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Idols
Book by Cooper, Dennis
87 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1979
233 people want to read
About the author
Dennis Cooper
105 books1,827 followersDennis Cooper was born on January 10, 1953. He grew up in the Southern California cities of Covina and Arcadia.
He wrote stories and poems from early age but got serious about writing at 15 after reading Arthur Rimbaud and The Marquis de Sade. He attended LA county public schools until the 8th grade when he transferred to a private school, Flintridge Preparatory School for Boys in La Canada, California, from which he was expelled in the 11th grade.
While at Flintridge, he met his friend George Miles, who would become his muse and the subject of much of his future writing. He attended Pasadena City College for two years, attending poetry writing workshops taught by the poets Ronald Koertge and Jerene Hewitt. He then attended one year of university at Pitzer College in Claremont, California, where he studied with the poet Bert Meyers.
In 1976, he founded Little Caesar Magazine and Press, which he ran until 1982. From 1980 to 1983 he was Director of Programming for the Beyond Baroque Literary/Art Center in Venice, California. From 1983 to 1985, he lived in New York City.
In 1985, he moved to Amsterdam for two and a half years, where he began his ten year long project, The George Miles Cycle, an interconnected sequence of five novels that includes Closer, Frisk, Try, Guide, and Period.
His post-George Miles Cycle novels include My Loose Thread, The Sluts and God, Jr.
Other works include the short-story collections Wrong and Ugly Man, poetry collections The Dream Police and The Weaklings, as well as the recent Smothered in Hugs: Essays, Interviews, Feedback, and Obituaries.
Dennis Cooper currently spends his time between Los Angeles and Paris.
He wrote stories and poems from early age but got serious about writing at 15 after reading Arthur Rimbaud and The Marquis de Sade. He attended LA county public schools until the 8th grade when he transferred to a private school, Flintridge Preparatory School for Boys in La Canada, California, from which he was expelled in the 11th grade.
While at Flintridge, he met his friend George Miles, who would become his muse and the subject of much of his future writing. He attended Pasadena City College for two years, attending poetry writing workshops taught by the poets Ronald Koertge and Jerene Hewitt. He then attended one year of university at Pitzer College in Claremont, California, where he studied with the poet Bert Meyers.
In 1976, he founded Little Caesar Magazine and Press, which he ran until 1982. From 1980 to 1983 he was Director of Programming for the Beyond Baroque Literary/Art Center in Venice, California. From 1983 to 1985, he lived in New York City.
In 1985, he moved to Amsterdam for two and a half years, where he began his ten year long project, The George Miles Cycle, an interconnected sequence of five novels that includes Closer, Frisk, Try, Guide, and Period.
His post-George Miles Cycle novels include My Loose Thread, The Sluts and God, Jr.
Other works include the short-story collections Wrong and Ugly Man, poetry collections The Dream Police and The Weaklings, as well as the recent Smothered in Hugs: Essays, Interviews, Feedback, and Obituaries.
Dennis Cooper currently spends his time between Los Angeles and Paris.
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews
September 10, 2011
La tenerezza dei violenti.
Quarto episodio del Ciclo di George Miles, è probabilmente il più autobiografico dei romanzi di Cooper, fosse solo per il protagonista narrante che dell'autore porta nome e cognome. Con rimandi agli altri romanzi della serie, a cominciare dal primo, si propone come uno dei più caratteristici di Dennis Cooper, ricco di ambivalenti immagini e temi forti: orrore ed innocenza, violenza e tenerezza, con un sottofondo animato fatto di trip psichedelici, pedopornografia, grunge e new wawe, messi lì come il brusio di una tv sfasata in lontananza.
E' un romanzo intimo, stritolato in spazi chiusi, che suscita nel lettore un senso di soffocamento senza via d'uscita. E' la storia di un uomo, Dennis Cooper, un uomo che si dice malato, che si dice diverso, i cui sentimenti si compongono in parti uguali di purezza e orrore: davvero, nei sogni di estrema violenza di Cooper c'è qualcosa di puro e di santo. E lo stesso stupro del mal celato cantante dei Blur, tirato in causa senza tanti problemi dall'autore, appare un solenne rito sacrificale.
