Text Acts: 20th Century Literary Eroticism - Introduction

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Text Acts by Francis Booth

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION CHAPTER 2: AU DÉBUT DE SIÈCLE Arthur Schnitzler Reigen Dream Story Henri Barbusse Hell Pierre Louÿs The Young Girl’s Handbook Three Daughters of their Mother Pybrac Guillaume Apollinaire The Eleven Thousand Rods The Exploits of a Young Don Juan Raymond Radiguet The Devil in the Flesh Aleister Crowley The Nameless Novel Paul Leppin Daniel Jesus Severin’s Road to Darkness Blaugast CHAPTER 3: PUBLISHED IN PARIS: OBELISK PRESS Frank Harris My Life and Loves DH Lawrence Lady Chatterley’s Lover

Henry Miller Tropic of Cancer The World of Sex Lawrence Durrell The Black Book

CHAPTER 4: SEX AND SURREALISM Researches Into Sexuality Louis Aragon Irène’s C*** 1929 Robert Desnos On Eroticism Liberty or Love The Devil’s Popess Salvador Dalí Rêverie CHAPTER 5: LA PHILOSOPHIE DANS LE BOUDOIR Pierre Klossowski: Sade My Neighbour Maurice Blanchot: Sade’s Reason Simone de Beauvoir: Must We Burn Sade?

Gilles Deleuze: Coldness and Cruelty Roland Barthes: Sade, Fourier, Loyola Angela Carter: The Sadeian Woman Georges Bataille Story of the Eye The Solar Anus Madame Edwarda The Little One The Dead Man My Mother

CHAPTER 6: PUBLISHED IN PARIS: OLYMPIA PRESS 'Selena Warberg' (Diane Bataille) The Whip Angels ‘Jean de Berg’ (Catherine Robbe-Grillet) The Image 'Pauline Réage' (Anne Desclos) Story of O ‘Harriet Daimler’ (Iris Owens) Darling Innocence The Organisation The Woman Thing The Pleasure Thieves ‘Louise Walbrook’ (Edith Templeton) Gordon Jean Genet Our Lady of the Flowers The Thief's Journal Vladimir Nabokov Lolita Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg Candy CHAPTER 7: SEX AND THE NEW NOVEL Alain Robbe-Grillet A Sentimental Novel Marguerite Duras The Ravishing of Lol Stein The Lover The Malady of Death CHAPTER 8: ’PATAPHYSIQUE/OULIPO ÉROTIQUE

‘Sally Mara’ (Raymond Queneau) We Always Treat Women Too Well ‘Vernon Sullivan’ (Boris Vian) I Spit On Your Graves Harry Mathews Singular Pleasures CHAPTER 9: MY SECRET GARDEN: FRENCH Colette The Pure and the Impure Violette Leduc Thérèse and Isabelle Gabrielle Wittkop The Necrophiliac CHAPTER 10: MY SECRET GARDEN: ENGLISH Anaïs Nin House of Incest Winter of Artifice Delta of Venus Little Birds White Stains Auletris Edith Wharton Beatrice Palmato CHAPTER 11: MY SECRET GARDEN: GERMAN Unika Zürn Dark Spring Elfriede Jelinek Lust The Piano Teacher

INTRODUCTION Immoral and amatory fiction then claims our study, and must unfortunately be acknowledged to contain, cum grano salis, a reflection of the manners and vices of the times – of vices to be avoided, guarded against, reformed, but which unquestionably exist, and of

which an exact estimate is needful to enable us to cope with them.

'Pisanus Fraxi' (Henry Spencer Ashbee), Index of Forbidden Books

In his Essay on Novels, the Marquis de Sade advised budding writers to ‘avoid any display of moral earnestness. Morality is not something anyone wants in a novel.’

He himself set a shining example in this regard, but writers in general and novelists in particular have always been suspected of trying to corrupt the vulnerable: Jean Jacques Rousseau said, ‘no chaste girl ever read a novel.’ In The Contract, 1656,

by Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle, the old man is educating his young niece to become a good wife – to him; her moral education does not include reading novels, or ‘Romancies’.

When she was seven years of Age, he chose her such Books to reade in as might make her wife, not amorous, for he never suffered her to reade in Romancies, nor such light Books; but Moral Philosophy was the first of her Studies, to lay a Ground and Foundation of Virtue, and to teach her to moderate her Passions, and to rule her Affections.

In A Plan for the Conduct of Female Education of 1797, Erasmus Darwin warns that ‘many objectionable passages’ are to be found in novels, but he advises: If these passages, from which so few books are totally exempt, were expunged, it might raise curiosity, and induce young people to examine different copies of the same work, and to seek for other improper books themselves; it is therefore perhaps better, when these books are read by a governess, that she should express disapprobation in a plain and quiet way, of such passages, rather than to expunge them.

In Libraries and Their Users, Paul Kaufman quotes an eighteenthcentury case of a librarian in Dublin with similar views: ‘when an irate father made a violent protest against the lending of novels too shocking for innocent young girls, Mrs Lord explained that she carefully underlined the passages of doubtful delicacy in Lewis's Monk to warn the reader what to skip.’

Near the start of Madame Bovary, Flaubert makes it clear that the origin of his heroine’s immorality could be located in her early fondness for reading inappropriate literature: ‘Emma, at fifteen years of age, made her hands dirty with books from old lending libraries.’

And after Emma first commits adultery, Flaubert makes sure we get the point: ‘she recalled the heroines of the books that she had read, and the lyric legion of these adulterous women began to sing in her memory with the voice of sisters that charmed her.’

It is true that even great writers – especially great writers, as I will try to show in this book – have always tended to feature the immoral and erotic side of life rather more heavily than the moral guardians would like.

Bradford K Mudge, editor of The Cambridge Guide to Erotic Literature, says in his introduction:

Literary history suggests that the ‘erotic’ was always a diverse and overwhelming menu of possibilities; that genres high and low, elite and popular, literary and not, all made use of romantic and/or sexual content, often for very different purposes; and that the languages of eroticism were as numerous and as varied as the bodies and the desires they describe.

The erotic webzine nerve.com used to have a column called Jack’s Naughty Bits, which printed ‘the steamiest and most scandalous sex scenes from the world’s great books.’ This is more or less the aim of Text Acts. Jack’s bits were mostly from books which were not primarily erotic and certainly not pornographic, they were from serious modern and classic literature; nerve.com’s printed anthology is subtitled Literate Smut, which could be a subtitle for this

book. There is also an anthology called Going Down: Lip Service from Great Writers, which describes itself as ‘a book that collects the best written words on a great oral tradition’. That is the kind of thing I will be examining in this book: serious twentieth-century literature which has a strong erotic content but is not primarily erotica, or erotica that was written by a ‘literary’ author taking a break, either for fun or for money.

Literary authors of course have always been short of money, and some accepted commissions to write erotica as an alternative to starvation. Anaïs Nin, who will feature heavily in this book, wrote erotica to order, at one time becoming the mother figure for a group of hungry writers, ‘the madame of an unusual house of literary prostitution… Most of the erotica was written on empty stomachs.’ Nin says, ‘few writers have of their own accord sat down to write erotic tales or confessions,’ though this is not entirely true, as we will see. But even when Nin was not consciously writing erotica, the erotic elements which she felt were a natural part of her life became a natural part of her writing; she was neither afraid nor ashamed to write openly about the erotic but she did not let it take over her life or her writing.

It is one thing to include eroticism in a novel or a story and quite another to focus one’s whole attention on it. The first is like life itself. It is, I might say, natural, sincere… But focusing wholly on the sexual life is not

natural. It becomes something like the life of the prostitute, and abnormal activity ends by turning the prostitute away from the sexual. Writers perhaps know this. That is why they have written only one confession or a few stories, on the side, to satisfy their honesty about life.

What constitutes literature? What separates literature from erotica?

