarah I felt he really leap from that platform and threw caution to the wind.
Walter for me is going to be extremely memorable, his adoration of vaginas is incredible, there are whole chapters dedicated to the finest details of the vaginas he had seen and his love of them. His frankness of STI's was really interesting to read about, in many ways I feel society has gone backwards in the topics we tiptoe around and the shame we carry if we have experienced them. Walter had his fair share of STI's and no shame or bravado radiated from him, he was very grounded and factual in his handling of them.
There's so many things to talk about with regards to this book but as a side note I am currently listening to The Happy Vagina podcasts on Spotify which centres around women's sexuality, their body's, orgasms and I really feel that this is something Walter would have championed. I don't think there's a man who walked the planet that worshipped the vagina the way he did and all these centuries on we are still not talking to females about masturbation or encouraging self exploration. In many ways the world needs more Walter's (not in all ways!) as he encouraged everyone he encountered in his secret life to explore their limits.
I found a lot of humour in his expressions, revving his engine, his love pole, the love trap, uncunting (in these 2000 pages the C word is probably used around 4,000 times however it is used in the way it was originally intended) to name a few. The experimentations with feet, shillings and peas will always make me laugh along with some of the women he met along his journey, Mollie, Amelia, Sarah, Helen and the Great Eastern.
To sum up, if you enjoy Marques De Sade but feel it's a shame that people generally die after their orgasm, then Walter is your man.
Three stars.
This isn't just a book, it's a project, and at 1,969 pages probably the biggest book project I'll ever take on. I started this back in January and therefore its taken me 6 months to get through so it's really hard to review as there's a lot that hasn't stuck in my mind.
There was no middle ground for me with this book, either I was loving it or absolutely hating on it.
This is the secret life of Walter, his memoir which he left with a friend to be released after his death. Walter is a sex addict and this is his diary of his sexual experiences from an early age, through his teens and into much later life during the Victorian era.
If you are thinking of taking this book on just beware, this focuses purely on Walter's sex life, he doesn't write about popping to the shops etc etc, each chapter is his memory of a particular sexual experience. I love a book like this, but almost 2,000 pages on sex felt like wading through treacle at times.
This book is problematic in today's society, not being around in the Victorian era myself I've no idea how his adventures would have been perceived then but certainly now he would have been locked up for some of his experiences.
My favourite part of this book were the volumes featuring Sarah, a prostitute who was with Walter for many years and I just adored their relationship. The sexual journey they encouraged in each other, the mental hurdles they overcome. I felt this was the period of time when Walter really stepped outside his comfort zone and grew as a sexual being. After Sarah I felt he really leap from that platform and threw caution to the wind.
Walter for me is going to be extremely memorable, his adoration of vaginas is incredible, there are whole chapters dedicated to the finest details of the vaginas he had seen and his love of them. His frankness of STI's was really interesting to read about, in many ways I feel society has gone backwards in the topics we tiptoe around and the shame we carry if we have experienced them. Walter had his fair share of STI's and no shame or bravado radiated from him, he was very grounded and factual in his handling of them.
There's so many things to talk about with regards to this book but as a side note I am currently listening to The Happy Vagina podcasts on Spotify which centres around women's sexuality, their body's, orgasms and I really feel that this is something Walter would have championed. I don't think there's a man who walked the planet that worshipped the vagina the way he did and all these centuries on we are still not talking to females about masturbation or encouraging self exploration. In many ways the world needs more Walter's (not in all ways!) as he encouraged everyone he encountered in his secret life to explore their limits.
I found a lot of humour in his expressions, revving his engine, his love pole, the love trap, uncunting (in these 2000 pages the C word is probably used around 4,000 times however it is used in the way it was originally intended) to name a few. The experimentations with feet, shillings and peas will always make me laugh along with some of the women he met along his journey, Mollie, Amelia, Sarah, Helen and the Great Eastern.
To sum up, if you enjoy Marques De Sade but feel it's a shame that people generally die after their orgasm, then Walter is your man.
Three stars.
April 14, 2008
You will read few books as bizarre as this one. It's the multi-volume memoir of an anonymous "Victorian gentleman," recounting his prodigious sexual exploits with a bewildering variety of partners -- ranging from whores to little girls to young men to aristocratic ladies -- and the weird thing is, it's way too weird to be firmly shelved on the "Victorian Porn" shelf, a la "The Pearl." It's too compulsive, too fixated on inconsequential detail to be serving the principally utilitarian interests of the genre. (It's also too self-involved to be truly pornographic: there's humor here, but it's minimal.) The book was originally printed by a private European publisher, and the printing was extremely small -- a handful of copies -- and somehow one of them ended up, about thirty years ago, in the hands of Grove Press. Theories abound as to the identity of the author, but it's the anonymity of the author that's the key to its nature: as an archive of experience, a collection of worldly encounters that matter mainly in their enumeration. This is autobiography as mathematics.
February 16, 2009
Sort of hard to form an opinion of this book. On one hand it it is at first disturbing because the writer begins with recollections of being abused as a child and then moves on to his harassing, exploiting, raping, purchasing and seducing women. At times he seems almost delusional in his belief that every woman "wants it" so i suspect that some of what he believes are seductions are really not as consenting as he thinks. On the other hand, here is a rare insight into the sexual psychology of the Victorian man and also some of "unsavory" particulars of the time. (Bathroom habits and lack of undergarments for one thing, access to abortions for another.) I wrote a paper on gender and sexual anxieties as portrayed in Victorian fiction, and that was how i heard about this book, and I wish I would have had this for that paper. It's fascinating to watch the narrator as he cycles through immature to worldly, powerful to powerless, confident to sheepish, and lewd to ashamed.