Che non si pensi, però, al puro piacere della trasgressione: se è vero che Cooper ama fare luce sugli abissi dell'animo umano, la vera trasgressione è quella di un linguaggio violato e violentato. E oggi, non c'è più nulla di trasgressivo del trasformare l'orrore in pura poesia.
Quarto episodio del Ciclo di George Miles, è probabilmente il più autobiografico dei romanzi di Cooper, fosse solo per il protagonista narrante che dell'autore porta nome e cognome. Con rimandi agli altri romanzi della serie, a cominciare dal primo, si propone come uno dei più caratteristici di Dennis Cooper, ricco di ambivalenti immagini e temi forti: orrore ed innocenza, violenza e tenerezza, con un sottofondo animato fatto di trip psichedelici, pedopornografia, grunge e new wawe, messi lì come il brusio di una tv sfasata in lontananza.
E' un romanzo intimo, stritolato in spazi chiusi, che suscita nel lettore un senso di soffocamento senza via d'uscita. E' la storia di un uomo, Dennis Cooper, un uomo che si dice malato, che si dice diverso, i cui sentimenti si compongono in parti uguali di purezza e orrore: davvero, nei sogni di estrema violenza di Cooper c'è qualcosa di puro e di santo. E lo stesso stupro del mal celato cantante dei Blur, tirato in causa senza tanti problemi dall'autore, appare un solenne rito sacrificale.
Che non si pensi, però, al puro piacere della trasgressione: se è vero che Cooper ama fare luce sugli abissi dell'animo umano, la vera trasgressione è quella di un linguaggio violato e violentato. E oggi, non c'è più nulla di trasgressivo del trasformare l'orrore in pura poesia.
June 11, 2025
I know every-
thing about my idol and
he’s nothing like a god.
Very sexy, very gay book about sex, desire, youth, lust, aging etc. Some poems made me raise my eyebrow at its subject matter, but overall I loved how Dennis Cooper wrote about different experiences in our search for perfection and performance.
thing about my idol and
he’s nothing like a god.
Very sexy, very gay book about sex, desire, youth, lust, aging etc. Some poems made me raise my eyebrow at its subject matter, but overall I loved how Dennis Cooper wrote about different experiences in our search for perfection and performance.
January 17, 2026
My partner got me the first edition of this now-somewhat-rare collection for my birthday, after I made my way through all of Dennis Cooper’s easy-to-find books last year. Another precious selection of poetry and short prose, some new to me, some I’d read in other collections. I loved the JFK Jr. series especially.
February 2, 2026
“I was in eighth grade
when he was in seventh.
He bought Dylan the same day
I did, and wanted
to sleep with me (he called
it frigging), so we tried.
His breath was of hamburger
and I licked his teeth
when he kissed me.
He held my wrist,
serious as a doctor.
He was dark and Italian, energetic
and long-haired. He liked
his boys tall and thin, like him.
I was the first of millions, he said.
I remember our position,
side by side, and the quick pulse
of our breaths, sometimes
steady, sometimes off on their own
like two men racing.
I remember him saying he loved me
and that I thanked him
and that we didn't cum (too young I think)
but grew bored of it around sunrise
turning back to back, smoking,
filling the room with a pale cloud
I, a food smell.
We slept in a hot blue night.”
—
“and Keith was very drunk. Those beers had worked well. Stan pulled me aside and said one more beer and Keith couldn't fight off a feather. But that would take a little while and before then why didn't we do in his brother Mike. I'd been both worried and desirous for this moment all evening. Mike was my best friend and I loved him. The horror of killing him was as sexy an idea as I could imagine. He'd trust me all the way to the end.”
—
“When they snapped his picture
he was on LSD
and flunking everything.
You would have said:
‘beautiful loser,
good for a rape and an O.D.’
You would have jerked-off once
and been done with him. His friends did.
But you should have seen him
when a Christian smile
licked these lips.
Four months after this photo
his fists softened like swallowed pills.
His harangue calmed to lectures,
the Word, the Book tucked in an underarm.
Hair fell to his shoulders
and filled with hands,
girls', friends’, parents', God's.
We let him blather about love,
a world one thought beyond us,
the day we would float.
We didn't argue or contradict.
His chin rose like the hour hand.
We listened. We let
him have whatever made him
this way and this good.”
—
“Friends, see how pale
his skin was. It
glowed. And his lips
with a trace of teeth, and
ears like boats for tongues.