And what separates erotica from pornography? These questions, and

the definition of obscenity, troubled the legal systems of Western democracies for years. In announcing his decision in the Ulysses obscenity trial of 1933, Judge John M. Woolsey of the New York Federal district wrote that he considered James Joyce’s novel not obscene because the novel was not ‘dirt for dirt’s sake’. The kind of works I will be examining in this book might be called dirt for literature’s sake: as Nin said, they include eroticism, because that is part of ‘life itself’, but do not focus their whole attention on it. They were not, as one author put it, ‘written to be read with one hand.’

Readers of a certain age may remember that bookshops used to have separate sections for FICTION and LITERATURE: using that distinction, most of the books I will be looking at were written by authors likely to be filed under LITERATURE, though I will make very little attempt to justify the difference. My only real test for inclusion in this survey is whether the book is, as TS Eliot said of Djuna Barnes’ Nightwood, ‘really written’.

Eliot also said that Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer had ‘passages of

writing in it as good as any I have seen for long time,’ despite its erotic content.

In a similar vein the critic Karl Shapiro said of Henry Miller: ‘I do not call him a poet because he has never written a poem; he even dislikes poetry, I think. But everything he has written is a poem in the best as well as in the broadest sense of the word’. And again, Harry Moore, quoting Eliot while giving evidence in court during the trial of Tropic of Cancer: ‘I think that it is splendidly written in an age when not many things are splendidly written. In current American literature, for example, we have only a few people who have – you can put this word in quotes – “written.”’

The French critic Roland Barthes, in his book The Pleasure of the Text, distinguished between ‘readerly’ texts – conventionally written books like most 19th-century and most contemporary novels, which produce pleasure (plaisir) in the reader, versus ‘writerly’ texts – like experimental novels and avantgarde poetry, which produce joy.

The French for joy – jouissance, which is related to the verb jouir, to play, also means orgasm; most of the

novels I will be considering in this book play with words to create an intellectual as well as a sexual joy in the reader, in a way that most conventionally-written, contemporary ‘erotica’ does not. As Bradford K Mudge puts it: The relationship between eros and literature begins with pleasure: pleasure of the body, pleasure of the text, pleasure of wondering how each affects the other… Consideration of the relationship between eros and

literature requires, in addition to an ongoing preoccupation with the body, close attention to the pleasures specific to language.

Those pleasures might arrive from diction, syntax or narrative; or they might attend character, setting, or plot. They might be tied directly to the erotic body they purport to describe, or they may have an erotic charge specific to language but at significant remove from the sexual and/or romantic body to which they eventually return…

They happily attend plays, poems, and novels; short stories, essays, and non-fiction of various kinds.

The editor of a recent anthology of fantasy-erotic writings by literary authors – Love is Strange – makes the distinction between the ‘badlywritten’ and ‘literature’ in contemporary erotica. He complains that ‘most of the stuff currently being peddled as “erotica” is bad because it is essentially dishonest about the way sex really is – quite apart from being for the most part badly written and poorly plotted, with lamentable characterisation and no purpose other than that of temporary arousal.’ But, he says, there is also plenty of good erotic writing around, including the writing included in his anthology; ‘in the hands of writers like these, sexual fantasy becomes literature.’

Susie Bright, editor of the Herotica and The Best American Erotica series takes a similar line in her book How to Write a Dirty Story.

Erotic writing today is not only the best work of its kind that we’ve ever seen in the English-

language, it also has had an indelible effect on all of America literature. The flinching factor is gone – the former stigma and prejudice against erotic writing have been exposed for the embarrassing ignorance they represented.

Bright says that, although ‘there is no such thing as a person without an erotic story,’ writing about sex ‘can make even the most confident of us curl up in a ball of anxiety. Erotic speech is one of the few writing themes that has crippled otherwise selfassured authors.’

But, she says, the best erotic writing is done by writers who ‘aren't setting out to write a pornographic tour de force – they just want to include their characters’ sexual lives as they would naturally come up in the course of the story.’

Writing about sex is essential for

writers because, ‘it's such a true and vivid part of humanity. The hard part of sex writing is getting to that truth, its most candid expression, instead of the mechanics and morals that we’ve heard ad nauseam so many times.’

One reason authors are afraid of writing about sex – apart from the fact that their mother, partner or children may see it – is that their readers will assume they are either perverts or braggarts, however small the erotic is as a part of their work. They will be seen, either admiringly or with disdain, as experts on the subject; obsessive participants in it. This only seems to apply to writing that contains sex, and does not seem to affect any other genre: no one assumes that only an accomplished murderer can write murder stories, or that only

the undead can write zombie novels.

A man who writes sex scenes might be worried of being accused of being a libertine, and a woman who writes sex scenes might worry about being called a nymphomaniac, but no one accuses JK Rowling of being a witch, or believes that Stephenie Meyer is actually a vampire.

This effect – identifying the author with the actions of her/his characters in their erotic writing – seems, not surprisingly, to be worse for women than men. Discussing the treatment given in interviews to the Nobel Prize-winning, experimental/erotic writer Elfriede Jelinek (more of her later), Ellen Risholm and Erin Crawley make exactly this point.

A respected male author of the high culture variety would never be grilled in this manner: ‘Why didn't you have any children?’

‘What turns you on?’ ‘Do you watch porn videos’ ‘Do you take notes while you have sex?’

Jelinek herself, in her novel Lust, said that sex is neither central to her writing nor to her life: ‘Sex is the downtown of our lives, shopping precinct and leisure centre and red light district all in one, but it isn’t where you live.

We prefer a little elbow room, a bigger living room, with appliances we can turn on and off.’

However it is not true that men are immune to this phenomenon, which is reminiscent of the old joke that ends, ‘but I make love to one sheep…’

Despite his glittering literary achievements, Nabokov always was and always will be referred to as ‘the author of Lolita’ and everyone will always wonder how close his personal taste was to Humbert Humbert’s. Another author who has fallen victim to this

effect is the American Nicholson Baker, a very stylish, minimal and literary author who has written several completely non-sexual novels, as well as three that are very sexy. An interview with him in the heavyweight New York Times is indexed online as ‘Nicholson Baker’s Dirty Mind’, and headed ‘Nicholson Baker: The Mad Scientist of Smut;’ it opens, ‘Nicholson Baker does not look like a dirty-book writer. His color is good. His gaze is direct, with none of the sidelong furtiveness of the compulsive masturbator.’ This is

because Nicholson’s mind is precisely as dirty as the average straight adult male’s.

Not that Baker seems to mind. He talks about us being in a ‘post pornographic’ era, where porn is everywhere and has become part of everyday life. In writing his ‘raunchy’ books he said he ‘wanted to avoid the flavour of arty erotica,’ and, as with a porn movie, he was not interested in developing the characters. ‘It has characters, but how deeply do we know them? It’s not like plumbing the depths of each person's soul.’ But even though Baker's style is very cool and detached, ‘it has to be arousing. A book with this level of smut, filth, whatever – there would be no point if it wasn’t arousing to write. There’s nothing like writing a sex scene.

You're writing a little slower. You're in a world that you’ve invented, and you're slowly describing it. It’s a turn on, no question. It’s self-seductive.’

Baker says that, as far as he knows, his children have not read any of his books.

Violette Leduc (more of her later too) wrote about self-seduction, about herself writing the highly erotic, autobiographical sex scene

between herself and her friend at a girls boarding school: we have come across the concept of books that are meant to be read with one hand: hers was written with one hand.

I was writing, I was writing under their dictation. I wrote with one hand, and with the other… I loved myself to love them, to get back to them, to translate them, to not betray them… One arm was free on the table, my head fell onto that arm. I was speaking to them… I am being swept away by the wave, pleasure is lurking.