There are some issues with knowing how much we can trust this narrator, but more important than the truth of each incident, I think, is getting a glimpse at the way language and desires are put together: I have lost track of all the slang and nicknames for body parts and functions. It is always interesting to see that the things we assumed were so repressed at this time had multiple descriptive phrases. Something about his accumulators rogering to frig a wench's motte with his pego...??? So randy!
Basically, if you are looking for a sexy sexy book, this might disappoint you. Every page has sex and bawdy talk, but some of it is sort of depressing and/or morally sickening. I don't mean that in a "depraved acts" sort of way, but that for me it was hard to read these "true stories" about Walter's mistreatment of so many of these girls and servants, and yet at times I also felt sorry for him. His beliefs about his body and illness and his overpowering need for women are honest and almost pitiful. i wish i could know more about his non-secret life.
To sum up my review: This is a gold mine for anyone researching Victorian literature, sexual psychology or sociology. But, if you're looking for a jolly good time this won't hit the right note with everyone.
There are some issues with knowing how much we can trust this narrator, but more important than the truth of each incident, I think, is getting a glimpse at the way language and desires are put together: I have lost track of all the slang and nicknames for body parts and functions. It is always interesting to see that the things we assumed were so repressed at this time had multiple descriptive phrases. Something about his accumulators rogering to frig a wench's motte with his pego...??? So randy!
Basically, if you are looking for a sexy sexy book, this might disappoint you. Every page has sex and bawdy talk, but some of it is sort of depressing and/or morally sickening. I don't mean that in a "depraved acts" sort of way, but that for me it was hard to read these "true stories" about Walter's mistreatment of so many of these girls and servants, and yet at times I also felt sorry for him. His beliefs about his body and illness and his overpowering need for women are honest and almost pitiful. i wish i could know more about his non-secret life.
To sum up my review: This is a gold mine for anyone researching Victorian literature, sexual psychology or sociology. But, if you're looking for a jolly good time this won't hit the right note with everyone.
June 17, 2020
Finally, My secret life is not such a secret anymore. I know it all. If you haven’t read it, it’s perfectly fine. You can jolly well do without it in your life.
I was so exited to start it and I swear the words I said just before staring it was “ah let’s read some Victorian soft porn”. Alas, I was mistaken, there was nothing soft about it. It was horrendous, outrageous and as raw as it can get. Basically this can be named as the “19th century porn hub for readers”. The 11 volumes were a journey. Thankfully, Mr. Dominic Crawford Collins decided to release the first 4 volumes as audio books which was absolutely hilarious. What a joy it was to listen to him. I listened to it while working out, cooking, going to work, etc. I finished the other 6 volumes by reading one chapter a day; not necessarily sticking to it though (not spending a day with ‘Walter’ felt right on some days, spending a bit more time than usual with him felt right some days, and I just sucked it up and thrashed the last 20% during the last two days). If I finished it in one go I would’ve seriously questioned my sanity. Finally after 145 days I parted with Walter. I didn’t know whether to like it or to despise it. I don’t know what to think of it. It’s utter chaos and I don’t think Walter will ever leave my memories.
It’s a fucking diary of 1969 pages with elaborated encounters that amounts to thousands simply because the guy thought he should write down his leisure time activities for the reference of future generations. Fancy that!!! By far, it’s the most outrageous book I’ve ever read in my life. Even the number of pages sounds perversive.
Walter wrote a clean cut memoir of his adventures. Basically he was THE most active sexual predator in Europe at the time, he went on conducting his activities in and out of London, the countryside of England, France, Italy, Germany, Netherlands, Switzerland, Turkey, Denmark and few other countries he hasn’t mentioned directly. Talking about the nationalities of the women, he had more or less painted quite a big potion of the world map in a transparent white. His rampage was just unbelievable. I lost count of his Bessies, Kitty’s, Camiles, Charlottes, Sarah’s, Nells and and and..... Basically he was the master of the game. No one was safe around him, I mean no one; Cousins, servants, chamber maids, washer women, neighbors unhappy wives, young widows, peasant girls, unknown females whom he happened to meet in travels, factory girls, the ‘working girls on the streets’, and more. It didn’t really matter where either. Stairs, dining rooms, lounges, parlors, bedrooms, boundary walls, hay bales, attics, barns, fields, cemeteries, abandoned houses, hotel rooms, violently rocking ships, even the church. The man had talent. He knew every single Public House in London, knew almost all the ‘working girls’ in the area. The guy was on a mission and he accomplished it with flying colors. And he did it as a prominent gentleman in the London upper class and as the king of seduction..
The funny thing was he never saw anything wrong if he had to force himself on someone. He always thought the women ‘wanted it’. He always thought he’s doing both the parties a favor when he forced himself on many women he had the pleasure of conducting business with. I couldn’t really understand his mindset when he genuinely had that thought embedded in his brain all the bloody time he was just looking for an opportunity to empty his bollocks. A peculiar guy indeed but I won’t call him a rapist, no that’s not Walter. On the other hand, the women in this book aren’t the saints, quite a big number of them were ready to lose their skirts in a jiffy for a penny, wine, a luncheon or just for the pure pleasure of few hours of drilling.