I'd fold my hands before
a nonsense God, asking
for his words and kisses.
I'd sob and spit his name
and live on an ounce of sleep.
I can't explain the ways
he moved in me, emptied and
filled me. I was crazy
and young, and more
in love than I'll ever be.
I used to say I'd give
my life for his,
wrote it in poems of shit worth.
As I jot this down now
I know it was true.
To this day I'll see
him somewhere, smiling my way,
deep in his life.
Then in this poem, this life
my work lies deserted as a drunk's.”
—
“This isn't it.
I thought it would be
like having a boned pillow.
I saw myself turning
over and over in lust
like sheets in a dryer.
My style was reckless,
wool dry. Other than mine
there were little or no arms.
I could whisper anything
into an implied ear
and praise would rise
like a colorless, scentless gas.
Then I would breathe to sleep.
But my lover moves.
And my lips grow numb as rubber
before I capture half the ass
that rose like Atlantis
from my dreams.
I try to get his shoulder blade between my teeth.
He complains, pillow in his mouth.
Doesn't mean it.
Means it.
He rolls onto his back,
face raw and wet as fat,
like it has been shaken from nightmares.
I don't know how to please this face.
Tomorrow when he has made breakfast
and gone, I will sweep
the mound of porno from my closet,
put a match to its lies.
I will wait in my bed
as I did before, a thought ajar,
and sex will slip into my room
like a white tiger.”
—
“Jim, my best friend,
gives me five dollars
when I am sixteen
to lie face down on his bed
while he feels my ass,
long hair passing for girl's.
Jim, caught by his mom
on the night I sleep over
with my used underwear
pressed up to his nose
while I perch nearby pretending to sleep.
I, pulling up his
wet swimmer's silks
over my white ass
in front of the mirror
and Jim, from behind,
slips his palms inside.
Jim, my oldest friend,
watching me dress out
in gym class, grabbing me,
snapping my butt with
wet towel, leaves marks
on me, red as his mouth.”
—
“When I was younger I'd crawl from
my room at midnight with a pal.
We'd sneak down streets we knew
by osmosis, to look through lit windows
for boys. Once in a while we'd
catch one naked, bending for things,
buttocks parting like thunder clouds.
We'd drop to our knees, chins on the ledge,
thrash our hard cocks then squirt
in the dirt, pinwheels of spit at our mouths.
I was never caught, never talked
about it, grew used to getting sex
that way and like it even now, in the back
row of the Male Man Theater where, an old
guy's fist pumps under my lap jacket,
or in the room at the baths where men fuck
and others watch, using what they see
like strangers do their wives. And we are
happy crowded in like this, brushing
against one another at the watering hole,
sniffing each others' asses like food.
We look the way dogs do when they want to screw,
a shiny blankness in our one-track eyes.
A quake hits our looks where the handsome get
ugly and the ugly monstrous. We let words
out like farts we can't control. We stink
to the lowest heavens, talk like dime-novels,
and we eat from each other like cannibals,
piss snob cannibals who'll only eat caviar.”
—
“john keeps raving about it, there must be something to it
john talks to bill about them living together forever
bill is naive and light-hearted and says yes to that
when they walk down the street somewhere john drops back
a few paces to see bill's ass move in his jeans
when there's any chance at all his hand's there fingering
if john's parents walked in it'd be curtains for him
they are the kind of people who'd send him to an insane asylum if his father didn't kill him first
john's taking a chance but he's a desperate kid
bill loves him in the way a young girl loves a boy
john's love for bill contains violence and obsession
but now his hands touch the smooth taut flesh and his
tongue goes in as far as it can
he feels the breath of bill's light laughter on his thighs
the head of his cock rests in bill's soft beatle hair
bill's firm legs are around him
nothing comes into him nothing touches him but bill”
—
“When they hit L.A.
they were as worn as
their old cowboy boots,
half-blind and half-assed,
their drawl, drool.
‘What's to film?’
asked the disappointed director,
arms around the boys
who'd put themselves in his hands
for the finishing touches.
They are after
more than fresh
and cute faces,
more than mouthfuls
of sperm - anonymous
as light, lips
from some great
assembly line.
One holds the other:
wild young boys,
tired old guys,
the men in between.”