Susie Bright makes the point that being good at sex does not guarantee that one will be able to write about it well. Marguerite Duras said that she

believed that things were exactly the opposite way round, and she was speaking from a position of considerable personal experience: ‘I’ve noticed that writers who are superb at making love are much more rarely great writers than those who are scared and not so good at it.’

Duras also said, ‘I rarely gave those lovers my books to read. Women should not let their lovers read the books they write.’

As well as the quality and texture of the writing itself, one of the essential differences between pornography and literary eroticism is that, in pornography, there are no characters, no individuals, no emotions, no past or future, no before or after – all the things which are central to literature – to ‘readerly’ literature at least.

There are no ‘stories’ in pornography, though of course this

is also sometimes true in modernism. The stereotypes of pornography are, sometimes literally, faceless; they are just defaced bodies – often not even bodies, just sexual organs. As Jean Baudrillard says of contemporary pornography in Seduction: The body here becomes monstrously visible, it becomes the sign of a monster called desire… the total triumph in

pornography of the obscene body, to the point where the face is effaced. The erotic models are faceless, the actors are neither beautiful, ugly, or expressive; functional nudity effaces everything in the ‘spectacularity’ of sex.

Pornography, says Baudrillard, amplifies everything, drowning out the background noise, the verisimilitude which gives literature its depth; it is the ‘quadraphonics of sex. It adds a third and fourth track to the sexual act. It is the hallucination of detail that rules.’

Whereas eroticism veils reality, pornography reveals, not reality but an obscene hyperreality, ‘the inexorable, microscopic truth of sex.’

Beatrice Faust, in her book Women, Sex and Pornography, makes the related point that in pornography, not only are the performers anonymous but so are the authors: pornography ‘lacks a maker’s style as well as a maker’s name’. The works considered in Text Acts, however, all carry the individual literary style (if not the name) of their creator. As George Steiner says, in his essay Night

Words, ‘where a Diderot, a Crébillon fils, a Swinburne or an Apollinaire write erotica, the result will have some of the qualities which distinguish their more public works’.

Iwan Bloch, the pioneering sexologist who first published the lost manuscript of the Marquis de Sade’s most extreme novel The 120 Days of Sodom in 1904, made a similar point in The Sexual Life of our Times.

Speaking generally, it is a remarkable phenomenon (and one which is in flat contradiction

to the assertion so frequently made that pornography and true art cannot possibly be associated) that so many spirits of the first rank, great artists either in literature or plastic art, have enriched pornography themselves by works of their own, or, failing this, have at least been notorious lovers of pornography… we must always keep clearly before our minds the distinction between ‘pornography’ and ‘eroticism.’ A book can justly be called obscene only when it has been composed simply, solely, and exclusively for the purpose of producing sexual excitement, when its contents aim at inducing in its readers a condition of coarse and brutish sensuality. This definition clearly excludes all those literary products which, notwithstanding the existence of isolated erotic, or even obscene, passages, are yet composed for purposes radically different from that above described.

In another work, Ethnological and Cultural Studies of the Sex Life in England (according to the title page

it was ‘Privately Issued by Subscription to Cultured Adults Only’ in New York in 1934), Bloch makes it clear that he does not hold any brief for the ‘wretched trash’ of pornography, which is ‘erotic literature in its narrowest sense and is rightfully condemned by society for its pernicious influence in arousing perverse lusts and desires in both young and old.’ It is not that Bloch disapproves of all literature that features sex: ‘The arousing of sexual excitation by literature may often be of the greatest aid to frigid or indifferent wives and husbands,’ by allowing an outlet for the reader’s ‘sexual emotions,’ which he calls katharsis. It is only when a work ‘attempts to arouse perverse desires, not to relieve them by sublimity of language, style, motive etc., that we

can rightfully call the book pornographic, or, in the ambiguous legal sense “obscene.”’

Although Bloch was not impressed by English fiction, he does call Lady Chatterley’s Lover a ‘supreme modern work enabling sex passion,’ a ‘genuine erotic novel, perhaps the finest of its kind, not only in England but in modern literature.’

He also calls Frank Harris’ My Life and Loves the ‘greatest erotic autobiography in the world,’ and Harris himself ‘a colossus who strode across this puny world.’ (The German Bloch and his American publisher use the word English rather too broadly: John Cleland, author of Fanny Hill, which he discusses, was Scottish and Harris was Irish.) In the introduction Bloch talks about the fact that an age and a people may be

judged by the eroticism of their writing.

This universal agreement on the significance of eroticism in the prose and poetry of a people may best be tested for correctness of judgement by an examination of the crassest and grossest expression of eroticism as it is revealed in the so-called ‘obscene’ literature, in the narrower sense.

And, in fact, the character of the English people is mirrored very clearly and distinctly in their erotic literature. Those extreme developments of the English national character, brutality, grossness, eccentricity, stolid pride, are the elements which attract our immediate attention in a far greater degree than in the ordinary works of belles lettres and poesy which, in turn, expose the entire solidarity, profundity, sentimentality, hypochondria and affected prudery of the inner mind of the English nation.

Bloch was not wrong about British prudery. In Volume Six of Studies in the Psychology of Sex – published,

like Bloch’s works in Germany and America – British sexologist Havelock Ellis talks ruefully about how he had naïvely hoped that his scientific studies would be accepted with some degree of respect in his native land. They weren’t.

When only one volume of these Studies had been written and published in England, a prosecution, instigated by the government, put an end to the sale of that volume in England, and led me to resolve that the subsequent volumes should not be

published in my own country. I do not complain. I am grateful for the early and generous sympathy with which my work was received in Germany and the United States, and I recognise that it has had a wider circulation, both in English and the other chief languages of the world, than would have been possible by the modest method of issue which the government of my own country induced me to abandon.

In the introduction to the book Modernist Eroticisms: European Literature after Sexology, the editors equate the rise of both modernist literature and of the literary eroticism that so often accompanies it, with the prevailing social and technological conditions around the turn of the twentieth century that nurtured the works on sexology published by Bloch, Havelock Ellis, Krafft-Ebing and others, as well as the associated rise of psychoanalysis.

The various transformations in the concept of human sexuality, and thus of the erotic, that

occurred in both sexology and psychoanalysis at this time were closely related to specifically modern socio-cultural developments, including secularisation, capitalism, the advent of scientism and positivism, and rapid technological advances, not least in the field of communication…

When conceptions of sexuality

change, literary representations of the erotic will tend to reflect these changes, either by embracing them or by engaging critically with them. This is certainly the case with modernism, in which sexuality and erotic experience play a central role, and in which the heritage of sexology and psychoanalysis is very much in evidence. Diverse forms of sexual desire are at the heart of many of the major avant-garde movements of the early twentieth century.

In Modernism and Perversion: Sexual Deviance in Sexology and Literature, 1850 – 1930, one of the same authors, Anna Schaffner, makes a similar point: the turn of the century saw a rise in interest in and expression of what had been considered the unsayable, which led to new ways of saying it: hence the modernist revolution in literary style as well as the inclusion of formerly taboo content. ‘The modern sexual perversions, which include homosexuality, sadism, masochism, fetishism, voyeurism, and exhibitionism, preoccupied the

cultural imagination.’ And similarly, in Obscene Modernism: Literary Censorship & Experiment 1900 – 1940, Rachel Potter shows how modernist writers stretched ideas of what could be written about as well as the ways in which it could be written about.

Sexualised obscene bodies, bodies that deliberately violated historically specific religious and legal taboos – Connie and Mellors having sex in the grounds of an aristocratic estate in Lady Chatterley’s Lover or Leopold

Bloom masturbating while listening to the church choir in Ulysses – were common in modernist texts.