Now, Walter was a character I would not want to meet in my life. Still, he struck me as a tragedy created by many events and social norms. He was sexually abused by his governess as a very young boy, coming from a dysfunctional family, bullied and humiliated at school because of certain features of his privates, was pushed to find out everything about sexuality on his own with another bunch of equally eager kids. Unfortunately, from a peeping Tom he grew up to be the son of the mistress any servant wouldn’t want to have. Then Walter was pushed into a loveless, miserable marriage. The posh Victorian settings of separate bed chambers must’ve added fuel to the fire. He hardly had any contact with the wife, always out, and just like all the upper class gentlemen in that era, he didn’t have to work for a living. Even when he was broke, he had enough to live by. So What does he do? He acquires his duties as a full time satyriasist. He was clearly a sex addict and There was no help, no shrinks to talk to, the guy goes on doing what he thinks is the best. He himself admits how uneasy he felt if he went on without ‘getting any’ for more than two days. What is that if not a serious addiction? If he lived today, things would’ve been different. He may have ended up behind bars or in a psychiatric hospital getting help for his addiction, most likely the latter. He also showed very less emotions. His thoughts always generated from one part of his body and I assure you that is NOT his brain. There were lot of blunders where he thought he was in love but there were two instances I felt some genuine feelings. He wrote about his servant Mary with pure passion and pain. I thought “bloody hell? This guy is actually capable of emotions other than what’s felt on his crotch”. Second time, with an unnamed female whom he swears he will love and cherish as long as long as he live. He made an honest attempt to keep his doodle for this woman for 15 months which got him totally cranky even if he seriously loved her. From these I realized it’s not his incapability of love or mental attachment for one partner, it’s purely his need of variety and inability to stick to one person physically. When he tried, he got depressed. He was genuinely having a very advanced state of hypersexuality. I almost felt sorry for him sometimes.
However, even if it was all a bit too much, I learnt a lot about the practices in mid 1800s in England. These things you will never find out by reading Dickens. Their habits, clothing, hygiene, even some terms I never even dreamt of. The main focus, which is copulating had their limitations. Many performances that are widespread in today’s society were NO NO in Walters time or done by the French (Walter was fiercely British, at least in his early days). The ladies dressed so lavishly with layers and layers of clothes, pretty gowns and gloves and bonnets and what not. But they never knew anything about undergarments. Drawers were used by a tiny fraction and almost everyone went about with some extra ventilation. But they referred to themselves as highly civilized individuals. This book also has a section that talks about alleys and gutters on roadside which were used to conduct the bodily functions of men women alike regardless of their ‘class’. A well dressed woman squatting on alleys performing necessary acts was quite alright. Their personal hygiene was next to none. The rooms had washing stands and chamber pots cos they had no notion about a concept called ‘running water’ or even a bucket. they stood in a bed room and rubbed their bodies with a damp cloth. Why couldn’t they just fill a barrel and have a bloody bath like normal people? Disgusting.
I’ve also came across some phrases I honestly had to google with the highest possible number keywords available. The results astonished me. There were many phrases and words that doesn’t exists in Oxford dictionary anymore but I’d rather not mention them here just to be on the safe side. The book does have its educative aspect
I wrote too much. Before I shut up, I must write about ankles, oh my goodness, how I laughed. So, basically seeing a naked ankle of a woman can be referred to as seeing a topless woman or a guy who forgot his boxers in today’s context. It gets better and goes in phases. Phase 1, seeing the naked ankle gets the Molton lava boiling. Phase 2, seeing a woman’s naked leg below the knees lays the passage for the lava to transmit. Phase 3, seeing a woman’s naked leg just 2 inches above the knee can set off Vesuvius all over again. In plain terms an ankle in 1800s was an instrument which could put a gentleman in a very compromising situation when it comes to his breeches. I practically rolled on the floor and broke into a laughing fit reading that. Bob Dylan was right when he said, Times they are a changin.
Bloody hell, this seems to be the longest review I’ve ever done. Seems fitting though.
2020 Popsugar challenge: A book with a pink cover
Book #42 of classics challenge
Book 51 of 2020
I was so exited to start it and I swear the words I said just before staring it was “ah let’s read some Victorian soft porn”. Alas, I was mistaken, there was nothing soft about it. It was horrendous, outrageous and as raw as it can get. Basically this can be named as the “19th century porn hub for readers”. The 11 volumes were a journey. Thankfully, Mr. Dominic Crawford Collins decided to release the first 4 volumes as audio books which was absolutely hilarious. What a joy it was to listen to him. I listened to it while working out, cooking, going to work, etc. I finished the other 6 volumes by reading one chapter a day; not necessarily sticking to it though (not spending a day with ‘Walter’ felt right on some days, spending a bit more time than usual with him felt right some days, and I just sucked it up and thrashed the last 20% during the last two days). If I finished it in one go I would’ve seriously questioned my sanity. Finally after 145 days I parted with Walter. I didn’t know whether to like it or to despise it. I don’t know what to think of it. It’s utter chaos and I don’t think Walter will ever leave my memories.
