September 4, 2012


Keep a fresh pair of pants on standby.

Here are some of the many things that scare me:

  • Ghosts
  • Stalkers
  • Abduction
  • Being buried alive
  • The terrestrial crab swarm of Christmas Island (Seriously, they’re armored spiders.)
  • Actually, any kind of swarm
  • Ebola
  • Hornets
  • Inexperienced phlebotomists
  • Losing loved ones
  • Car crashes
  • Sleepwalking
  • Home invasion

In his delightfully terrifying horror novel Penpal, breakout author Dathan Auerbach plays on many, way too many, of these. (I won’t tell you which, but I promise it’s not the terrestrial crabs. Even horror writers have limits.)

Inspired by a cult following he developed on the Reddit /r/nosleep “true horror story” board, Auerbach expanded a short story into a multi-part thriller. He has since launched a wildly successful Kickstarter campaign and self-published an adapted version of his stories as a novel.

Part of the charm of the /r/nosleep subreddit is that readers are asked to “suspend disbelief,” and pretend as if each author’s story is a true experience.

In Auerbach’s case, very little imagination is necessary. Penpal is a captivating, deeply unsettling horror story. The narrator slowly unveils a series of seemingly disparate but disturbing events from his life, starting with a moment when he, as a young boy, inexplicably wakes up alone in the forest. The timeline jumps around as the young man begins to understand how the events of his life have orchestrated by a malicious figure outside of his control. Auerbach constructs a relentless crescendo of terror with a climax will shake you to your marrow.

Auerbach was recently so kind as to share his thoughts with me about his process and his story. Excerpts are below. Read the full Q&A after the jump. But first, grab a copy of his book here. And go ahead and get yourself one of these too. You’ll need it.

AGR: When starting to plan and write, what made you decide to choose stalking as the subgenre? Do you think there’s a greater fear for human-based horror than supernatural or paranormal?

DA: …I find natural horror (of which human-based horror is a part) much more unnerving, in general, than supernatural stories. There are at least two reasons for this.

The most obvious reason (and also the primary one, for me) is that natural horror is grounded in the world. These things can and do happen, because they are a part of our world, and that can drive the stories deeper into a person’s mind. This means that, if I’m reading natural horror, I only have to read the story in the context of what I know about the world – and the more one knows about the world (and the horrors already in it), the more believable and tangible any natural horror becomes.

The second reason involves the element of choice. This characteristic doesn’t really serve as a way to distinguish natural from supernatural horror, but I think it is often more prevalent in one than the other. In supernatural horror, the monsters, demons, etc., for the most part, are metaphysically constricted. What I mean is that demons and monsters are often evil by nature. They don’t choose to do the things that they do. To me, the element of choice is an important one. The idea that a person makes the decision to do something horrible, because he wants to do it, is a much more potent concept than something that is mechanically evil.
So as far as human-based horror goes, I find it to be the most frightening. It’s grounded in the world, and it involves a choice. The thought that a person deliberated on their actions and then decided that they wanted to do something cruel is truly frightening to me. The way we might normally convince someone not to do something – by showing them that it’s harmful – is totally impotent, because they know that it is. They just don’t care.

I chose the approach that I took in Penpal because I find the subject matter scary. People can be very good at getting what they want, but when what they want is another person we have good cause to be afraid, I think.

AGR: Had you planned the full series from the beginning? Or were you inspired by the reception of [first story] “Footsteps” to expand? If the latter, were there any parts that surprised you as you fleshed out the rest of the series?

DA: I was only ever going to post “Footsteps,” because that was as far as I had developed the story in my head. I had read quite a lot of /nosleep, and I grew to really appreciate the community. I thought that I had a story that people might like, so I wrote it and posted it in the same night, and then just waited/hoped that people would dig it. People started asking for more information, and they wanted some kind of epilogue to the story, so instead of giving them what they were asking for, I gave them “Balloons,” which is a prequel. That story seemed to strike such a chord with /nosleep that I just took it from there.

I wouldn’t say that there were any parts that surprised me as I developed the rest of the story, but the first time I mentioned Josh was in “Balloons,” and it was a really quick introduction – I didn’t know at that point that he’d take on such a prominent role in the rest of the series, but by the time I started writing “Boxes” I knew how substantial his role was going to be.

AGR: As a reader or viewer, what scares you? Do you have favorite horror stories, books, movies?