But there were also representations of the obscene boundaries of the human form: Molly Bloom’s menstruating flow at the end of Ulysses, Fresca pissing in the street in the first draft of The Waste Land, the description of Bloom ‘easing his bowels’ in Ulysses, or Nathanael West’s journey up the anus of the Trojan horse in The Dream Life of Balso Snell, explored and stretched the fluid boundaries of the human subject… Other taboo bodies appeared in modernist and avantgarde texts, such as the sexualised physical parts of Djuna Barnes’ Ladies Almanack. There were the colloquial dirty words that were shouted from modernist texts: the fucks, sluts, bitches, and c***s of Joyce’s, Lawrence’s, Henry Miller’s, Lawrence Durrell’s, and Barnes’ texts.ost modernist literature of course is ‘really written’ in TS Eliot’s sense, though, as I argued in my book Amongst Those Left, stylistic experiment in literature, or at least in the novel, more or less ended around 1980 and around that time

literary transgressiveness became more about content – especially taboo-breaking sexual content – than literary style.I will be excluding from Text Acts works which, in my opinion, do not have this literary or writerly quality; as Pisanus Fraxi (Henry Spencer Ashbee) said of the works he had chosen to include in his monumental, three-volume Index of Forbidden Books in the 1890s, ‘I have been attracted by

masterpieces, and have neglected the unartistic.’ I will also exclude work which, in framing the 1857 Obscene Publication Act in the UK, Lord Campbell would have described as being ‘written for the single purpose of corrupting the morals of youth and of nature calculated to shock the common feelings of decency in any wellregulated mind.’

This definition was intended to exclude works from the Act which had ‘literary merit’, a term which was severely tested in the courts much later. Charles Rembar, the attorney who defended Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Tropic of Cancer and Fanny Hill in their American obscenity trials, wrote a detailed and fascinating history of obscenity trials in twentiethcentury America in his 1966 book The End of Obscenity.

The book details the rapid evolution of the concept of ‘literary merit’ as a defence against the charge of obscenity and the banning of books.

In 1956 the concept did not exist at all. In 1966 it was full-grown and dominant, and turned a hard hand against censorship, and laid an exceedingly gentle one on the freedom to write and publish.

The idea was this: no matter what the courts and the legislatures had traditionally deemed ‘obscene’ – no matter what the term meant to lay men or to lawyers – the government could not suppress a book if it had merit as literature.

In the intervening ten years, the trials of the three books Rembar defended completely changed the landscape.

Before these cases, literary merit had occasionally been a factor in obscenity prosecutions, but a subordinate one.

The ultimate question was whether the writing was lustful – that is, whether it excited a sexual response. If it did, it was obscene, and if it was obscene it could be banned and its author and publisher sent to jail. Now, only a few years later, the law is

that the sexual content of a book, and the sexual stirrings it may provoke in its readers, cannot condemn work that has any literary value.

This was something of a reversal of previous norms, which amounted to the idea that good writing makes the content even more offensive. In 1959, when Barney Rosset’s Grove Press had taken the American Post Office to court to try to reverse the ban on mailing Lady Chatterley’s Lover, (Rosset himself tells this and

other stories wonderfully in My Life in Publishing and How I Fought Censorship), the Post Office told the court that ‘the excellence of Lawrence’s descriptions make it all the more necessary to ban the book.’

Much earlier, during the First World War, a police solicitor in the UK, referring to the seizure of DH Lawrence’s The Rainbow said in similar terms that the book was obscene despite the fact that the obscenity ‘was wrapped up in language which I suppose will be regarded in some quarters as an artistic and intellectual effort’.

Sometimes it worked the other way though: works that were ‘really written,’ in other words, works that obscured their subject, and were not likely to be read or even understood by the general public, might escape censorship – it didn't help Ulysses but the realistic Well of Loneliness was banned because of its lesbianism, despite never going further than, ‘and that night, they were not divided,’ whereas the modernist Nightwood wasn’t. There is even an argument that the very quality of the writing, by a literary author with a moral intent, might increase our disgust with the

subject: in the spoof foreword to Lolita, the fictional John Ray argues that it is precisely the quality of Humbert’s writing that turns us against him: ‘how magically his singing violin can conjure up a tendresse, a compassion for Lolita that makes us entranced with the book while abhorring its author!’

As Rembar says, ‘up to 1966, some judges denounced good writing on the ground that it made a pernicious book all the more effective: well-written obscenity was the worst kind.’ He points out that the police generally turned a blind eye to ‘whip and jockstrap one-shots’ while prosecuting what purported to be serious literature: ‘nothing infuriates the vigilante so much as the combination of sex and intellect;’ that combination is the exact subject of Text Acts.

By 1966, Rembar says, ‘the law recognised two kinds of books: literature, which produces cortical responses, or in any case emotional responses from somewhere above the belt, and pornography, which gets you in the groin. The categories were treated as mutually exclusive.’

In her 1967 essay The Pornographic Imagination, the critic Susan

Sontag, along with Rembar (and of course me in this survey), disagrees with this mutual exclusivity.

Relatively uncommon as they may be, there are writings which it seems reasonable to call pornographic – assuming that the stale label has any use at all – which, at the same time, cannot be refused accreditation as serious literature.

However, Sontag then goes on to identify four reasons why literature and pornography may be considered mutually exclusive by some people: pornography is single-minded where literature is complex; pornography does not have a beginning a middle and an end; pornography is not concerned with the means of expression, since it seeks to evoke ‘non-verbal fantasies;’ literature is concerned with complex emotions and interpersonal relationships between fully-formed individuals whereas pornography is only concerned with the physical. It seems to me that Sontag is wrong about this: many works of modernism with no hint of the erotic – Waiting for Godot for example – fail all four of her tests while undoubtedly being literature.

Another critic who wrote about the status of eroticism in literature, but much earlier, was the surrealist poet Robert Desnos – whose erotic novel Liberty or Love we will be looking at later – in his short book On Eroticism: considered in its written manifestations and from the point of view of the modern spirit (written in 1923 but not published until 1953 and still not

available in English). Desnos echoes Rembar’s distinction of the ‘above and below the belt’ effects of different kinds of writing and in the preface he introduces some useful definitions.

Eroticism: All that relates to love to evoke it, to provoke it, to express it, to satisfy it, etc.

Erotic literature: Which possesses one or several of the attributions of eroticism – which treats of love.

Obscenity: all that contradicts customs and prejudices in love and modesty Pornography: obscene literature limited to the lower faculties (cerebrospinal). Pejorative or not, according to the cerebricity [cérébralité] of who employs it.

In general, the novels included in this study are by authors with a high degree of cerebricity, including DH Lawrence, who, in addition to a string of novels with a high erotic content, wrote a pamphlet called Pornography and Obscenity, 1929, where he discussed this issue.

Although he does not use the words erotic or eroticism, Lawrence does distinguish between the ‘sex appeal’ that is a key part of great art and literature (of which he approves), and that which is mere pornography (of which he doesn’t).

Even quite advanced art critics would try to make us believe that any picture or book which had ‘sex appeal’ was ipso facto a bad book or picture. This is just canting hypocrisy. Half the great poems, pictures, music, stories of the whole world are great by virtue of the beauty of their sex appeal.

Lawrence says that pornography is not bad because it ‘arouses sexual feelings… I think not. No matter how hard we may pretend otherwise, most of us rather like a moderate rousing of our sex. It warms us,

stimulates us like sunshine on a grey day.’

But even I would censor genuine pornography, rigorously. It would not be very difficult. In the first place, genuine pornography is almost always underworld, it doesn’t come into the open. In the second, you can recognise it by the insult it offers, invariably, to sex, and to the human spirit.

Pornography is the attempt to insult sex, to do dirt on it. This is unpardonable.

Lawrence says that whereas writing like his celebrates sex, pornography degrades it. Pornography, he says, encourages masturbation whereas writing that celebrates sex encourages openness between sexually-aware, adult individuals.

Masturbation produces nothing, generates nothing and encourages narcissism, which focus on the self rather than on others and on society.