It’s a fucking diary of 1969 pages with elaborated encounters that amounts to thousands simply because the guy thought he should write down his leisure time activities for the reference of future generations. Fancy that!!! By far, it’s the most outrageous book I’ve ever read in my life. Even the number of pages sounds perversive.
Walter wrote a clean cut memoir of his adventures. Basically he was THE most active sexual predator in Europe at the time, he went on conducting his activities in and out of London, the countryside of England, France, Italy, Germany, Netherlands, Switzerland, Turkey, Denmark and few other countries he hasn’t mentioned directly. Talking about the nationalities of the women, he had more or less painted quite a big potion of the world map in a transparent white. His rampage was just unbelievable. I lost count of his Bessies, Kitty’s, Camiles, Charlottes, Sarah’s, Nells and and and..... Basically he was the master of the game. No one was safe around him, I mean no one; Cousins, servants, chamber maids, washer women, neighbors unhappy wives, young widows, peasant girls, unknown females whom he happened to meet in travels, factory girls, the ‘working girls on the streets’, and more. It didn’t really matter where either. Stairs, dining rooms, lounges, parlors, bedrooms, boundary walls, hay bales, attics, barns, fields, cemeteries, abandoned houses, hotel rooms, violently rocking ships, even the church. The man had talent. He knew every single Public House in London, knew almost all the ‘working girls’ in the area. The guy was on a mission and he accomplished it with flying colors. And he did it as a prominent gentleman in the London upper class and as the king of seduction..
The funny thing was he never saw anything wrong if he had to force himself on someone. He always thought the women ‘wanted it’. He always thought he’s doing both the parties a favor when he forced himself on many women he had the pleasure of conducting business with. I couldn’t really understand his mindset when he genuinely had that thought embedded in his brain all the bloody time he was just looking for an opportunity to empty his bollocks. A peculiar guy indeed but I won’t call him a rapist, no that’s not Walter. On the other hand, the women in this book aren’t the saints, quite a big number of them were ready to lose their skirts in a jiffy for a penny, wine, a luncheon or just for the pure pleasure of few hours of drilling.
Now, Walter was a character I would not want to meet in my life. Still, he struck me as a tragedy created by many events and social norms. He was sexually abused by his governess as a very young boy, coming from a dysfunctional family, bullied and humiliated at school because of certain features of his privates, was pushed to find out everything about sexuality on his own with another bunch of equally eager kids. Unfortunately, from a peeping Tom he grew up to be the son of the mistress any servant wouldn’t want to have. Then Walter was pushed into a loveless, miserable marriage. The posh Victorian settings of separate bed chambers must’ve added fuel to the fire. He hardly had any contact with the wife, always out, and just like all the upper class gentlemen in that era, he didn’t have to work for a living. Even when he was broke, he had enough to live by. So What does he do? He acquires his duties as a full time satyriasist. He was clearly a sex addict and There was no help, no shrinks to talk to, the guy goes on doing what he thinks is the best. He himself admits how uneasy he felt if he went on without ‘getting any’ for more than two days. What is that if not a serious addiction? If he lived today, things would’ve been different. He may have ended up behind bars or in a psychiatric hospital getting help for his addiction, most likely the latter. He also showed very less emotions. His thoughts always generated from one part of his body and I assure you that is NOT his brain. There were lot of blunders where he thought he was in love but there were two instances I felt some genuine feelings. He wrote about his servant Mary with pure passion and pain. I thought “bloody hell? This guy is actually capable of emotions other than what’s felt on his crotch”. Second time, with an unnamed female whom he swears he will love and cherish as long as long as he live. He made an honest attempt to keep his doodle for this woman for 15 months which got him totally cranky even if he seriously loved her. From these I realized it’s not his incapability of love or mental attachment for one partner, it’s purely his need of variety and inability to stick to one person physically. When he tried, he got depressed. He was genuinely having a very advanced state of hypersexuality. I almost felt sorry for him sometimes.
However, even if it was all a bit too much, I learnt a lot about the practices in mid 1800s in England. These things you will never find out by reading Dickens. Their habits, clothing, hygiene, even some terms I never even dreamt of. The main focus, which is copulating had their limitations. Many performances that are widespread in today’s society were NO NO in Walters time or done by the French (Walter was fiercely British, at least in his early days). The ladies dressed so lavishly with layers and layers of clothes, pretty gowns and gloves and bonnets and what not. But they never knew anything about undergarments. Drawers were used by a tiny fraction and almost everyone went about with some extra ventilation. But they referred to themselves as highly civilized individuals. This book also has a section that talks about alleys and gutters on roadside which were used to conduct the bodily functions of men women alike regardless of their ‘class’. A well dressed woman squatting on alleys performing necessary acts was quite alright. Their personal hygiene was next to none. The rooms had washing stands and chamber pots cos they had no notion about a concept called ‘running water’ or even a bucket. they stood in a bed room and rubbed their bodies with a damp cloth. Why couldn’t they just fill a barrel and have a bloody bath like normal people? Disgusting.