—
“‘Great!’ Jim yelled as
my fist drilled up his ass
to the shoulder
and my hand tried
a slow dance with a lung,
when blood rose
to his back
under the lightning of my belt
like trout for air.
And for a week
the cuts like jewelry
Id given him
kept modestly
under his shirt.
Now I stumble in at Marty's
one midnight
and Jim lies in a priest's arms,
head shaven clean,
his talk dim as my young son's.
He has pulled from me
for love, and God has
changed his heart into a white bird.
I hear him talking like that.
‘Listen to me,’ I tell Jim,
‘Shit like God makes
me want to puke up my bones.’
But it is too late.
He is as held as a new baby
and I take off quick,
smashing through closed doors,
old people on the sidewalk,
throwing some boy in front of a bus,
my temper, a shark
that slashes the line
between sea and sky.”
when he was in seventh.
He bought Dylan the same day
I did, and wanted
to sleep with me (he called
it frigging), so we tried.
His breath was of hamburger
and I licked his teeth
when he kissed me.
He held my wrist,
serious as a doctor.
He was dark and Italian, energetic
and long-haired. He liked
his boys tall and thin, like him.
I was the first of millions, he said.
I remember our position,
side by side, and the quick pulse
of our breaths, sometimes
steady, sometimes off on their own
like two men racing.
I remember him saying he loved me
and that I thanked him
and that we didn't cum (too young I think)
but grew bored of it around sunrise
turning back to back, smoking,
filling the room with a pale cloud
I, a food smell.
We slept in a hot blue night.”
—
“and Keith was very drunk. Those beers had worked well. Stan pulled me aside and said one more beer and Keith couldn't fight off a feather. But that would take a little while and before then why didn't we do in his brother Mike. I'd been both worried and desirous for this moment all evening. Mike was my best friend and I loved him. The horror of killing him was as sexy an idea as I could imagine. He'd trust me all the way to the end.”
—
“When they snapped his picture
he was on LSD
and flunking everything.
You would have said:
‘beautiful loser,
good for a rape and an O.D.’
You would have jerked-off once
and been done with him. His friends did.
But you should have seen him
when a Christian smile
licked these lips.
Four months after this photo
his fists softened like swallowed pills.
His harangue calmed to lectures,
the Word, the Book tucked in an underarm.
Hair fell to his shoulders
and filled with hands,
girls', friends’, parents', God's.
We let him blather about love,
a world one thought beyond us,
the day we would float.
We didn't argue or contradict.
His chin rose like the hour hand.
We listened. We let
him have whatever made him
this way and this good.”
—
“Friends, see how pale
his skin was. It
glowed. And his lips
with a trace of teeth, and
ears like boats for tongues.
I'd fold my hands before
a nonsense God, asking
for his words and kisses.
I'd sob and spit his name
and live on an ounce of sleep.
I can't explain the ways
he moved in me, emptied and
filled me. I was crazy
and young, and more
in love than I'll ever be.
I used to say I'd give
my life for his,
wrote it in poems of shit worth.
As I jot this down now
I know it was true.
To this day I'll see
him somewhere, smiling my way,
deep in his life.
Then in this poem, this life
my work lies deserted as a drunk's.”
—
“This isn't it.
I thought it would be
like having a boned pillow.
I saw myself turning
over and over in lust
like sheets in a dryer.
My style was reckless,
wool dry. Other than mine
there were little or no arms.
I could whisper anything
into an implied ear
and praise would rise
like a colorless, scentless gas.
Then I would breathe to sleep.
But my lover moves.
And my lips grow numb as rubber
before I capture half the ass
that rose like Atlantis
from my dreams.
I try to get his shoulder blade between my teeth.
He complains, pillow in his mouth.
Doesn't mean it.
Means it.
He rolls onto his back,
face raw and wet as fat,
like it has been shaken from nightmares.
I don't know how to please this face.
Tomorrow when he has made breakfast
and gone, I will sweep
the mound of porno from my closet,
put a match to its lies.
I will wait in my bed
as I did before, a thought ajar,
and sex will slip into my room
like a white tiger.”
—
“Jim, my best friend,
gives me five dollars
when I am sixteen
to lie face down on his bed
while he feels my ass,
long hair passing for girl's.
Jim, caught by his mom
on the night I sleep over
with my used underwear
pressed up to his nose
while I perch nearby pretending to sleep.