For Lawrence, masturbation is the opposite of passion: his ultimate goal in life. In Women in Love, Birkin criticises Hermione for her lack of it: ‘what you want is pornography – looking at yourself in

mirrors, watching your naked animal actions in mirrors, so that you can have it all in your consciousness, make it all mental.’

For Lawrence, the physical always trumped the mental. However, in his book Sexual Fiction, Maurice Charney denies that Lawrence’s analysis of pornography is helpful.

One could protest that Lawrence’s sanitized and pornography-less sex is sex without demonic energy. In most sexual writing, secrecy is a

necessary stimulus to the erotic imagination. Lawrence hardly offers a logical definition at all, since he uses ‘pornography’ as a dirty word… Lawrence’s argument about pornography is thoroughly circular.

Henry Miller, who, like Lawrence was attacked throughout his life by the censors, also wrote a pamphlet discussing pornography and obscenity called The World of Sex, 1940. Talking about the writing of Tropic of Cancer, he says: ‘Liberally larded with sex as was that work, the concern of its author was not with sex, nor with religion, but with the problem of self-liberation.’ Although Miller does not himself make this point, writers of pornography are not generally concerned with selfexpression or self-liberation but with the sexual release of the reader; Miller was far more concerned about himself.

Tropic of Cancer is a bloodsoaked testament revealing the ravages of my struggle in the womb of death. The strong odor of sex which it purveys is really the aroma of birth; it is

disagreeable or repulsive only to those who fail to recognise its significance.

This ‘strong odor of sex’ that Miller evokes relies on graphic and unflinching imagery; the use of words designed to shock rather than to arouse: they are in fact deliberately obscene rather than erotic or even pornographic.

Discussing Ulysses, Arnold Bennett

said that it was ‘not pornographic, but it is more indecent, obscene, scatological and licentious than the majority of professedly pornographic books.’ And so it is. In one of his many letters to James Joyce objecting to what he considered Joyce’s gratuitous emphasis on the lavatorial, Ezra Pound coined the wonderful word ‘arsethetic’, which sums it up nicely.

Anyone buying Ulysses for the naughty bits would be very disappointed to have struggled through over seven hundred pages

of the densest, most writerly writing before coming to Molly Bloom’s monologue of pure jouissance, which contains what Joyce called the ‘four cardinal points… the female breasts, arse, womb and c***.’

Ill put on my best shift and drawers let him have a good eyeful out of that to make his micky stand for him Ill let him know if thats what he wanted that his wife is fucked yes and damn well fucked too up to my neck nearly not by him 5 or 6 times handrunning theres the mark of his spunk on the clean sheet I wouldnt bother to even iron it out that ought to satisfy him if you dont believe me feel my belly unless I make him stand there and put him into me Ive a mind to tell him every scrap and make him do it in front of me serve him right its all his own fault if I am an adulteress as the thing in the gallery said O much about it if thats all the harm ever we did in this vale of tears God knows its not much doesnt everybody only they hide it I suppose that's what a woman is supposed to be there for or He

wouldnt have made us the way He did so attractive to men then if he wants to kiss my bottom Ill drag open my drawers and bulge it right out in his face as large as life he can stick his tongue 7 miles up my hole as hes there my brown part then Ill tell him I want £1 or perhaps 30/ You may or may not consider this to be great writing but it is definitely ‘really written’ and it is certainly not pornography; Ulysses is much too heavy to be read with one hand.

Another very writerly writer accused of being a pornographer was Vladimir Nabokov, whose Lolita is perhaps even more shocking today, with our greater awareness of paedophilia, than it was then. It is also by no means pornography, though, as Nabokov pointed out in an essay called ‘A Book Entitled Lolita’, some people bought it for that reason, ‘assuming that this was going to be a lewd book. They expected the rising succession of erotic scenes; when they stopped, readers stopped, too, and felt bored and let down.’ Pornography, as Nabokov points out, has to keep delivering on its promise; it needs to

be, as Barthes would say, readerly – oriented toward the reader’s immediate needs – not writerly – oriented to the writer’s selfexpression. In pornography, the jouissance needs to be literal not metaphorical, the gratification physical not intellectual. As in any genre fiction, style and structure, as well as content, must follow a welldefined arc; this precludes, is incompatible with, originality and individuality. As Nabokov says:

In modern times the term pornography connotes mediocrity, commercialism, and

certain strict rules of narration.

Obscenity must be mated with banality because every kind of aesthetic enjoyment has to be entirely replaced by simple sexual stimulation which demands the traditional word for direct action upon the patient.

Old rigid rules must be followed by the pornographer in order to have his patient fed the same security of satisfaction as, for example, fans of detective stories feel… Thus, in pornographic novels, action has to be limited to the copulation of clichés. Style, structure, imagery should never distract the reader from his tepid lust. The novel must consist of an alternation of sexual scenes…

Moreover, the sexual scenes in the book must follow a crescendo line, with new variations, new combinations, new sexes, and a steady increase in the number of participants.

The Nabokov specialist Alfred Appel, a former student on Nabokov’s Literature 311-312 course at Cornell University – dubbed Dirty Lit because it covered the likes of Madam Bovary and Ulysses –

recalled in his later introduction to Lolita how he had bought the book while in the American army in Paris.

‘Hey, lemme read your dirty book,’ says a fellow soldier. ‘Read it aloud,’ says another. He does. But, while still on the first page, he throws it against the wall in disgust. ‘It’s GodDamn Litachure!!’ In How to Write a Dirty Story, Susie Bright tells a similar story of how, when she was thirteen, a friend gave her The Godfather – not, admittedly the greatest literature – and told her to

read page twenty-seven. Bright did.

‘Did you read the good part?'

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But, you know, the whole book is really good; I'm way past page twenty-seven now.’

‘You're reading the whole book? You are such a moron!’

Of course, since most people are put off by the idea of literature, it is in the publisher’s interest for serious, literary work to be labelled pornography and banned. Books by respected but formerly obscure literary authors – Nabokov's Lolita, Joyce's Ulysses, Miller's Tropic of Cancer, Ginsberg’s Howl – benefited enormously in terms of sales from being banned or labelled as pornography. How many of Nabokov’s other novels can most people name? He himself said that it was Lolita who was famous not himself. When the novel was first published in 1955 it had no reviews and almost no sales. Then, the next year, the British novelist Graham Greene listed it in the highlyrespected, establishment British newspaper The Times as one of the best books of the year. The editor of

the Daily Express immediately accused Greene and The Times of peddling pornography, and the rest is history. Nabokov was soon able to give up his university teaching job and concentrate on writing more literary but obscure novels.

In the Sadeian Woman, Angela Carter agrees with the idea that wellwritten pornography is more dangerous than badly-written, but for a different reason. Pornography in general, she says, ‘is made by and addressed to the politically

dominant minority in the world, as an instrument of repression, not only of women, but of men too.’

Pornography is ‘the orphan little sister of the arts,’ and there can be ‘no question of an aesthetics of pornography. It can never be art for art’s sake.’ Pornography is necessarily conventional and predictable, ‘there is no room here for tension or the unexpected’.

Pornography thus supports the existing power structures. But wellwritten pornography can change people's ideas, ‘the more pornographic writing acquires the techniques of real literature, of real art, the more deeply subversive it is likely to be in that the more likely it is to affect the reader’s perceptions of the world.’ However, says Carter, the more ‘writerly’ the pornography, the fewer people will read it: ‘once pornography is labelled “art” or “literature” it is stamped with the approval of an elitist culture and many ordinary people will avoid it on principle, out of fear of being bored’.

The British novelist JG Ballard, writing about his own novel Crash – which some people saw as fetishist pornography – argued that, while it

is true that pornography reflects current male/female power structures, the revealing of those structures is, or at least can be, a positive political act on behalf of the writer. ‘In a sense, pornography is the most political form of fiction,

dealing with how we use and exploit each other, in the most urgent and ruthless way’. Unlike written-forpurpose pornography, the Litachure I will be looking at in Text Acts, though it may be Dirty Lit, is not generally designed to assist the

reader’s lust, tepid or otherwise.

