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Confessions of a Flesh-Eater
Confessions of a Flesh-Eater is the story of a grand passion - the story of man and meat, and the intimate relationship between them. That man is Orlando Crispe, universally acknowledged as one of the finest exponents in the world of classical and creative cuisine, and at present languishing in a Roman prison, charged with the murder of at least four people. The confessions of Orlando Crispe constitute a detailed and frank account of the love affair between a master and his medium. For Crispe, the consumption of flesh is essentially an act of love, a communion as intimate as the act of sex, and such intimacy inevitably achieves its own proper apotheosis between persons. The novel gives Orlando Crispe's classic menus and readers who wish to try them are advised that whenever human flesh is specified, animal flesh can be used instead - indeed it should be.
224 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1998
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About the author
David Madsen
52 books17 followersDavid Madsen is the pseudonym of a philosopher, theologian, therapist and author who has always had a special interest in the esoteric, the oblique and the heterodox byways of the human psyche.
His first novel, Memoirs of a Gnostic Dwarf, partially sprang from Madsen’s enthusiasm for Gnosticism, which he had the opportunity of studying in Rome for several years; Memoirs won great critical acclaim and has been translated into eleven languages. It was followed by Confessions of a Flesh-Eater, Confessions of a Flesh-Eater Cookbook and, most recently, A Box of Dreams, all published by Dedalus Books. He has also collaborated on film scripts.
His first novel, Memoirs of a Gnostic Dwarf, partially sprang from Madsen’s enthusiasm for Gnosticism, which he had the opportunity of studying in Rome for several years; Memoirs won great critical acclaim and has been translated into eleven languages. It was followed by Confessions of a Flesh-Eater, Confessions of a Flesh-Eater Cookbook and, most recently, A Box of Dreams, all published by Dedalus Books. He has also collaborated on film scripts.
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Displaying 1 - 16 of 16 reviews
February 12, 2021
The most exquisitely spine-shuddering of sexual climaxes, believe me, cannot be compared in any degree to the exstasis of communion by consumption
I gotta say, this has some of the grossest prose I've ever read, I can't think of anything close to what Madsen achieves here at times. It's very cringe-inducing, but this isn't some sort of slapdash splatterpunk, this is very well written neo-decadence. And I think it is that earnestness and sincerity which makes it all the more disturbing.
Madsen revels in descriptions of the human body, particularly the aged, diseased and unhealthy, I opened her blouse and uncovered one breast. It was hideous, collapsed in on itself like an old suede bag [...] It could have been the air-sack of an obsolete Celtic wind instrument. [...] Her breath was, I should imagine, somewhat similar in odour to the first farting flutter of air to escape an Egyptian tomb opened after three thousand years.
Another revel is in lecherous descriptions of meat, excuse me, flesh, and what our protagonist does with it Meat is flesh and vice-versa, yet the word 'flesh' captures the true flavour, the concentrated extract of the passion which rules me, and I infinitely prefer it. There are quite a few recipes scattered throughout the book as well.
And our protagonist likes going into decadent dream states. Here he finds a dead bird as a child, I could smell its still-warm body - a kind of tangy, sour-sweet, meaty odour rather like that of a wet dog. [...] Strange images popped into my mind: small, blind creatures, new-born pups squashed tightly together in a deep, dank burrow beneath the surface of the ground…the pungent ripeness of animal haunches sweating after a swift run…
If this isn't enough, after a knock on the head the protagonist achieves the ability to "turn on" synaesthesia at will, and things get even weirder; Red causes the sound of bright, clear trumpets, and yet strangely enough, trumpets make me see huge, tree-like extensions of the purest gold [...] I may tell you that an orgasm (one’s own or another’s) is a starburst of brilliant white light whose centre and heart is a little circle of water-colour; to pass through that circle is to cross over into no-time and no-place - an infinite suspension, if you like - and to be there forever, because there is no way back...
This book is quite funny too, what kept me interested is the very dark humor and colorful, flamboyant characters who create hilarious moments. There's also a willingness to shock with violence and sex, 'He’s crazy,' the Master once observed to me, 'but I adore him, not least of all because he’s got the cock of a rhino. You know what he said to me after we’d done it for the first time? He looked at me with those liquid chocolate eyes of his and he said, "Well it’s better than shafting the pigs, anyway."'
"Obviously an incurable romantic."
‘I can’t breathe,’ I managed to say.
She withdrew the tongue (it occurred to me that - braised, sliced and set in aspic - it would make a very nice salad meat)...
I'm not sure what you call this, don't expect horror, it's more black comedy, told with a wink. As much as I enjoyed this, there are some sections throughout written by a doctor who is studying the protagonist which I thought put a brake on the action and slowed things down too much. These are brief fortunately.
