Pauline Réage Story of O (1958)
I'd heard of this one mainly as something contentious customarily mentioned as a novel which should have been banned in the same sentence as Naked Lunch and Lady Chatterley's Lover, so naturally I was curious as to what it was and why. Story of O, so it turns out, is a mucky book, specifically a mucky book of obvious appeal to patrons of sex dungeons. I'd say it's in the tradition of de Sade except I haven't read enough de Sade to make such a statement with any sort of authority, particularly as I get the impression de Sade's writing had some philosophical dimension and I'm not convinced that the same can be said of O. The novel was originally written as a series of letters from Anne Desclos to her lover, Jean Paulhan, publisher and something of a big cheese in French literary circles. Paulhan, an admirer of de Sade, had apparently suggested that de Sade's work could only have been written by a man, so the Story of O seems to have been an attempt to refute his claim.
The story, such as it is, relates the progress of a woman identified only as O as she is sexually enslaved and dominated by her partner, then by others to whom her partner gives her as a gift. O is repeatedly humiliated, whipped, bound, tortured, pierced, and branded, reacting to each new imposition with a combination of fear and gratitude, until the tale ends with the suggestion of a final, seemingly unpublished chapter in which she asks to be killed. It's extremely well written, and initially erotic, but I suspect you probably have to be really into this stuff to get something out of it; which I'm not, so after a while I began to find it dull and repetitive; then again, I've tended to find fetishists of most persuasions dull and repetitive, just as I find anyone who assumes that you're as fascinated by their thing as they are, a massive bore.
The introduction hints at the possibility of Story of O being read as a spiritual discourse, likening all the whippings and negation of O's self to religiously inspired mortification of the flesh or asceticism, but I don't really buy it any more than I buy there being much common ground which The Castle of Otranto shares with the music of Alien Sex Fiend. This leaves us with mostly just the flogging, the coercion, and the reduction of the main character to a series of three holes into which men thrust their mighty choppers. This, according to Jean Paulhan's introduction, perfectly captures the true nature of woman, the thing she most desires, which is clearly bollocks as Andrea Dworkin is my witness.
Whilst we can police sexual deeds in the hope of limiting incidences of, for one example, those who shag kids, it's probably a waste of time policing - or even frowning upon - whatever happens to turn other people on. Nevertheless, I find the Story of O a little too lacking in flavour for my own tastes, not specifically in terms of what it does, but what it does in combination with apparent literary aspirations, when it's really just Fifty Shades of Grey intercut with scenes of Dakota Johnson considering herself spoilt by the Ferrero Rocher passed around at the ambassador's reception. Story of O is a two-hundred page letter to Fiesta, but without the honesty, enthusiastic squelching, caravan holiday in the Lake district, or anyone asking us to imagine their surprise; but worse than that, it's just very boring.
I'd heard of this one mainly as something contentious customarily mentioned as a novel which should have been banned in the same sentence as Naked Lunch and Lady Chatterley's Lover, so naturally I was curious as to what it was and why. Story of O, so it turns out, is a mucky book, specifically a mucky book of obvious appeal to patrons of sex dungeons. I'd say it's in the tradition of de Sade except I haven't read enough de Sade to make such a statement with any sort of authority, particularly as I get the impression de Sade's writing had some philosophical dimension and I'm not convinced that the same can be said of O. The novel was originally written as a series of letters from Anne Desclos to her lover, Jean Paulhan, publisher and something of a big cheese in French literary circles. Paulhan, an admirer of de Sade, had apparently suggested that de Sade's work could only have been written by a man, so the Story of O seems to have been an attempt to refute his claim.
The story, such as it is, relates the progress of a woman identified only as O as she is sexually enslaved and dominated by her partner, then by others to whom her partner gives her as a gift. O is repeatedly humiliated, whipped, bound, tortured, pierced, and branded, reacting to each new imposition with a combination of fear and gratitude, until the tale ends with the suggestion of a final, seemingly unpublished chapter in which she asks to be killed. It's extremely well written, and initially erotic, but I suspect you probably have to be really into this stuff to get something out of it; which I'm not, so after a while I began to find it dull and repetitive; then again, I've tended to find fetishists of most persuasions dull and repetitive, just as I find anyone who assumes that you're as fascinated by their thing as they are, a massive bore.
The introduction hints at the possibility of Story of O being read as a spiritual discourse, likening all the whippings and negation of O's self to religiously inspired mortification of the flesh or asceticism, but I don't really buy it any more than I buy there being much common ground which The Castle of Otranto shares with the music of Alien Sex Fiend. This leaves us with mostly just the flogging, the coercion, and the reduction of the main character to a series of three holes into which men thrust their mighty choppers. This, according to Jean Paulhan's introduction, perfectly captures the true nature of woman, the thing she most desires, which is clearly bollocks as Andrea Dworkin is my witness.
Whilst we can police sexual deeds in the hope of limiting incidences of, for one example, those who shag kids, it's probably a waste of time policing - or even frowning upon - whatever happens to turn other people on. Nevertheless, I find the Story of O a little too lacking in flavour for my own tastes, not specifically in terms of what it does, but what it does in combination with apparent literary aspirations, when it's really just Fifty Shades of Grey intercut with scenes of Dakota Johnson considering herself spoilt by the Ferrero Rocher passed around at the ambassador's reception. Story of O is a two-hundred page letter to Fiesta, but without the honesty, enthusiastic squelching, caravan holiday in the Lake district, or anyone asking us to imagine their surprise; but worse than that, it's just very boring.
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