I’ve also came across some phrases I honestly had to google with the highest possible number keywords available. The results astonished me. There were many phrases and words that doesn’t exists in Oxford dictionary anymore but I’d rather not mention them here just to be on the safe side. The book does have its educative aspect
I wrote too much. Before I shut up, I must write about ankles, oh my goodness, how I laughed. So, basically seeing a naked ankle of a woman can be referred to as seeing a topless woman or a guy who forgot his boxers in today’s context. It gets better and goes in phases. Phase 1, seeing the naked ankle gets the Molton lava boiling. Phase 2, seeing a woman’s naked leg below the knees lays the passage for the lava to transmit. Phase 3, seeing a woman’s naked leg just 2 inches above the knee can set off Vesuvius all over again. In plain terms an ankle in 1800s was an instrument which could put a gentleman in a very compromising situation when it comes to his breeches. I practically rolled on the floor and broke into a laughing fit reading that. Bob Dylan was right when he said, Times they are a changin.
Bloody hell, this seems to be the longest review I’ve ever done. Seems fitting though.
2020 Popsugar challenge: A book with a pink cover
Book #42 of classics challenge
Book 51 of 2020
September 10, 2012
Boy, is this really happening in the Victorian era? I remember so well reading Sense and Sensibility and waiting for the bloody kiss to happen...but noooo, you can't have that in a Victorian novel; while the reality was actually so bloody obscene :D!
So this novel was interesting first for putting into light the 'underground' sexual life of women and men in the very puritan Victorian-era and second, as a step in the erotica evolution: from Life of an Amorous Man(where explicit descriptions were close to zero) to Anais Nin's beautiful sensual images, or if you want, to the amazing sexual fantasy of Pauline Réage!
I admired very much the author philosophy (which should be applied even by some modern persons), therefore i'll use it to conclude : "Many who have not experienced our pleasures, consider them bestial. But the various bodily functions such as eating, drinking, urinating, copulating are their equally bestial? No: they consider them quite natural, to which all indulge. And then so are the erotic games that a man and a woman conceive: everything is permitted if they do it for their mutual pleasure. The uncouth, the dull that consider women only as a mass of meat with a hole, which did not fancy, which are unable to conceive sexual pleasures, which copulate only when the excess of semen makes the cock eager, they are precisely the bestial ones, because their behavior is very similar to that of animals. The couple blessed with imagination who can conceive games unknown to animals rises the intercourse to a spiritual height, makes it a dream of the senses, does of lust and love a poetic, ethereal, celestial delirium"!
So this novel was interesting first for putting into light the 'underground' sexual life of women and men in the very puritan Victorian-era and second, as a step in the erotica evolution: from Life of an Amorous Man(where explicit descriptions were close to zero) to Anais Nin's beautiful sensual images, or if you want, to the amazing sexual fantasy of Pauline Réage!
I admired very much the author philosophy (which should be applied even by some modern persons), therefore i'll use it to conclude : "Many who have not experienced our pleasures, consider them bestial. But the various bodily functions such as eating, drinking, urinating, copulating are their equally bestial? No: they consider them quite natural, to which all indulge. And then so are the erotic games that a man and a woman conceive: everything is permitted if they do it for their mutual pleasure. The uncouth, the dull that consider women only as a mass of meat with a hole, which did not fancy, which are unable to conceive sexual pleasures, which copulate only when the excess of semen makes the cock eager, they are precisely the bestial ones, because their behavior is very similar to that of animals. The couple blessed with imagination who can conceive games unknown to animals rises the intercourse to a spiritual height, makes it a dream of the senses, does of lust and love a poetic, ethereal, celestial delirium"!
Read
May 20, 2012I can't really rate this book as an enjoyable read but My Secret Life is invaluable for anyone interested in Victoriana. The voluminous work details the exploits of a bounder who rarely looks for sexual partners from his own social class but instead rapes and pillages the vaginas and other orifaces of poor girls, maids, sailors and street prostitues with joyous abandon. My Secret Life is more 19th Century social history than erotica. Emotions are rarely involved, the sex often brutal, the author's contempt for those from the "lower" classes and women as a whole at all times palpable.
Read
March 31, 2011This is one of the bawdiest books I've ever read, and if anyone ever tries to tell you the Victorians were uptight about sex, point them at this volume.
It offers an unparalleled glimpse into Victorian sexuality, from everything to social attitudes toward the female body (generally and unsurprisingly, they're there for male consumption), sexual awakening and exploration (not always consensual), relationships between the monied class and their domestics, prostitution (by choice and by chance), birth control and abortion, and underwear and toilet habits.
Being a diary, it can be tedious in places where the author recounts multiple events in extreme, sometimes monotonous detail. But the author is also self-deprecating and achingly human throughout much of the volume. It's fascinating to read about something discussed so little during the actual period, and in the author's own words.
It offers an unparalleled glimpse into Victorian sexuality, from everything to social attitudes toward the female body (generally and unsurprisingly, they're there for male consumption), sexual awakening and exploration (not always consensual), relationships between the monied class and their domestics, prostitution (by choice and by chance), birth control and abortion, and underwear and toilet habits.
Being a diary, it can be tedious in places where the author recounts multiple events in extreme, sometimes monotonous detail. But the author is also self-deprecating and achingly human throughout much of the volume. It's fascinating to read about something discussed so little during the actual period, and in the author's own words.