I gotta say, this has some of the grossest prose I've ever read, I can't think of anything close to what Madsen achieves here at times. It's very cringe-inducing, but this isn't some sort of slapdash splatterpunk, this is very well written neo-decadence. And I think it is that earnestness and sincerity which makes it all the more disturbing.
Madsen revels in descriptions of the human body, particularly the aged, diseased and unhealthy, I opened her blouse and uncovered one breast. It was hideous, collapsed in on itself like an old suede bag [...] It could have been the air-sack of an obsolete Celtic wind instrument. [...] Her breath was, I should imagine, somewhat similar in odour to the first farting flutter of air to escape an Egyptian tomb opened after three thousand years.
Another revel is in lecherous descriptions of meat, excuse me, flesh, and what our protagonist does with it Meat is flesh and vice-versa, yet the word 'flesh' captures the true flavour, the concentrated extract of the passion which rules me, and I infinitely prefer it. There are quite a few recipes scattered throughout the book as well.
And our protagonist likes going into decadent dream states. Here he finds a dead bird as a child, I could smell its still-warm body - a kind of tangy, sour-sweet, meaty odour rather like that of a wet dog. [...] Strange images popped into my mind: small, blind creatures, new-born pups squashed tightly together in a deep, dank burrow beneath the surface of the ground…the pungent ripeness of animal haunches sweating after a swift run…
If this isn't enough, after a knock on the head the protagonist achieves the ability to "turn on" synaesthesia at will, and things get even weirder; Red causes the sound of bright, clear trumpets, and yet strangely enough, trumpets make me see huge, tree-like extensions of the purest gold [...] I may tell you that an orgasm (one’s own or another’s) is a starburst of brilliant white light whose centre and heart is a little circle of water-colour; to pass through that circle is to cross over into no-time and no-place - an infinite suspension, if you like - and to be there forever, because there is no way back...
This book is quite funny too, what kept me interested is the very dark humor and colorful, flamboyant characters who create hilarious moments. There's also a willingness to shock with violence and sex, 'He’s crazy,' the Master once observed to me, 'but I adore him, not least of all because he’s got the cock of a rhino. You know what he said to me after we’d done it for the first time? He looked at me with those liquid chocolate eyes of his and he said, "Well it’s better than shafting the pigs, anyway."'
"Obviously an incurable romantic."
‘I can’t breathe,’ I managed to say.
She withdrew the tongue (it occurred to me that - braised, sliced and set in aspic - it would make a very nice salad meat)...
I'm not sure what you call this, don't expect horror, it's more black comedy, told with a wink. As much as I enjoyed this, there are some sections throughout written by a doctor who is studying the protagonist which I thought put a brake on the action and slowed things down too much. These are brief fortunately.
October 30, 2011
The thing that makes this book so memorable is that it is not just gruesome, dark and funny, it's also remarkably well written. It's as if John Fowles got drunk, watched three nights of the Horror Channel and thought he'd give something reprehensible a go.
February 27, 2023
The only way I can think to describe this book is like if Dennis Cooper wrote a blackly comedic novel about an Oedipal Hannibal Lecter.
October 6, 2022
A disgusting merge of flesh, over indulgent decadent food dishes, and nauseating sex. Orlando Crispe is equal parts Jean-Baptise Grenouille and Patrick Bateman. Batemans's sterility and self importance; Grenouille's attention to artistic detail and worldly understanding. Madsen employs many Latin and French phrases and includes newspaper reviews and food recipes. A solid start to my October reading list.
"It was a cacophony that stank."
"It was a cacophony that stank."
November 30, 2014
Reading Confessions of a Flesh Eater is like reading John Fowles writing a Dario Argento movie tie-in. Blood is copious and yet it breaks out into scenes which come of out the leftfield.
Orlando Crispe, the titular flesh eater, is erudite and as a master chef is a very slick character. Set in the present, it’s grim and yet funny. Something which I don’t find in, say, TV’s Hannibal, Stalker, or the Following. Cannibalism and erotica have been fodder for horror movies. I guess it must have been rooted deeply in “becoming one” with your lover or your object of desire.
The last time I read erotica which repulsed me was Pan Pantziarka, while that one was described as “scorched-earth porn,” this one is very steeped into high-hats without getting annoying. A blind buy but I had no regrets having read it.
Orlando Crispe, the titular flesh eater, is erudite and as a master chef is a very slick character. Set in the present, it’s grim and yet funny. Something which I don’t find in, say, TV’s Hannibal, Stalker, or the Following. Cannibalism and erotica have been fodder for horror movies. I guess it must have been rooted deeply in “becoming one” with your lover or your object of desire.
