THE LONELY LADY by Harold Robbins is another paperback I’d picked up from a library sale. It’s, I think, the 5th novel of his I've read in the past year or two and for sheer guilty pleasure it ranks second to The Carpetbaggers in enjoyment. Absent from this novel are the long passages of endless talk that marred THE BETSY and THE INHERITORS. This novel is just as dialog driven as those novels are, but where this novel edges them out is that the dialog drives the story instead of just talk filling pages. If I were teaching a class in Commercial Fiction, I think I’d put THE CARPETBAGGERS, or THE LONELY LADY, on the syllabus and force all those earnest young English majors out there to check their lit-soaked baggage at the door and learn how a master did it. Not how to write well, but how to write something that sells well.
Take this little nugget of dialog:
“What’s she look like?” he echoed. “She’s sensational. Stacked like you would not believe, but very classy. Sort of a combination Ava Gardner and Grace Kelly. She’s the kind who when she comes into your office you want to bend down and kiss her pussy out of sheer reverence. So send me the script and I’ll get on it right away.”
And that's a PG-13 sample of what's in store for the forgiving reader!
Yes, the novel is loaded with literary sins like shifting POVs and awkward transitions in time, characters introduced to be dropped without explanation. But if you’re reading a book like this, you’re not looking for something deep to sink your teeth into, you’re looking for something that has no more nutritional value then edible underwear.
This novel is proof that the reading public in the 1970s must have been one collective kinky headcase.
Lucky for me, and the rest of us who like this stuff, there is plenty more where this came from.