Read
March 29, 2012I could write oodles on this book. All I can say here is that it’s worth a read even though Walter’s exploits can be repetitive. Then, blammo, he tries something new to satisfy his curiosity/Foucauldian “will to knowledge.” To think that this was abridged from 11 journals worth of materials! P.S. Let’s bring back the term “gamahuching.”
December 19, 2009
Victorian fun from behind closed doors. The anonymous author doesn't flinch in details that would equal a good issue of Hustler and proves that sex doesn't change, only the clothes people undress. Whether fact, fiction, or both, as history and erotica this book is essential and once read will stay with you for life.
January 23, 2008
I found this raunchy little number at a bookstore in Paris' Quartier Latin. If I remember correctly, it chronicles the many and various sexual exploits of a Victorian bachelor as he makes the rounds at all the posh resorts in Europe. It's graphic to the point of technical, and quickly gets tedious, although one quickie encounter with a sailor and a prostitute in a muddy alley stands out as particularly funny and original. I didn't finish the book, but sold it in Prague because it made me feel dirty.
November 14, 2012
One of the most bizarre books of erotica ever written, it seems to be less an account of any actual events than a stream-of-consciousness of episodic fantasies; perhaps the man sat down at his table every night and wrote himself a little something to wank to?
It's not good, in the traditional sense, but it is extremely revealing of Victorian erotica, psychology, class structure, and much more -- an interesting snapshot of what was "taboo" in those days, and the apparently unparalleled normalcy of the occasional bout of gonorrhea.
It's not good, in the traditional sense, but it is extremely revealing of Victorian erotica, psychology, class structure, and much more -- an interesting snapshot of what was "taboo" in those days, and the apparently unparalleled normalcy of the occasional bout of gonorrhea.
July 15, 2008
Ahhh, porn.
April 23, 2011
If this was written today, Walter would have been a blogger!
July 27, 2013
I don't remember this book as erotic, nor is it really a confession: no regrets, no ethical or social concerns, or any other feeling. Kind of a pre-D.H.Lawrence without tenderness or respect for the other participant(s).
It includes scenes that would horrify today even more than then: sexual harassment of servants, rape, statutory rape, even pædophilia, and very little reference to shared pleasure.
The unabashed diary of a misogynist sociopathic sex addict, it is also a cautionary tale: if a moralist society tries to impose unrealistic virtue, the rebels who choose to cross that boundary know no other. Prohibit alcohol, or marijuana, or sex actually promotes crime.
It includes scenes that would horrify today even more than then: sexual harassment of servants, rape, statutory rape, even pædophilia, and very little reference to shared pleasure.
The unabashed diary of a misogynist sociopathic sex addict, it is also a cautionary tale: if a moralist society tries to impose unrealistic virtue, the rebels who choose to cross that boundary know no other. Prohibit alcohol, or marijuana, or sex actually promotes crime.
Read
May 13, 2023Disclaimer: I couldn´t finish this book, I only read about 70 pages (and I feel really creepy about it...) and this review is restricted to that part.
I really want to give this a 1 star rating because I found it horrible and disgusting, yet at the same time I often laughed out loud when reading over the chapter headings. It´s so strange and different from everything else, and I don´t want to treat it like trash, even though the material is disturbing to say the least. I was horrified from the start but I kept with it because I´m always interested in strange stuff.
This is a really perverted book. It´s about a boy/man obsessed with sex. His interest in sex goes beyond anything that I´ve ever heard of or seen or could have imagined existed.
Every paragraph contains the word "cunt" at least once (likely a lot more than that though). Each page is filled with the words "cunt, cock, prick, piddle, fuck and friggin". I think it would be worth the try to use this book on perverts and sex-addicts to get them to become completely un-interested in sex. It´s like if you force a child that tried smoking to smoke a full pack of cigarettes one after another, this book will have the same effect on a sex-fiend after reading a couple of pages.
There are also endless references (or shall I say "fond memories") from his boyhood and young adult hood when he´s harassing and being a peeping tom, culminating in near-rapes. It really wasn´t as "sweet" as he thinks it was.
There are funny moments though, like when he was trying to loose his virginity and used advice he got from a collage friend of his, it´s the worst advice you could possibly imagine and he gives all the glorious details and how it made the girl cry at first but he kept on persisting and eventually she just gave up despite this being the least sexy courtship in the history of the world. It literally makes dick-picks sent from strangers in their mother´s basement seem appealing!
So, I recommend this book for perverts who want to stop being perverts, but not for anyone else. Check it out if you´re curious and think I´m exaggerating. For the love of God stay away if you have ever agreed with a trigger warning about anything, this book is a non-stop TW. And keep in mind that the regular person doesn´t hear the word cunt nearly as often during their whole lifespan as the number of times they will read it on each page of this tome.
I really want to give this a 1 star rating because I found it horrible and disgusting, yet at the same time I often laughed out loud when reading over the chapter headings. It´s so strange and different from everything else, and I don´t want to treat it like trash, even though the material is disturbing to say the least. I was horrified from the start but I kept with it because I´m always interested in strange stuff.
This is a really perverted book. It´s about a boy/man obsessed with sex. His interest in sex goes beyond anything that I´ve ever heard of or seen or could have imagined existed.