Therefore it is not limited to cliché and does not necessarily have to involve any overt sexual acts or explicit sexual words: arguably, the more explicit the language the less erotic the effect; Joyce’s ‘arsethetic’

language and DH Lawrence’s very blunt use of sexual terms are examples. Comparing the coarseness of Henry Miller’s language to the refinement of his lover Anaïs Nin’s makes this point very well. She differentiates between ‘Henry

Miller’s explicitness and my ambiguities; between his humorous, Rabelaisian view of sex and my poetic descriptions of sexual relationships’. Nin herself wrote ‘poetic’ novels and published a book advocating the poetic novel; virtually every sentence she ever wrote was erotic, partly because she never used crude language. After meeting Henry Miller she tried it his way, unsuccessfully. ‘I have dipped into obscenity, dirt, and his world of “shit, c***, prick, bastard, crotch, bitch” and am on the way up again…

Again and again I have traversed the regions of realism and found them arid. And again I return to poetry.’

Nin said that women needed a different, less explicit, more poetic language, free of obscenity and crudity to describe their experiences.

‘I had a feeling that Pandora’s box contained the mysteries of woman’s sensuality, so different from man’s and for which man’s language was inadequate.’

But since Miller and Lawrence, readers have come to expect rude words in their dirty books. The foreword to Lolita ‘warns’ the reader that there is ‘not a single obscene term is to be found in the whole

work; indeed, the robust philistine who is conditioned by modern conventions into accepting without qualms a lavish array of four-letter words in a banal novel, will be quite shocked by the absence here.’

Introducing a 1959 surrealist exhibition, André Breton, one of the cofounders of surrealism, says: ‘It goes without saying that the surrealist concept of eroticism rejects, to start with, anything in the nature of vulgar suggestiveness.’

And this is not, according to Breton at least, prudishness, but because vulgarity is the opposite of eroticism. He quotes with approval the author of the preface to the Dictionnaire Érotique Latin-Français of 1885: Despite all the reasons that may be put forward in favour of

speaking frankly and avoiding prudery, I am inclined to share the aversion of many people towards those words which we are told are the language of love, which smell bad and make dirty stains on the paper on which they are written.

Breton agrees: ‘it is indeed only at this price that eroticism, rescued from shame, can claim the high place to which it is entitled.’ Breton's secretary and collaborator, the philosopher and art historian Sarane Alexandrian, in the introduction to his Histoire de la Littérature Érotique, said that erotica was merely pornography with ‘something else added’ and that the important distinction was between the erotic and the obscene.

‘In this case, we believe that eroticism is everything that makes

the flesh desirable, that shows it in its best light or in the blossom, gives an impression of health, beauty, delightful play; whereas the obscene degrades the flesh, associated with filth, infirmities, scatological jokes, dirty words.’ And the novelist Italo Calvino, in his essay ‘Definitions of Territories: Eroticism’ said, ‘sexuality in literature is a language in which what is not said is more important than what is.’ Roland Barthes agrees: Is not the most erotic portion of a body where the garment gapes?

In perversion (which is the realm of textual pleasure) there are no ‘erogenous zones’ (a foolish expression, besides); it is intermittence, as psychoanalysis as so rightly stated, which is erotic: the intermittence of skin flashing between two articles of clothing (trousers and sweater), between two edges (the opennecked shirt, the glove and the sleeve); it is this flash itself which seduces, or rather: the staging of an appearance-asdisappearance.

In fact, to be erotic, a text need not even mention sex: in his book The Erotic Imagination: French Histories of Perversity, Vernon A Rosario points out that the French word érotique first occurs in a printed text in 1825 in a manual on gastronomy, in reference to truffles.

‘Who says truffle, pronounces a great word that awakens erotic and gourmand memories among the sex in skirts, and gourmand and erotic memories among the sex with

beards.’ As Fiona Pitt-Kethley says in The Literary Companion to Sex, ‘erotic literature and literature about sex are not necessarily the same.’

Anaïs Nin wrote, unwittingly, a perfect description of what is pornographic versus what is erotic, describing the time when she and her collaborators were writing ‘erotica’ to order at a dollar a page.

But in fact what was required was not erotica but pornography. The collector who was paying them kept saying: ‘Less poetry. Be specific.’ But for Nin, poetry was the necessary aphrodisiac; she could not write about ‘clinical sex, deprived of all the warmth of love – orchestration of all the senses, touch, hearing, sight, palate; all the euphoric accompaniments, background music, mood, atmosphere, variations.’ The collector ‘knew nothing of the beatitudes, ecstasies, dazzling reverberations of sexual encounters.’ He wanted to read pornography, they wanted to write erotic literature. They wrote him a letter.

Sex loses all its power and magic when it becomes explicit, mechanical, overdone, when it

becomes a mechanistic obsession.

It becomes a bore. You have to water it down. More than anyone I know how wrong it is not to mix it with emotion, hunger, desire, lust, whims, caprices, personal ties, deeper relationships that change its colour, flavour, rhythms, intensities.

You do not know what you are missing by your microscopic examination of sexual activity to the exclusion of aspects which are the fuel that ignites it.

Intellectual, imaginative, romantic, emotional. That is what gives sex its surprising textures, its subtle transformations, its aphrodisiac elements. You are shrinking your world of sensations. You are withering it, starving it, draining its blood.

In The Future of the Novel, Nin defined erotic writing – as opposed to sexual writing – in positive, rather than negative terms in relation to

the American novelist Maude Hutchins (I have written at length about Hutchins in my book Girls in Bloom: Coming of Age in MidTwentieth Century Women’s Fiction): She is one of our few erotic writers, and by erotic I mean something quite different from sexual. We have many direct anatomical sexual writers. Very few erotic. By erotic I mean the totality of sexual experience, its atmosphere, mood, sensual flavors, mystery, vibrations, the state of ecstasy into which it may plungers, the full range of the senses and emotions which accompany, surround it, and which the explicit flat clinical descriptions destroy.

Rowan Pelling, the founder and former editor of the magazine Erotic Review also wrote about the delicate, subtle and allusive nature of the erotic compared to the crudity and explicitness of the pornographic. Distinguishing between them in the introduction to the magazine’s Bedside Companion she said that the office’s motto was,

blessed relief of orgasm. The evanescence of a feather evokes the subtle nature of eroticism, with its instant appeal to the mind before it triggers a response in the groin (unlike the hard-core stuff, where the appeal to the groin is instantaneous).

‘the erotic is what you do with a feather; the perverse involves the whole bird.’ Using similar aboveand below-the-belt terms to Rembar and Desnos, she says that this motto reminds us that the erotic, at its finest exposition, is at ease, that the tickling of a feather can keep a victim in a frenzy of anticipation without ever releasing the prisoner to the

In the home page of Pelling’s latest online magazine venture, she makes a similar distinction: ‘The Amorist seeks to counter the modern tendency to see sex through a purely functional prism. We applaud the notion of courtship, flirtation, mystery and erotic connection.’ However, Jamie Maclean, the editor of Erotic Review’s anthology Desire: 100 of Literature’s Sexiest Stories does not even attempt definitions of eroticism and pornography and rejects the use of the word erotic; he says that the word erotica has finally acquired a genteel, middle-class patina… So, significantly, the word ‘erotic’ is absent from the title. Instead, we’ve used the word ‘sexy’.