I, pulling up his
wet swimmer's silks
over my white ass
in front of the mirror
and Jim, from behind,
slips his palms inside.
Jim, my oldest friend,
watching me dress out
in gym class, grabbing me,
snapping my butt with
wet towel, leaves marks
on me, red as his mouth.”
—
“When I was younger I'd crawl from
my room at midnight with a pal.
We'd sneak down streets we knew
by osmosis, to look through lit windows
for boys. Once in a while we'd
catch one naked, bending for things,
buttocks parting like thunder clouds.
We'd drop to our knees, chins on the ledge,
thrash our hard cocks then squirt
in the dirt, pinwheels of spit at our mouths.
I was never caught, never talked
about it, grew used to getting sex
that way and like it even now, in the back
row of the Male Man Theater where, an old
guy's fist pumps under my lap jacket,
or in the room at the baths where men fuck
and others watch, using what they see
like strangers do their wives. And we are
happy crowded in like this, brushing
against one another at the watering hole,
sniffing each others' asses like food.
We look the way dogs do when they want to screw,
a shiny blankness in our one-track eyes.
A quake hits our looks where the handsome get
ugly and the ugly monstrous. We let words
out like farts we can't control. We stink
to the lowest heavens, talk like dime-novels,
and we eat from each other like cannibals,
piss snob cannibals who'll only eat caviar.”
—
“john keeps raving about it, there must be something to it
john talks to bill about them living together forever
bill is naive and light-hearted and says yes to that
when they walk down the street somewhere john drops back
a few paces to see bill's ass move in his jeans
when there's any chance at all his hand's there fingering
if john's parents walked in it'd be curtains for him
they are the kind of people who'd send him to an insane asylum if his father didn't kill him first
john's taking a chance but he's a desperate kid
bill loves him in the way a young girl loves a boy
john's love for bill contains violence and obsession
but now his hands touch the smooth taut flesh and his
tongue goes in as far as it can
he feels the breath of bill's light laughter on his thighs
the head of his cock rests in bill's soft beatle hair
bill's firm legs are around him
nothing comes into him nothing touches him but bill”
—
“When they hit L.A.
they were as worn as
their old cowboy boots,
half-blind and half-assed,
their drawl, drool.
‘What's to film?’
asked the disappointed director,
arms around the boys
who'd put themselves in his hands
for the finishing touches.
They are after
more than fresh
and cute faces,
more than mouthfuls
of sperm - anonymous
as light, lips
from some great
assembly line.
One holds the other:
wild young boys,
tired old guys,
the men in between.”
—
“‘Great!’ Jim yelled as
my fist drilled up his ass
to the shoulder
and my hand tried
a slow dance with a lung,
when blood rose
to his back
under the lightning of my belt
like trout for air.
And for a week
the cuts like jewelry
Id given him
kept modestly
under his shirt.
Now I stumble in at Marty's
one midnight
and Jim lies in a priest's arms,
head shaven clean,
his talk dim as my young son's.
He has pulled from me
for love, and God has
changed his heart into a white bird.
I hear him talking like that.
‘Listen to me,’ I tell Jim,
‘Shit like God makes
me want to puke up my bones.’
But it is too late.
He is as held as a new baby
and I take off quick,
smashing through closed doors,
old people on the sidewalk,
throwing some boy in front of a bus,
my temper, a shark
that slashes the line
between sea and sky.”
September 25, 2011
Quarto episodio del Ciclo di George Miles, è probabilmente il più autobiografico dei romanzi di Cooper, fosse solo per il protagonista narrante che dell'autore porta nome e cognome. Con rimandi agli altri romanzi della serie, a cominciare dal primo, si propone come uno dei più caratteristici di Dennis Cooper, ricco di ambivalenti immagini e temi forti: orrore ed innocenza, violenza e tenerezza, con un sottofondo animato fatto di trip psichedelici, pedopornografia, grunge e new wawe, messi lì come il brusio di una tv sfasata in lontananza.
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March 25, 2009
Beautiful, lyrical poetry from Cooper, before he developed his niche as a writer on the fringe of the fringe.
September 5, 2009
If you can find the original, by all means buy it. No one writes with such sass and fire as Cooper. He is electric
June 7, 2024
I've been a fan of Dennis Cooper's work for years now. He's shocking. He's brutal. He's sexually provocative. He's unapologetic.