DA: This is a tough question. My favorites in horror aren’t necessarily things that I find scary. I’ve been watching and reading horror since I was a little kid. I think the first movie to really scare me was actually Child’s Play, because my grandmother had a room full of porcelain dolls, which is just such an unreasonable place to have a child sleep, haha. And I remember staying up late and watching this made for TV movie called Buried Alive where, well, some people get buried alive. While I was watching it, I was thinking, “I shouldn’t be watching this.” And I was right, because that movie stuck with me for a long time. Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, both the stories and the illustrations, were things that got to me as a kid. It’s easier for fear to get into a child, and I guess whatever plants itself when you’re young informs what you find scary when you’re older.

Now when I read or watch something, sometimes it’s difficult to disentangle the emotions that are acting on me. It sounds weird, but sometimes I’ll think something is scary, but then I realize that it’s just gross or revolting in some way.

For example, in Zombi 2, which is this Italian zombie movie, there’s a scene where this girl (sorry about this) gets her eye impaled with a big splinter of wood. And that really stuck with me, but it’s not scary to me; it’s just brutal. I’m not really actively worried about that happening to me. 

But you take a movie like [REC], which the American movie Quarantine was based on, and there are a couple scenes, particularly the whole end sequence with that…lady (people who have seen it will know what I’m talking about) that I found to be truly frightening, despite the fact that I shouldn’t be worried about that happening.

I find that I like watching foreign horror a lot because they have different tropes and culturally-informed phenomena that are unnerving just because they’re so different from what I’m used to with American horror. That’s probably the reason I like Cronenberg’s horror movies so much, as well; it’s all very different which helps it get past my defenses, and then it’s just good on its own so it’s really effective all the way through.

The horror authors that I like the most aren’t strictly horror, I think. Richard Matheson is one of my favorite authors. I Am Legend is such a phenomenal book; the first time I read it, I read it really slowly just to let the words wash over me. I have to mention Stephen King. IT was the first proper novel that I ever read. I was probably too young to appreciate most of what was going on in the story, but it gave me my first real appreciation for how engaging a book could be. As a matter of fact, I had to stop in the middle of the Dark Tower series to finish Penpal, so I’m looking forward to getting back into that. These two writers are excellent at horror, but it doesn’t seem fair to pigeonhole them. Lovecraft, though, is pretty consistently horror, and I love his work.

Full Q&A after the jump.

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July 24, 2012


Need a Harry Potter fix?

Some books are like drugs. (I mean, from what I’ve heard. Hey, Dad!)

Sometimes, you can get so high on a character or a fantasy world or an adventure that finishing a book can feel almost physically painful, wrenching. And you go back and reread the opening chapters a dozen times but you never really get that full headrush, the euphoria, the weightlessness again. It can feel like a breakup. Or a bad comedown.

I know that feel, bro.

This is the first of an occasional series in which I hope to pass along some literary methadone.

Let’s start big.


HARRY POTTER.

So immersive, so tangible, so seamlessly in line with our young fantasies that some of us are still praying an owl shows up with our Hogwarts letter. We watched Harry, Ron and Hermione grow from fumbling, ragamuffin tweens into battle-hardened heroes. We grew. They grew. We hoped some of their courage wiped off on us.

And then it all ended in 2007. I cried as I finished the last page. (Shut up, you did too.) An era was over and Platform 9 ¾ was forever shut.

And while I doubt that a series will so effortlessly sweep the world off its feet again this generation, there are some books that can give you a bit of the magic back.


What I wanted to know, you say, is what happened to the whole HP gang once they finished high school. Goes straight from the end of high school to BAM! serious adulthood epilogue. Way to skip the party years!

Lev Grossman is happy to fill you in.

His The Magicians and The Magician King undoubtedly owe some homage to Harry, but they break new ground in exploring the tempestuous adulthood of the sorcerously-gifted. In Grossman’s world, promising students are culled for Brakebills, a university of magic tucked away in upstate New York. The Magicians has all the secret-hidden-magical-society, enchanted-place-of-learning, friendship-between-unlikely-allies you could hope for. It also has a full measure of the unrepentant alcoholism, hookups, social grievances, ennui and debauchery that one expects from a book about a college where you can basically learn to do anything. And it’s got some thinly-veiled Narnia references thrown in for good measure.

But don’t go looking for an exact adult translation of Harry Potter. Grossman’s hero, the indubitably dorky Quentin, isn’t as virtuous or courageous or loveable as Harry. And that’s okay.

Brakebills is chock full of lushes, hobags, and dumbasses and everyone, including Quentin, moves their way down through the Vice Buffet from time to time. And that’s also okay.

Graduation doesn’t leave our heroes in impeccable relationships and friendships with clear career paths and a straight shot to marriage, kids and a white picket magical fence. And that’s okay, too. In this case, it’s actually good.

(To say too much about Quentin’s post-collegiate life would be an unforgivable spoiler. Let’s just say… it’s fantastic. And you won’t see it coming.)

Lev Grossman doesn’t sand down any raw edges of humanity. (Read: do not give this book to your children.) He gives us a magical world, yes. But it’s brimming with an unvarnished view of humanity that amuses, disgusts and delights us in turn.


Now, wait a dadburn second! says you. Keep that adult tomfoolish hanky-pankery away from my unsullied memories of Hogwarts.

For something a little more along the lines of morally-unambiguous-young-adult-fiction-with-magical-learning-environment,-Chosen-Child,-epic-quest-with-two-boy-and-one-girl-group-of-friends, try Rick Riodan’s Percy Jackson series.

Instead of witches and wizards, you’ve got the demigod bastards of the Olympians. This premise allows for some interesting separation of magical powers and personality typing, on a level much more specific than the Harry Potter houses. If you were the dorky child I know you were, you’ll remember the stories from your well-thumbed copy of D’Aulaire’s Book of Greek Myths, and there are some fun modernizations of gods and creatures.

And the gang’s all here! In the obligatory Group-O’-Buddies-Against-the-World, there’s the heroic and slightly rebellious leader Percy, the bossy but brilliant girl Annabeth, the awkward but stalwart best friend Grover. In the first book, when mighty Zeus’ lightning bolt goes missing, it’s determined that these three adolescents are the best options of heroes to track it down and save the world.

Riordan provides an enjoyable, fast-paced adventure. These books won’t quite fill the Harry-shaped hole in your heart. But they’ll take the edge off.


Upcoming Bibliofixes will most likely include Hunger Games, Animorphs (15 years later, I’m still hankerin’ to kill some Yeerks), Goosebumps, Twilight, and American Gods. Send other popular titles you miss or suggested alternatives to books@allieghaman.com.

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July 16, 2012


“A series of accidents and love of books”

One sign of a great author is making the readers care about something that we don’t normally or rationally give a shit about.

Maggie Shipstead is a great author. Maggie Shipstead has just done this for me. And not just regarding a subculture that I give zero shits about but one that I actively give negative shits towards. I mean…

WASPs.

I came to this novel with roughly the same amount of endearment for the social group as for the wingéd creatures. And while I still never want to hear the word “Nantucket” unless it’s immediately followed by “Nectars,” for the 299 pages of Shipstead’s breakout novel Seating Arrangements, she made me forget that. 

Winn Van Meter (fifty-nine, father of two, husband, Harvard graduate, social club devotee and sometimes-creep) is heading to his family’s summer home on the island Nantucket Waskeke — for his knocked-up elder daughter’s wedding. Oh, and his younger daughter was (recently though temporarily) knocked up too. By the son of Winn’s nemesis (shitty lightning crash)! Who is undoubtedly malaciously plotting to bar Winn from joining the local country club!

Winn is often selfishly and jarringly callous about his younger daughter’s heartbreak, his wife’s well-merited insecurities, his eldest daughter’s wedding bliss. He’s too busy obsessing over how to strongarm or cajole his way into the country club. And alternately fighting and wallowing in his own caddish horndoggery for lascivious bridesmaid Agatha (who spends the entire novel traipsing about in distracting levels of deshabille.)

Last Saturday at Politics & Prose, Shipstead spoke about her novel and about her career (charmingly self-described as “a series of accidents and love of books.”)

A few years ago, a friend of Shipstead’s was biking on Nantucket and was hit by a golfcart piloted by a wholly unapologetic and aloof man. The friend was left “bewildered and unsettled” and Shipstead (“being a writer and a very bad friend”) was left with an idea. A native Californian, she decided to move out to Nantucket for several months to learn more about an insular group of people, with their own code of conduct and values.