Though perhaps a little pedestrian, I still find this a more

Sexiness might have been a good subtitle for Text Acts.) But although Maclean does not want to get involved in distinguishing the erotic from the pornographic, he does distinguish between ‘harmless slap and tickle’ and novels like Story of O and those of the Marquis de Sade, which contain ‘a good deal more slap.’ On the other hand, the editors of nerve.com’s Literate Smut take the territorial dispute between erotica and pornography head on, aiming their offerings at a point somewhere in between, though they do not shy away from ‘delivering the goods’. honest and inclusive adjective, and I’m content to leave the debate of what is erotic and what is pornographic to the people who so love to take issue with those words.’

Sexy is indeed a good and honest word to apply to a work of literature, though not everyone has always thought so: in 1915 a critic called DH Lawrence's The Rainbow ‘an orgie of sexiness;’ he meant it as an insult but it should be taken as a fine compliment. (Orgies of Literary

Nerve has set out to be more graphic, forthright, and topical than ‘erotica,’ but less blockheadedly masculine than ‘pornography.’ It’s about sexual literature, art, and politics as well as about getting off – and we realise that these interests sometimes conflict. Erotica does not always understand this – that once our desire reaches a certain clip, attempts at artistry become annoying obstacles in the path of the nouns and verbs (or

precious pixels) that deliver the goods.

Margaret Reynolds, editor of Erotica: Women’s Writing from Sappho to Margaret Attwood, says that for her, pornography ‘consists of those depictions of sexuality which are used exploitatively and selfishly. Erotica consists of those portraits which are used honestly and with love.’ Of course, not all serious writers, and not even all serious female writers, are afraid of

being associated with pornography.

Susie Bright, labelled ‘the goddess of American erotica,’ uses the word erotica in her book titles, ‘because I want to attract the widest spectrum of readers,’ but says she is not ‘the least bit offended by the word porn; if anything, I hate the stereotypes and prejudices that get heaped upon it.’ Bright says that, ‘the very word erotic implies superior value, fine art – an aesthetic that elevates the mind, and incidentally stimulates the body,’ but that the word pornography implies work that ‘represents the dark, gutter side of lust.’

Therefore, ‘women’s pornography’ is seen, wrongly, as a contradiction in terms. But this is because literature has not yet fully explored, nor even developed a language to describe, women's ‘secret garden,’ more than 40 years since Nancy Friday's 1973 book of that name recounting women's sexual fantasies. Bright says she started writing erotica because, ‘I became frustrated at how little reading matter was available, for women in particular, about our sexual lives and stories. It occurred to me that even though feminism had ignited a

revolution in consciousness about women’s bodies, we hadn’t really gone all the way into woman’s erotic mind.’ Unlike male pornography, which is formulaic, literature that arouses women takes many forms.

We are enmeshed in a semantic struggle for words that will describe our sexual creativity.

What turns women on? And why have we been silent on the subject for so long? As we begin to reveal, in detail, the complexity and scope of our sexual desires,

the appropriate language will evolve.

At least we can get one thing straight before we wander down the path of feminine hedonism: some women want the stars, some the sleaze. Some desire the nostalgia of the ordinary, some the punch of the kinky. And some want all of it. Our sexual minds travel everywhere and embrace every emotion. Our sexual fiction is not so different from men’s in terms of physical content. Its uniqueness lies in the detail of our physical description, in our vulnerability, and in the often confessional quality of our speech in this new territory.

Anne Rice, best known for her vampire novels, of which she has sold over 100 million, is also not afraid of the word pornography; she wrote erotic retellings in her Sleeping Beauty series under the pseudonym A N Roquelaure for many years. She said that she wanted to write for women who would read romance novels and highlight the ‘hot’ passages – she wanted to write novels that were ‘all hot’. Rice points out that for many

women the very idea of a pale, male, blood-loving vampire is erotic already, but she wanted to go further. ‘What I write is out-and-out pornography,’ she said. ‘I think it’s a fine word. The only reason I don't use it more often is it gets all misunderstood, and people want to call it erotica.’

Of course, not all women regard pornography as a ‘fine word,’ nor all erotica as harmless slap and tickle.

The feminist Andrea Dworkin made the opposite point to Anne Rice much earlier, in 1979. For her, erotica and pornography are equally

guilty.

In the male sexual lexicon, which is the vocabulary of power, erotica is simply high-class pornography: better produced, better conceived, better executed, better packaged, designed for a better class of consumer. As with the call girl and the streetwalker, one is turned out better but both are produced by the same system of sexual values and both perform the same sexual service.

Dworkin also said that the ‘common erotic project of destroying women makes it possible for men to unite into a brotherhood; this project is the only firm and trustworthy groundwork for cooperation among males and all male bonding is based on it.’ But this assumes that all erotica is written or controlled and commissioned by men and is intended to degrade women. This, as we will see, is not true: nearly half the books in this survey were written by women (though women’s erotica only starts around the 1950s). Some were admittedly commissioned from women by men for a male readership and to appeal to male

fantasies, but in most cases even these are clearly written from a woman’s perspective.

Dworkin’s sometime collaborator, Catharine MacKinnon, in the ironically-titled Only Words (published by Harvard University Press as late as 1993), also asserted that all erotica degrades women. ‘To express eroticism is to engage in eroticism, meaning to perform a sexual act. To say it is to do it, and to do it is to say it. It is also to do the harm of it and to exacerbate the

harms surrounding it. In this context, unrecognized by law, it is to practise sex inequality as well as to express it.’ This is obviously not true: to write down a fantasy is not to act it out, any more than to write a murder story is to enact a murder.

It also assumes that all sex does harm and that even writing about sexual activity involves the subjugation of women. This not only excludes gay and lesbian sex but consensual, even tender, loving and considerate heterosexual sex described from a woman’s point of view, or by a man who does not actually hate and want to harm women. Also as late as 1993, Emma Donoghue in Passions Between Women: British Lesbian Culture 1668-1801 makes the same mistake of assuming that all male-created pornography involves appalling violence, mutilation and even death for the women involved.

It has often been assumed on slim evidence that women did not read erotica. (I am not talking about hard pornography here; none of the texts I will be dealing with features the violent rape, mutilation and murder which are

the stuff of modern porn, and to emphasise this distinction I use the milder term erotica.)

Simulated rape may be a feature of some porn but surely ‘mutilation’ is never seen in porn movies, certainly not in the mainstream, and as far as I know, no one has ever conclusively proved the existence of ‘snuff’ movies. The emergence in the 1970s of the feminist argument that pornography causes literal harm to women, via men enacting the violence embedded in societal power

structures, was in fact a major shift in the centuries-old fight against ‘immoral’ literature.

In Sexual Personae, Camille Paglia argues against the Dworkian view that pornography equates to violence against women. ‘Sexuality and eroticism are the intricate intersection of nature and culture.

Feminists grossly oversimplify the problem of sex when they reduce it to a matter of social convention. . . feminism, like all liberal movements of the past two hundred years, is heir to Rousseau,’ specifically to his Social Contract of 1762.

Rousseau rejects original sin, Christianity’s pessimistic view of man born unclean, with a propensity for evil. Rousseau’s idea, derived from Locke, of man’s innate goodness led to social environmentalism, now the dominant ethic of American human services, penal codes, and behaviorist therapies. It assumes that aggression, violence, and crime come from social deprivation—a poor neighborhood, a bad home. Thus feminism blames rape on pornography and, by a smug

circularity of reasoning, interprets outbreaks of sadism as a backlash to itself. But rape and sadism have been evident throughout history and, at some moment, in all cultures.