Every paragraph contains the word "cunt" at least once (likely a lot more than that though). Each page is filled with the words "cunt, cock, prick, piddle, fuck and friggin". I think it would be worth the try to use this book on perverts and sex-addicts to get them to become completely un-interested in sex. It´s like if you force a child that tried smoking to smoke a full pack of cigarettes one after another, this book will have the same effect on a sex-fiend after reading a couple of pages.
There are also endless references (or shall I say "fond memories") from his boyhood and young adult hood when he´s harassing and being a peeping tom, culminating in near-rapes. It really wasn´t as "sweet" as he thinks it was.
There are funny moments though, like when he was trying to loose his virginity and used advice he got from a collage friend of his, it´s the worst advice you could possibly imagine and he gives all the glorious details and how it made the girl cry at first but he kept on persisting and eventually she just gave up despite this being the least sexy courtship in the history of the world. It literally makes dick-picks sent from strangers in their mother´s basement seem appealing!
So, I recommend this book for perverts who want to stop being perverts, but not for anyone else. Check it out if you´re curious and think I´m exaggerating. For the love of God stay away if you have ever agreed with a trigger warning about anything, this book is a non-stop TW. And keep in mind that the regular person doesn´t hear the word cunt nearly as often during their whole lifespan as the number of times they will read it on each page of this tome.
November 8, 2018
This edition is 576pp--- a mere fraction of the 11-volume original. Original sets of course now sell for the price of a good car, and going through all eleven volumes would make the reader as obsessive-compulsive as the anonymous author (was he really Henry Spenser Ashbee?). Nonetheless, a fabulous (if sometimes depressing) read--- though more for what it says about Victorian fantasies than for the sex itself. Of course, Steven Marcus' essay on "My Secret Life" in his "The Other Victorians" is a classic, and looks at the social and psychological background to the book. Intriguing more than arousing, but nonetheless worth looking at--- though I suspect I want a set of the original more for the thought of owning 11 volumes of lavishly printed Victorian porn as an object than for anything that might be actually in the text.
September 25, 2012
the first erotic book i read. this book was first published in the late 1800's. to my (not-so) young and (not-so) innocent mind the book was scandalous, shocking, frank and graphic (aka interesting read). at that time, reading 'My Secret Life' was my secret life. :) being brought up as a conservative roman catholic, i thought i was committing mortal sin and will go straight to hell when i die...but what the hell, I was already consumed by intrigue to stop. it may not be the best book i read, but i thought it deserves a high rating.
September 20, 2012
This book is truly unbelievable. It is bizarre, obscure, sometimes tiring and sometimes disgusting, but worth reading if you enjoy turn-of-the-century English and French literature, erotica, and books with rare/unusual provenance. I found my 1400-page copy at the Goodwill! More details to be added later.
June 2, 2013
By "complete", I mean that I read about a third of it before getting fed up. Boring, repetitive, and unpleasant. The protagonist is an arrogant user of people who doesn't take any responsibility for his actions, nor suffer any consequences from them.
Let me take this bullet for everyone, and say don't bother with this one.
Let me take this bullet for everyone, and say don't bother with this one.
January 19, 2009
I read this two-volume epic several years ago, & I was shocked not only by what was described, but also how well it was described.
I recommend it to anyone, excluding the prudish, impatient (the version I read was approxiamately 2500 pages), or the faint of heart.
Good Luck!
I recommend it to anyone, excluding the prudish, impatient (the version I read was approxiamately 2500 pages), or the faint of heart.
Good Luck!
May 9, 2012
Not for the faint of heart, but a great look into the real Victorian England. Why do you think they were so prudish? Because people like this existed.....
Read
December 14, 2019Not what I’d call enjoyable, but definitely memorable, and evidence of my theory that there was no way the Victorians were as repressed as we think. Hahaha. #forresearch
January 7, 2026
"Тайният ми живот" са мемоарите на анонимен до скоро английски аристократ от Викторианската епоха (втората половина на 19 в.) които представляват главно простодушно описание на неговите безбройни сексуални похождения, стартиращи от ранно юношество и включващи слугини, селянки, братовчедки, жрици на спазарената нежност ;) и всякакви други случайни жени и изключващи съпругата му.
Остарелият английски е лесен за четене като налучкаш значението на няколкото думи които са различни, още повече че както казах авторът не блести с особени литературни (или интелектуални) заложби и не е като текстът да е на много високо ниво.
Това, което е ценно в него е именно викторианската простодушна честност на изследователя, за която съм говорил и преди, която позволява на автора да нарича нещата с истинските им имена и да описва точно това, което вижда.
А то е, че жените, дори (или особено?) в тази класифицирана като пуританска епоха искат и правят секс, дори (или особено?) с тотално непознати, невъзпитани и нахални господа, дори да имат нужда от малко (или доста) уговаряне преди това до степен, която днес много хора биха нарекли насилване. Стара, макар и днес може би най-политически некоректната истина е, че женското "не" много често означава "да" но трябва да си достатъчно нахален за да го получиш.
Текстът изобилства с red pill истини, които радват окото на запознатия.
Остарелият английски е лесен за четене като налучкаш значението на няколкото думи които са различни, още повече че както казах авторът не блести с особени литературни (или интелектуални) заложби и не е като текстът да е на много високо ниво.
Това, което е ценно в него е именно викторианската простодушна честност на изследователя, за която съм говорил и преди, която позволява на автора да нарича нещата с истинските им имена и да описва точно това, което вижда.