In the other corner from the Waskekeans is Dominique (another bridesmaid but also a worldly and independent chef), who provides the real world relief from the whale-embroidered polos and boat shoes. A heroine for the rest of us. Dominique’s “a way to express a certain degree of skepticism and also affection,” said Shipstead. “I’m told she’s a breath of fresh air.”

But Shipstead’s favorite character is still Van Meter, “even though he’s not someone who’d be considered likeable.” Shipstead appreciates and laments the self-imposed rigidity of decorum Winn lives by, the perfect life he’s striving towards but watching slip away. “The best parts of his life have been obscured by trying to fulfill his social obligations. To create a false legacy… To fulfill his parents’ expectations — or his perception of them.”

Still, maybe there’s some hope for him. “The experience of love isn’t what he thought it would be. That feeling sneaks up on him. I like to explore when the repression lifts.”

Shipstead brings animation and sympathy to Winn Van Meter. He may not always be able to differentiate between his gratingly frivolous First World Problems and his true crises — but the readers do.

And somehow, we care.

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July 9, 2012


My rebellious weekend

My goal for the weekend was to finish Chuck Klosterman’s The Visible Man and blog about it. … That didn’t happen.

That’s because I had a rebellious weekend. Instead of reading new things, I curled up with M.M. Kaye’s seductive Shadow of the Moon for the millionth time. (Actually, at least the seventh or eighth. I have problems.)

I love this book.

If you’re not familiar with Kaye, everything she writes is as long as the Bible but with at least twice as many generations of family history and three times as many words you’ve never seen before. (Vishnu bless Kaye for putting a helpful glossary of Indian words and phrases in the back of Shadow.)

And, sorry, now you’re put off. Don’t be.

Q: Why would I read 799 jam-packed pages (says manfriend Clif: “Wow, those are small margins!”) of historical fiction about the Sepoy Rebellion of 1857? (Spoiler alert: history.)

A: Because it’s so fucking immersive.

Kaye has a breathtaking attention to detail. From spellbindingly detailed scenery to the historically accurate fashion details (what the hell is a “fichu”?) and international political tidbits, Kaye paints a world you can sink into like a hot bath.

Here’s one of my favorite bits, the heroine Winter’s first morning in Calcutta after a decade in exile in England:

The sky was yellow with dawn and air still cool, and the fruit bats were coming home to roost as the birds awoke; hanging themselves up in the deepest shadows of the mango trees and quarrelling and flapping as they jostled for sleeping-space. The river too was already awake and noisy. A paddle-steamer churned past on its way to Allahabad, and skiff, country boats and slender dinghies punted by boatmen wielding long bamboo poles drifted by. A small striped squirrel chattered indignantly from the scented masses of flowering creeper that clothed one of the veranda pillars, doves cooed upon the cornices and a flight of parrots flew screaming overhead.

And quarter-Spanish, quarter-French, half-English, Indian-born Condesa Winter de Ballesteros de los Aguilares is a delightful heroine. Strong enough to be engaging but not so bombastically assertive as to be anachronistic. Naïve enough to make mistakes, but not stupid enough to make you facepalm. Courageous enough to have adventures, but not annoyingly fearless.

Orphaned as a child and sent from India to live with unloving English relatives, Winter returns to her motherland as a young woman to marry her betrothéd, the positively yucky Commissioner of Lunjore. Charged with escorting Winter to India and steering her from too many misadventures is the competent and ever-valiant Captain Alex Randall. 

Oh, and the entire country is on the verge of violent uprisings, massacre and war. The wheels towards revolution are guided by the genteel hand of likeable and “exceedingly clever” antagonist Kishan Prasad. 

This is one of the most fair and liberal war novels I’ve read (in stark contrast to the contemporary and creepily jingoistic Gone with the Wind.) Kaye, like many of her characters, was white but largely raised in India. Despite writing primarily from the perspective of English characters, Kaye includes admirable and not infrequent acknowledgement of the Indian motives for revolution — patriotism against an occupying force. Neither side is fully forgiven for its atrocities and neither side is painted as the sole victim or instigator.

This justness allows for a beautifully rich and nuanced narrative. Also, there are hoop skirts and romance. And fichus.

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June 26, 2012


Super Sad True Love Story

Alduous, I’mma let you finish… but Gary Shteyngart has written one of the best dystopian futures centered on a hypersexual American society of all time!
(WHOO!)