I have the 1979 SeaHorse Press edition (the first) of 'Idols' with the seductive b&w etching of a male standing on a marble pedestal, just the thighs on down, with his pants around his ankles. It's fairly obvious what Cooper was waxing poetically about in 1979.
Gay Pride was just 10 years old and I was 18 and coming out shortly after this. I grew up fantasizing about David and Shaun Cassidy, JFK Jr, the boys in my high school locker room, the swimmers at the Olympics, rock stars like Andy Gibb or Freddie Mercury. I've written my own fair share of poems centered on adolescent lust.
Cooper is just revving up his more brutal sexual writing in this collection, and his experiences with gay sex started earlier than my own, probably the difference in growing up in southern CA and rural Iowa. But I can still relate to these poems. Especially 'David Cassidy Then' and 'Shaun Cassidy, 1977.' But if there is one poem that has aged quite differently and taken on a darker tone, it is 'Some Adventures of John F. Kennedy, Jr.' It's a series of poems that trace Jr's youth and adolescence, the gangly teenager who suddenly becomes the object of lust for gay men and women (Elaine Benes, famously in an episode of 'Seinfeld'). The series of 13 poems chronicles his experimenting with drugs, his partying, his failing 11th grade, traveling with his mother and sister, and there's a poignant (now) where he is writing a poem for a school assignment where he writes:
"I never thought anyone died,
especially not me,
then my father and uncle got it from maniacs
and Ari kicked the bucket the hard way,
and I've started thinking of my own death,
when will it come and how,
by some madman out to end the Kennedys?
I hope so, and that it happens
before I have a chance to show my mediocrity."
John-John could never be mediocre. He would die 20 years after the publication of "Idols" and we all mourned the loss of our handsome prince.
I have the 1979 SeaHorse Press edition (the first) of 'Idols' with the seductive b&w etching of a male standing on a marble pedestal, just the thighs on down, with his pants around his ankles. It's fairly obvious what Cooper was waxing poetically about in 1979.
Gay Pride was just 10 years old and I was 18 and coming out shortly after this. I grew up fantasizing about David and Shaun Cassidy, JFK Jr, the boys in my high school locker room, the swimmers at the Olympics, rock stars like Andy Gibb or Freddie Mercury. I've written my own fair share of poems centered on adolescent lust.
Cooper is just revving up his more brutal sexual writing in this collection, and his experiences with gay sex started earlier than my own, probably the difference in growing up in southern CA and rural Iowa. But I can still relate to these poems. Especially 'David Cassidy Then' and 'Shaun Cassidy, 1977.' But if there is one poem that has aged quite differently and taken on a darker tone, it is 'Some Adventures of John F. Kennedy, Jr.' It's a series of poems that trace Jr's youth and adolescence, the gangly teenager who suddenly becomes the object of lust for gay men and women (Elaine Benes, famously in an episode of 'Seinfeld'). The series of 13 poems chronicles his experimenting with drugs, his partying, his failing 11th grade, traveling with his mother and sister, and there's a poignant (now) where he is writing a poem for a school assignment where he writes:
"I never thought anyone died,
especially not me,
then my father and uncle got it from maniacs
and Ari kicked the bucket the hard way,
and I've started thinking of my own death,
when will it come and how,
by some madman out to end the Kennedys?
I hope so, and that it happens
before I have a chance to show my mediocrity."
John-John could never be mediocre. He would die 20 years after the publication of "Idols" and we all mourned the loss of our handsome prince.
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December 28, 2025Stuff written when he was a teenager through early twenties and, yeah, it shows for sure. Much more sentimental, warm, and less alien than what he's known for and not much to write home about. The themes of parasocial fixation on rock musicians are probably the strongest carryover into his better known work.
May 1, 2010
One of Cooper's earliest books of poetry. This first edition contains two poems which were removed from subsequent editions because Cooper found them to be lacking. Many of these poems also appear in other collections, such as Dream Police and Jerk. It is interesting to see the earlier poems, as they are milder in nature, but still hint at what Cooper will be doing in his later work. I also particularly enjoyed the poem dedicated to Arthur Rimbaud, and the mention of Rimbaud in the author's auto-biography.
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October 17, 2012Finiti
Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews