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Weblog Archive: November 27, 2005 to Dec 3, 2005 Friday, December 2, 2005
And he came hard in her mouth and his dick jumped around and rattled on her teeth and he blacked out and she took his dick out of her mouth and lifted herself from his face and whipped the pillow away and he gasped and glugged at the air, and he came again so hard that his dick wrenched out of her hand and a shot of it hit him straight in the eye and stung like nothing he'd ever had in there, and he yelled with the pain, but the yell could have been anything, and as she grabbed at his dick, which was leaping around like a shower dropped in an empty bath, she scratched his back deeply with the nails of both hands and he shot three more times, in thick stripes on her chest. Like Zorro. In his acceptence speech, Coren applauded the other nominated passages: "I wish I'd written them all. I hope to be back next year." In an impressive twofer, Coren was earlier named "Food And Drink Writer of the Year" for his restaurant reviews in The Times. He also "ghost-wrote the autobiography of James Dyson, inventor of the famous vacuum cleaner". The Guardian's culture blog has an account of the Award gala, which fortunately ditches the prize's ostensible "serious writers shouldn't be vulgar" prudery in favor of good-spirited teasing and ribald celebration. "The evening began in appropriately bawdy fashion with a succession of actresses breathily reciting the shortlisted passages to roars of increasingly champagne-fuelled laughter." Thursday, December 1, 2005
Last year I wrote: The avowed purpose of the Bad Sex award is to restore priggish embarrassment toward explicit prose, "to draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel, and to discourage it." But the annual media coverage of the award tends to treat it more as a tongue-in-cheek celebration of loopy, breathless, over-the top sex writing. And why not? One purpose of literature is to make the familiar seem strange, to relate common experiences in creative ways, and why should sex be any different? I like most of the nominated passages. The Guardian article plays along, calling this year's nominees "excruciating" and full of "unintentional humor", but once again I like most of the nominated passages. OK, the Paul Theroux is pretty bad. But what kind of philistine could snigger and scoff at this lovely Garcia Marquez paragraph? On the night of her birthday I sang the entire song to Delgadina, and I kissed her all over her body until I was breathless: her spine, vertebra by vertebra, down to her languid buttocks, the side with the mole, the side of her inexhaustible heart. As I kissed her the heat of her body increased, and it exhaled a wild, untamed fragrance. She responded with new vibrations along every inch of her skin, and on each one I found a distinctive heat, a unique taste, a different moan, and her entire body resonated inside with an arpeggio, and her nipples opened and flowered without being touched. I was beginning to fall asleep in the small hours when I heard something like the sound of multitudes in the sea and a panic in the trees that pierced my heart. I went to the bathroom and wrote on the mirror: Delgadina, my love, the Christmas breezes have arrived. Priggishness aside, there's something pathetic about a panel of unpublished lightweights belittling the likes of Updike and Rushdie and Marquez. It's the literary equivalent of those VH1 shows where Hollywood hangers-on and ex-reality show contestants make catty remarks about Madonna and Bjork and George Clooney. More tomorrow after the announcement. |