А то е, че жените, дори (или особено?) в тази класифицирана като пуританска епоха искат и правят секс, дори (или особено?) с тотално непознати, невъзпитани и нахални господа, дори да имат нужда от малко (или доста) уговаряне преди това до степен, която днес много хора биха нарекли насилване. Стара, макар и днес може би най-политически некоректната истина е, че женското "не" много често означава "да" но трябва да си достатъчно нахален за да го получиш.
Текстът изобилства с red pill истини, които радват окото на запознатия.
September 26, 2007
DEFINITELY NOT RECOMMENDED TO EVERYONE-very racy
Very dirty. Author was actually 'Anonymous', however this program doesn't let you enter books without an author.
Banned for a 100 years for being too obscene and pornographic, this sex diary of a Victorian gentleman is considered an historic and erotic masterpiece.
First published in Amsterdam , the next hundred years, it remained banned and considered too racy to publish.
No-one really knows the true identity of "Walter". But biographer Ian Gibson claims it is the pen name for Henry Spencer Ashbee.
Only 20-25 sets of My Secret Life were originally printed, and sold at £60 per set, an enormous sum for the times, equivalent to over £4000 ($6000) at today's prices.
Famous People who owned My Secret Life
Aleister Crowley (1875–1947)
English occult writer and 'magician'
Harold Lloyd (1893–1971)
American silent film comedian and producer
Josef von Sternberg (1894–1969)
Austrian film director and Svengali to Marlene Dietrich
George Mountbatten, 2nd Marquess of Milford Haven
great-grandson of Queen Victoria, brother of 1st Earl Mountbatten of Burma
Very dirty. Author was actually 'Anonymous', however this program doesn't let you enter books without an author.
Banned for a 100 years for being too obscene and pornographic, this sex diary of a Victorian gentleman is considered an historic and erotic masterpiece.
First published in Amsterdam , the next hundred years, it remained banned and considered too racy to publish.
No-one really knows the true identity of "Walter". But biographer Ian Gibson claims it is the pen name for Henry Spencer Ashbee.
Only 20-25 sets of My Secret Life were originally printed, and sold at £60 per set, an enormous sum for the times, equivalent to over £4000 ($6000) at today's prices.
Famous People who owned My Secret Life
Aleister Crowley (1875–1947)
English occult writer and 'magician'
Harold Lloyd (1893–1971)
American silent film comedian and producer
Josef von Sternberg (1894–1969)
Austrian film director and Svengali to Marlene Dietrich
George Mountbatten, 2nd Marquess of Milford Haven
great-grandson of Queen Victoria, brother of 1st Earl Mountbatten of Burma
February 5, 2011
I'm going to be honest: I didn't finish this book. I managed to read probably half of it before it got so boring I just had to stop. I think the big problem I had with this book was the fact that it is such a big book that just... keeps repeating itself - he has sex with a girl, then with another one, then with another one, then with whores and maids and more girls and married women and it's always. the same. shit. Besides that, this 'gentleman' annoyed the hell out of me several times along the book. He was a real jerk to a lot of girls. I'm no feminist, but come on... he acted like an idiot too many times. Sometimes I just felt like slapping the guy.
I'd like to give this book another chance someday and try to finish it. I guess I was expecting this book to be really entertaining since I'm fascinated by sex, love and relationships, but it just didn't do it for me. There were entertaining and interesting chapters but overall I didn't particularly enjoy what I read, it was way too repetitive. I got tired of reading the same storyline over and over again!
I'd like to give this book another chance someday and try to finish it. I guess I was expecting this book to be really entertaining since I'm fascinated by sex, love and relationships, but it just didn't do it for me. There were entertaining and interesting chapters but overall I didn't particularly enjoy what I read, it was way too repetitive. I got tired of reading the same storyline over and over again!
January 31, 2016
This is an erotic book about one man's sexual escapades. It seems he was the Wilt Chamberlain of the Victorian era as he was constantly strooping someone. He may be the reason all sex laws were made. According to him he pretty much forced himself on any servant in his parents home to any he saw walking down the street to copulate with him. According to him "all women wanted it even if they didn't know it and once they saw a stiff c**k realized as much". He also seems to have been a pedophile lusting after virginal 10 year olds. A disturbing account overall and overly long. I wouldn't recommend it. I pride myself on finishing any book that I start reading and there have only been a couple instances that I haven't. This book came very close to being the third.
September 30, 2012
It was a very sexual diary of a Victorian gentleman who made some sexual adventures with his home maids with his proper teachers and How he discover this whole sexuality thing inside him, He could be considered as pervert since he gave sexual pleasure a big importance.
His diary was full of description of sexual object the human may encounter during adult hood, for me it was freak to keep a diary with such a disgusting details.
His diary was full of description of sexual object the human may encounter during adult hood, for me it was freak to keep a diary with such a disgusting details.
March 27, 2007
dirty, dirty, dirty. victorian smut at its best. supposedly true exploits of a victorian gentlemen as he seduces and pays every woman he comes in contact with. good companion with erotomania, the story behind the man they are pretty sure is the author of my secret life.
January 22, 2020
I just can't read about this terrible person raping another woman. Even the sex workers he sees he pays as little money as possible to get as much as he can get away with. This is entitlement taken to the extreme and I don't find it entertaining. I quit.
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