So.

I know I’m horrendously late to the ZOMG-Super-Sad-True-Love-Story!!! party, but now that I’m here, I’d like to invite you all to join me in a slow clap. Get a little misty-eyed. That good.

In case the title didn’t tip you off, this is a dark, comedic romance. Lenny Abramov is a mildly unattractive man pushing forty, the only child of Russian immigrants. Eunice Park is a svelte, hip young Korean-American. They meet in Rome. But (spoiler alert!) their relationship is kinda complicated. Their love must span continents and September-May age gaps and the infinite gulf between traditional parents and their wayward children. Their love is real and flawed and scared shitless and hopeful and very, very engrossing.

But for all the warm and poignant buddingrelationshiphood, I found myself just as impressed and a bit overwhelmed by the harrowing setting Shteyngart’s created. In the America he paints, we (and I do mean “we”; this is about a generation and a half from now) will live in a cesspool of such aggravated conspicuous consumption that it’d give Thorstein Veblen wet dreams.

But this New York isn’t some detached space-age megapolis with lightsabers and Soylent Green cupcake shops. Shteyngart pushes his version of American society just a tiny bit farther down the road to hell, just the smallest iota past where we are now.

And the familiarity is terrifying.

(Personal smart devices used for near-constant social media and shopping? Well…  But our kids and grandkids will have the common sense not to wear transparent jeans and strut about like shameless hussies… right? And it’s not like there’ll ever be encampments of financially-disenfranchised protesters in New York City…)

Shteyngart gives us a New York City that’s just a little wilder, a little more lost than today:

“We headed south, and when the trees ran out the park handed us over to the city. We surrendered to a skyscraper with a green mansard roof and two stark chimneys. New York exploded all around us, people hawking, buying, demanding, streaming. The city’s density caught me unprepared, and I reeled from its imposition, its alcoholic fumes, its hubris, its loud, dying wealth.”

(Shivers!)

Then it all goes to shit.

And in the middle of this whirling clusterfuck of political chaos and self-absorption is the pretty, superficial, enigmatic, exquisitely-wrought character of Eunice.
And on the periphery, trying to elbow his way in beside her, is the lovelorn schmuck Lenny.

They’re unified by little more than their mutual immaturity and confusion. How can a love so fragile grow in such a repressive society? (And I do mean “repressive”; life has progressed so far down the permissive side of the spectrum that it’s wrapped back around the other end.)

How can two people so imperfect, so scared, so full of false assumptions, love?

For Lenny, falling in love is easy. A socially-awkward literature fanboy and born romantic, Lenny’s been waiting his whole life to get torn asunder in a rodeo of amorous emotion.

Eunice… not so much.

We learn about these sweethearts, their kindnesses and their missteps, through the fine Georgian tradition of the dialogic epistolary form. (Meaning that they write letters. But almost never to each other.) Lenny waxes poetic in his diary, bares his soul, oozes introspection and cries all the fucking time. (Christ, Lenny! Get it together, man.)

Eunice writes the equivalent of Facebook messages. Potty-mouthed Facebook messages. (And that’s coming from me.) But through these raw, mundane missives, Shteyngart depicts her sparsely, masterfully. Who is Eunice Park if the world around her falls away? How can she become a woman, capable of true love and strength and depth, in a vacuum?

Eunice struggles to understand herself. So does her family. So does Lenny. So does the reader.

The glimpses Shteyngart gives us of the woman-behind-the-curtain reveal a Gestalt portrait. I’ve spent weeks trying to connect the dots of Eunice Park. Lenny will spend a lifetime.

And yet they still reach for each other as society crumbles around them.

Can love save us?

And what does that even mean in a broken world?

Seriously, just go read Super Sad True Love Story.

(Thanks for stopping by. Here’s another Kanye gif.)

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May 21, 2012


Hitting the ground running

Welcome to my book blog.

Let’s talk about sex.

Specifically, let’s talk about kinky, BDSM-tastic v-card snatchery.

Even more specifically, let’s talk about E.L. James’ Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy, the monumentally popular, pseudo-naughty bestsellers. Standing on the shoulders of escapist literature giant Stephenie Meyer, James has seen the future beyond Twilight.

And it’s sexy Twilight.

