Review
100 STROKES OF THE BRUSH BEFORE BED
by Melissa P.
Black Cat-Grove Atlantic, 167 pp.
Review
THE POLYSYLLABIC SPREE
by Nick Hornby
Believer Books-McSweeney’s, 143 pp.
Which book would you rather read: the diary of a promiscuous 16-year-old Italian girl or a glorified reading list made by a middle-aged British man? Before you answer – this is a trick question.
First, let’s get to the sex. When it comes to 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed, I have two confessions to make. First of all, the only reason I read it was because the author, Melissa P., was interviewed in Vanity Fair. Admittedly, most folks need little excuse to pick up anything smutty, but if it weren’t for press in a widely recognized magazine, I would have never known about the book in the first place. I guess I thought that article lent an air of legitimacy to the first-person, diary-style sexual exploits of Melissa (a.k.a. Lolita) that would elevate the book, however slightly, from porn to erotica (at the same time elevating the reader from borderline pedophile to open-minded thrill seeker).
As it turns out, despite the ringing endorsement from Vanity Fair, 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed is nothing more than a trashy romance novel that got worldwide acclaim because of the age of the author. While I was in the midst of reading the book, I got into a heated discussion about young-adult erotica/coming-of-age lit and walked away sheepishly outgunned. I guess I have no frame of reference for the genre, but what I can tell you is that every time Melissa talked about delicately parting her supple flower with her quaking finger, or fantasized about her lover’s aching manhood, I couldn’t help but giggle. Perhaps it’s simply because she writes like a 16-year-old girl, or maybe the book had been poorly translated from the original Italian, but either way, the attempts at erotic prose are laughable. Even ignoring that, for a book that concerns itself mostly with sex, 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed is alarmingly dull. The self-loathing heroine does manage to bring a bit of drama to her everyday life, but for all Melissa’s multiple partners, mid-day lust and descriptions of man-on-man and woman-on-woman sex, dildos, bondage, rape fantasies, latex, group sex and masturbation, it has taken me nearly three months to wade through the 167 turgid pages. This brings me to my second confession. At the time of writing this review, I have 12 pages left to read and no desire to finish.
The Polysyllabic Spree, on the other hand, I was able to knock off in less than a day. I never would have suspected reading about someone else reading could be so entertaining.
The book is actually a collection of Nick Hornby’s monthly columns from The Believer, a great word-heavy mag published by the folks at McSweeney’s. Every month Hornby offers up a list of books he has obtained to counter a list of books he has actually read, the running gag being that there is no possible way he will ever finish reading all the books he owns. Hornby’s conversational tone is at once intimate and engaging, and whether he’s singing the praises of Charles Dickens after finally tackling David Copperfield, or questioning the time he spent reading a book of letters by Anton Chekhov, he does it with finesse. What could have easily been a tedious experiment becomes a beautifully abstract literary primer and breezy, entertaining read, peppered with subtle wit and never overindulgent. Reading The Polysyllabic Spree is like listening to Martin Scorsese talk about cinema – Hornby’s passion for literature is so strong you can’t help but be taken along for the ride, more than likely making your own reading list along the way.
So, what has reading the journals of these two obviously different authors taught me? First and foremost, you can’t judge a book by its subject matter. Secondly, I have a lot more reading to do. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the next time I am looking for something to read, I’ll look to Hornby and ignore Vanity Fair.
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