The last time I read erotica which repulsed me was Pan Pantziarka, while that one was described as “scorched-earth porn,” this one is very steeped into high-hats without getting annoying. A blind buy but I had no regrets having read it.
Read
August 20, 2023Hmm. This was one of the oddest things I have ever read. I think it could be a masterpiece but it is so pitch black in its humour, so genuinely dark and unblinking in its glaring down of the darker aspects of the human psyche that its quite hard to recommend/talk about.
It's very, uncomfortably, oedipal for a start. Pretty sure this is not so much to portray a realistic character/perspective but more so to explore how those ideas would manifest in a human with contradictory virtues and ethics. This makes for a meaty (pun unintended) read but god damn did i have to take a break and every four or five pages.
It's very, uncomfortably, oedipal for a start. Pretty sure this is not so much to portray a realistic character/perspective but more so to explore how those ideas would manifest in a human with contradictory virtues and ethics. This makes for a meaty (pun unintended) read but god damn did i have to take a break and every four or five pages.
October 16, 2018
Humorous and captivating. Madsen's Head Chef is a villain I rooted for throughout.
April 24, 2020
This was easily the weirdest book I have ever read, yet I thoroughly enjoyed the storyline. In terms of weirdness, this will be hard to beat
May 26, 2020
Un pazzo, un pazzo furioso. L'autore più del protagonista. Thriller al limite della decenza e del vomito... ma scritto bene!
November 29, 2023
“Perfume”, but much tastier.
If you’re a fan of transgressive stuff, this is your snack.
If you’re a fan of transgressive stuff, this is your snack.
May 16, 2024
I have such a soft spot for books about little freaks
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June 30, 2025Really did not like it.
August 3, 2012
Le quattro stelle sono eccessive e non del tutto meritate, ma mi sono divertita e questo vale.
Sulla cucina come arte e sul rapporto tra cibo e sesso c'è una bibliografia pressoché sterminata, composta in massima parte di stronzate. Qui non ci allontaniamo più di tanto dalla categoria, e in più l'autore infarcisce il tutto di ammiccamenti pseudo-eruditi buoni solo a titillare l'ego di lettori orgogliosi della loro cultura media e a far venire i nervi a tutti gli altri. Del resto è un accademico che scrive sotto pseudonimo e gli accademici sono bravissimi a trasformare il vino in acqua, come diceva Oscar Wilde.
Per una ben più succosa e profonda riflessione, molto meglio "Il cuoco" di Harry Kressing, che con originalità porta alle estreme conseguenze il motto secondo il quale l'uomo è ciò che mangia, esplorando il lato manipolatorio dell'arte culinaria e il potere che potrebbe derivarne.
Oppure rivediamoci "Il cuoco, il ladro, sua moglie e l'amante" e non se ne parli più.
Ah, il cuoco è eretico solo perché il nano del precedente romanzo era gnostico. Sarebbero le confessioni di un Flesh-Eater.
Sulla cucina come arte e sul rapporto tra cibo e sesso c'è una bibliografia pressoché sterminata, composta in massima parte di stronzate. Qui non ci allontaniamo più di tanto dalla categoria, e in più l'autore infarcisce il tutto di ammiccamenti pseudo-eruditi buoni solo a titillare l'ego di lettori orgogliosi della loro cultura media e a far venire i nervi a tutti gli altri. Del resto è un accademico che scrive sotto pseudonimo e gli accademici sono bravissimi a trasformare il vino in acqua, come diceva Oscar Wilde.
Per una ben più succosa e profonda riflessione, molto meglio "Il cuoco" di Harry Kressing, che con originalità porta alle estreme conseguenze il motto secondo il quale l'uomo è ciò che mangia, esplorando il lato manipolatorio dell'arte culinaria e il potere che potrebbe derivarne.
Oppure rivediamoci "Il cuoco, il ladro, sua moglie e l'amante" e non se ne parli più.
Ah, il cuoco è eretico solo perché il nano del precedente romanzo era gnostico. Sarebbero le confessioni di un Flesh-Eater.
February 25, 2008
a really freaky book--a chef who happens to also be a (quite insane) serial killer. very nicely told, however, but guaranteed to make you raise eyebrows!
December 29, 2025
A very cerebral read that was just really weird and gross
Also WAY too Freudian !!! He had a thing for his mom AND his dad ?? NO !!
Good for my research tho 😭
Also WAY too Freudian !!! He had a thing for his mom AND his dad ?? NO !!
Good for my research tho 😭
Read
December 16, 2017Very Strange and morbid but enthralling.
Displaying 1 - 16 of 16 reviews