I’m not looking down on the Grey series though. It may not be the pinnacle of high-brow Western literature, but one can not (or at least, should not) ignore the fact that it fucking works. With 13 weeks of domination (ha!) on The New York Times bestseller list and a rabid fan base, James has built something noteworthy.

The question that lingers, though, is why this series? Erotica is almost as old as the act that inspires it, but most romance novels gather dust in supermarket checkout aisles. What has caused Grey’s virilty? (Erm, virality.)

Well, it’s not the porny bits. Though James packs a whopping 18 (I counted) earth-shattering, toe-wriggling orgasms for heroine Ana in the first book alone, the sex is oddly forgettable. As far as BDSM goes, it’s still on the tame side of kinky. The reader may be surprised at times, but she won’t be shocked and certainly (unfortunately) never outright disgusted. While I think the whole theme of hero-confronts-his-dark-dark-soul would be improved by some morally outrageous, unflinchingly taboo depravity, I can see how straying too far from the straight and narrow wouldn’t suit James agenda. After all, this sex isn’t for Ana’s benefit or even for eponymous hero Christian Grey’s — it’s for the fantasy-seeking reader’s.

And the reader, like the newly deflowered Ana (a 22-year-old virgin who has never masturbated? That’s the real fiction here) must brace herself for an absolutely incomprehensible, mind-numbing amount of sex. One of the major pitfalls of the Grey books, like Twilight before them, is that Ana and Christian spend significantly more time canoodling and talking about their relationship than they do actually having a relationship. (And even less time working. We never really learn the nitty-gritty of Christian actually does to become a Zuckerberg-like business prodigy.)

And like Twilight, we don’t really get a proper answer to the million-dollar (or several-billion-dollar) question: what’s going on in this relationship? What does a billionaire horndog with highly-specific bedroom tastes want from a self-described “mousy” young woman with zero sexual experience? James spends a lot of time getting to the (sadly, a bit shallow) root of Christian’s emotional problems. But I have a lot easier of a time accepting that a perpetually horny playboy just wants some NSA kinky sex than that he’d choose to have it with a very reluctant, drama-bringing sub. Ana has a bit more personality and bite to her than Bella (any less and she’d be comatose) but she’s still that shell of a heroine that the reader is expected to fill with her own fantasies. Not a bad strategy for selling a sexy book, but accordingly, Ana is wispy and thin and often emotionally hypocritical. We never really get Christian and Ana’s relationship.

But let’s get back on point. Despite the similarities between Grey and Twilight, it’s where they diverge that we find the real secret to Grey’s success.

So let’s talk about money.

The first Twilight book came out in 2005, a blissful two years before the Great Recession chewed up the American Dream and spat it out. Back in those dreamy, golden days of yesteryear, Twilight’s (and by extension, Grey’s) target audience of women age 13 to Dead had discretionary incomes and y’know, only one mortgage. Twilight catered to the fantasies of the time: How can I be young and beautiful forever? What if there was an immortal supermodel who was so obsessed with me that he broke into my house and watched me sleep?

And while the obsession doesn’t fade in Grey, this trilogy is well-adapted to address the fantasies on everyone’s recession-ridden mind: What if I didn’t have to work all the time? What if a hot billionaire with just enough neuroses to really need me just wanted to bang all the time? And buy me really fucking expensive things?

Of course, the Cullen family of Twilight is insanely rich too. But their wealth is more a matter of convenience, a psychic sister allowing Edward not to need to a real job outside stalking teen girls.

For Christian Grey, consumption comes as easily as breath. Part of his mega-bossy cray-cray necessitates that he provide top-of-the-line cars, computers, phones for Ana.

And of course, valorous Ana never wants his money, needs his money, his $100,000 an hour. (To put it in perspective, Bill Gates makes £369,940 an hour, Google tells me.) But that’s part of the fantasy, too: to maintain one’s economic virtue (read: not be a gold digger) but still have a cushy financial safety net dependent only on one’s willingness to knock boots endlessly with a jaw-droppingly (it happens often to unsuspecting waitresses in the book) handsome man. Ana’s silver lining is a golden parachute.

And that’s why Grey works. That’s the bottom line of the fantasy. Ana can kiss her student loans and car payments goodbye and pursue her career and sex life without fear of failure, ruin, and ramen in her father’s basement apartment. The reader can decide if having a control-freak of a manfriend is worth the trade.

But Ana seems to think so. And a fair few readers, as well.

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