What do you think?
Rate this book
320 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2006
Pornography is an area where there are absolutely no standards, so most of it is ugly, brainless shit. Therefore people look at it and say, well, most of the pornography that I can see is ugly, brainless, and perhaps sometimes immoral or degrading shit, therefore all pornography that can be conceived of must be in the same category.
When I was about 10, and I first started thinking about sex officially, I thought, ‘There must be a beautiful book somewhere, that will tell me everything I want to know, and it will be beautiful, and everything will be explained, and once I see it, I will know everything there is to know about sex.’ And of course, there was no such book. There never has been a book. With Lost Girls, I finally got a chance to do one.
the moral pressures of [Beardsley’s] time, looked back on from a more enlightened future, were simply wrong. The moral pressures of his time were what destroyed Oscar Wilde and everybody and every publication that Oscar Wilde had been associated with. I can see why Beardsley was nervous, but he shouldn't have been, because he’d done nothing wrong. And if that applies to 1820, it certainly applies today.
We don’t seem to have much of a problem in distinguishing between fact and fantasy except for when it comes to sex, and I’m not entirely sure why that is, why we make a special case for sexuality. It’s okay to show murders in most of our great art, it’s perfectly okay to show how life can be ended, but there is something suspect in showing the ways in which life can be begun, or just showing people enjoying themselves.
Somehow, this romance, this narrative, their narratives, are more important because they are actually about life; they are about imagination and possibilities, whereas what is bearing down upon Europe is the exact opposite of that. War is about limiting the possibilities of everything, destroying our imaginations in the same way it destroys the physical landscape by leveling it to just a flat, barren stretch of mud.
I lanced my tongue in Mrs. Potter's anus, up and fast between the tropic lips into her beast-peach hole. Crowned hot with bronze, American girl heat rubbed shameless as a cat against my thigh. The smash of wet cymbals inside me as the maid surrendered to the sacrifice. I'm weeping.
‘It's an…unngh…exciting story, but the children, doing things with…ungh…with their own Mother! I mean, I have…unngh…a son myself, and I'd never dream…unngh…never dream of—’
‘There was a moment when I suddenly saw everything, myself, the whole terrible situation, with perfect clarity. I could think about what I liked. That didn't mean I wanted it to really happen to me. That didn't mean that anyone could force it on me.’