Walter Kendrick argues in The Secret Museum: Pornography in Modern Culture that previous moral guardians had been concerned for the well-being of the impressionable, innocent and mostly female Young Person, but in the 1970s the Young Person appeared to change shape, from vulnerable Young Woman to sexually violent Young Man. She rose slowly, and in a weird, degenerate form. Her sex had been ambiguous all along; she had been female and male by turns and simultaneously, depending on the bias of her selfappointed defender. At first, she had been young; later, youth expanded to include retarded adulthood. She had always been poor, in either money or wisdom; this attribute stays with her. As befits her stunted intelligence, she reads little, preferring the more immediate stimulation of

pictures, videotapes, and live performances. The danger she poses is as great as ever, perhaps greater, because now she threatens actual physical harm to others. She no longer wastes away in solitude, the victim of a private vice that will eventually doom the race but at present wrecks only one person. Her internal decrepitude is no longer of special concern; she can masturbate till her brain rots,

and no one will lift a finger to stop her. What makes the reborn Young Person frightening is that, like the media she favours, the crimes she commits are direct and violent. She oppresses, degrades, murders and rapes women – not in imagination, but in grim reality. She does this because, after a century of ambivalence, she has emerged unequivocally and exclusively male.

In 1986, feminist Susanne Kappeler had argued in The Pornography of Representation that feminism had got the terms of the debate wrong: pornography is not ‘a special case of sexuality; it is a form of representation… the traditional debate has focused on ‘porn’ at the expense of ‘graphy,’ concerning itself with ‘forms of sexuality we disapprove of,’ and which we do not want represented. But, Kappeler said, feminists should concentrate on representations, word- or imagebased, or, to be more precise, representational practices, rather than sexual practices. The fact of representation needs to be foregrounded: we are not just dealing with ‘contents’. Sex or sexual practices do not just exist out there, waiting to be represented; rather, there is a dialectical relationship between representational practices which construct sexuality, and actual sexual practices, each informing the other.

Modernism and post-modernism, of course typically question the

Flaubertian, realist view that the writer simply holds up a mirror to society, that literature simply represents the world objectively, as it is. As the novelist Claude Simon put it, literature is neither a reproduction nor a part of reality. It is in itself a reality ‘Writing does not reproduce, it produces (something that did not exist before having been written).’

Susie Bright, one of Andrea Dworkin's most vocal critics and vice

versa – Dworkin said she should be ‘assassinated’ – said, in her book Inspired by Andrea Dworkin, ‘to disagree with Dworkin on the sex question practically defines the wave of feminists that came after her,’ while admitting that Dworkin was, ‘the first intellectual to critique pornography at all… She inspired a whole new generation of critics like me, who have looked at sex with a thoughtful and aesthetic eye which would have been considered absurd in previous times.’ In The Sexual State of the Union, Bright objects to ‘women trying to slap chastity belts on their sisters… Nothing reminds a woman more of her second-class status than having her daddy AND her big sisters tell her what to do.’

In her introduction to Desire: 100 of Literature’s Sexiest Stories, Mariella Frostrup gives a recent woman’s view that is also very different to Dworkin’s. She sees imagination, especially literary imagination, as essential to erotica, which is harmless, but also points out that pornography and its harmful effects are a product of a narrow, particularly male imagination.

As human beings, our ability to imagine things we refrain from doing is more impressive than our capacity for doing things we can’t imagine. The state of human arousal is far more closely connected to a world we conjure than the one in which we spend our daily lives. The best sex, even while you’re physically engaged in doing it, involves an ability to rise above the mechanics. Or is this just a woman’s point of view?

Our engagement with, and attitude to, physical passion can seem the one area where men and women really do come from different planets. The products of the contemporary, maledominated porn industry, with its relentless pounding and abusing of female bodies via every orifice and in positions even the Kamasutra failed to dream up, suggests so.

When Nancy Friday published her collection of women's erotic fantasies, My Secret Garden in 1973 even female-centric magazines like Cosmopolitan criticised it, saying women did not really have erotic fantasies, only men. Before she

embarked on this ground-breaking project, Friday herself had been writing a novel; she had planned to devote ‘one entire chapter in the book to the long idyllic reverie of the heroine’s sexual fantasies.’ But her male editor said didn’t like the way it portrayed the heroine, as he had never read anything like it; ‘the very point of writing a novel, I thought.’

When Henry Miller, DH Lawrence and Norman Mailer – to say nothing of Genet – put

their fantasies on paper, they are recognised for what they can be, art. The sexual fantasies of men like these are called novels. Why then, I could have asked my editor can’t the sexual fantasies of women be called the same?

Today they can, and they are, thanks largely to women like Friday, Bright, Rice, Pelling and Frostrup. Recently, some women authors have delved even further into the realms of taboo and dark fantasy than male writers;

the majority of truly transgressive literature today is probably written by women more than men.

I will only be considering in this survey works written in English, French and German, partly because of my own linguistic inadequacy in any other languages and partly because of the sheer volume of material available. Including Japanese and Latin-American novels would have dramatically increased the size of Text Acts and I would have been personally unable to go back to the original language to check translations. I would have loved to include Junichiro Tanizaki’s deeply erotic novels The Secret History of the Lord Musashi; Naomi; Quicksand; Some Prefer Nettles; The Key, and Diary of a Mad Old Man, as well as Yasunari Kawabata’s House of the Sleeping Beauties, not to mention Ryu Murakami’s (Haruki Murakami’s much edgier namesake) In the Miso Soup; Audition; Tokyo Decadence and Almost Transparent Blue.

By not including Latin-American writers I have deprived myself and the reader of, at least, Maria Vargas Llosa’s The Notebooks of Don Rigoberto and In Praise of the

Stepmother; Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ Memories of my Melancholy Whores; Octavio Paz’ The Double Flame; Guillermo Cabrea Infante’s Infante’s Inferno and Paolo Coelho’s Adultery.

I have arbitrarily ended Text Acts somewhere in the early 1980s, when literary eroticism in the West seems to falter if not to die out, and a new, more aggressive literature, the literature of transgressiveness seems to take over; in an era where simple, explicit writing about sex and the use of dirty words does not shock anymore, some authors felt the need to go further and transgress other taboos, especially women: Kathy Acker, Heather Lewis, Pat Califia, Katherine Breillat, Alina Reyes, Virginie Despentes, and Japanese novelists like Rieko Matsura; Amy Yamada; Ami Sakurai and Hitomi Kanehara, whose novels are told in affectless, deadpan prose where sex is described without eroticism.

The decision to end in the early 80s also sadly excludes some personal favourite male authors like Chuck Palahniuk, Nicholson Baker and Stewart Home. And it leaves out all the recent queer literature by the likes of Pat Califia, Jeremy Reed and

Dennis Cooper. I have excluded JG Ballard’s Crash and The Atrocity Exhibition as I have already written extensively about Ballard in my book Amongst Those Left: The British Experimental Novel 1940-1960.

I have also excluded the erotic novels of the wonderful Maude Hutchins as I have written about her in another book, Girls in Bloom: Coming of Age in Mid-Twentieth Century Women’s Fiction. And by

concentrating heavily on the novel I have left out erotic poetry such as that by ee cummings and Anne Sexton as well as Allen Ginsberg’s Howl (I wrote extensively about Howl in Everybody I Can Think of Ever) and stage works like Oh Calcutta.

I have only included works that have been translated into English and are, or have recently been readily available in print or as ebooks. I will generally use the most common English title and quote from the most widely available English translation. Just occasionally, where I feel that the

translation fails to capture something important about the writerliness of the language – the jouissance – of the original I may compare the two.

Great writing about sex, the perfect combination: jouissance at the intellectual and physical levels.

As Susie Bright points out, it is a difficult combination for even the best writers to achieve and relatively rare to achieve successfully, though not as rare as you might have thought, and nowhere near as rare as I thought when I began the research for Text Acts, which grew and grew and grew and grew as I

kept finding more material for inclusion; reading through mountains of literature, sifting through and searching for the naughty bits, so you don't have to. I hope you will appreciate this monumental effort. As Pisanus Fraxi said of his three-volume bibliography of forbidden books: The student must consequently be grateful to the bibliographer who shall have taken the trouble to wade through this literary garbage, shall have estimated it at its real value, and shall give a terse but reliable account of it.