The Lost King of France: Not my favorite

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Book Review, deborah cadbury, french history, louis xvii, non-fiction, the lost king of france

I want to like The Lost King of France by Deborah Cadbury. It seems like it has the ingredients of a book I’d like: French kings named Louis, history, science, and according to the blurb on the back “royalist plots, palace intrigue.”

Why it didn’t work for me is best summed up in two sentences. The first is the tagline: “How DNA solved the mystery of the murdered son of Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette.” Now it’s true, genetic testing does come up in the book, but only in the introduction and the last chapter. Most of the book is focused on the revolution itself and all the god-awful things that happen to the royal family. Like, “Don’t mind me while I sit here and cry and drink my beer,” god-awful things. Most heart wrenching is the story of the little prince himself (called the Dauphin, as all future kings of France were), who was alternately brutalized and then neglected. Had the tagline read, “A rehash of the start of the French Revolution, with lots of lingering over the undeserved-miseries inherited by the current inhabitants of Versailles, followed by ridiculous rumors, with just a dash of modern science,” I wouldn’t have picked the book up. I expected a harrowing tale a scientist looking for funding, or arguing with priests to get a sample, or perhaps even a parallel history of the development of modern genetic testing and the tale of Louis XVII.

My next bone to pick is with this line, “True scientist, Cassiman remained unmoved at the sight—to him it was nothing more than a biological specimen.” It’s just, so, so, very lazy. Needing a bit of imagery, Cadbury opts for the scientist as the automaton trope. While the man may have been putting on a stoic front, I guarantee you, inside he was giddy to receive a sample from the boy that died in Temple Tower. He had DNA from Marie-Antoinette’s family, living and deceased, and now he’s being presented with heart from the supposed Dauphin. The image doesn’t make any sense in the context of the story. No one is spurning Dr. Cassiman on to solve this mystery. This is science for the sake of science, a man stretching his hand out for a goal that may be too lofty. And that heart is anything but “a biological specimen.”

While Cadbury did an impressive amount of research finding out what happened to the royal family while they were imprisoned, and even what became of their captors, the book ultimately feels like a bait and switch. Where is my science?

There’s also a lot of context that’s missing to the French Revolution. I don’t know why the author revealed France’s bankruptcy as a twist to the fairytale childhood of the Dauphin. Versailles was built in fits and starts, due largely to bankruptcy. As someone who’s read a bit about the Sun King and his court and country, I can’t help but to think of him as the father of the French Revolution. Why he’s not in the book is a puzzle to me.

There are just so many interesting ways that I think the story could have been told. Cadbury could have compared the life of Louis XIV (who was said to only have spent fifteen minutes alone in his entire life) to the life of Louis XVII (who spent entirely too much time alone in the Temple Tower). We could have had the thrilling tale of the Dauphin’s heart, which in its day had been stolen, trampled in the mud, and had its guardians make numerous overtures to the royal family in an attempt to return it. Instead of letting the facts be interesting, she tries to make this a tale of suspense, even though we know how it ends. The castle is built on sand, the mob is merciless, and not even children are spared.

Alif the Unseen: It got glued to my hand

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arab spring, fantasy, g. willow wilson, hackers

With a sense of glee, I read the lines, “Ignorant monoglots, Abdullah called them when he was in the mood to speak English. They had no idea what it was like to operate in the City, or in any city that did not come wrapped in sanitary postal codes and tidy laws. They had no idea what it was like to live in a place that boasted one of the most sophisticated digital policing systems in the world, but no proper mail service.” I thought to myself, No, Alif, I have no idea, and I can’t wait for you to tell me.

There are some books that make ignorance enjoyable. They take us with them, so thoroughly, that we are grateful they are working on fresh impressions, like sculpting a fantastic snow palace from clean white drifts. As I don’t live under a rock, I had heard of the Arab Spring. As of right now though, I haven’t watched any documentaries or picked up any nonfiction works, my favorite sources for in-depth information. So, it was very general knowledge that Alif the Unseen fleshed out, and it did so beautifully.

I think G. Willow Wilson created a very real character in Alif. In fact, I don’t always like him, unlike his faithful sidekick, Dina. Beside her, he seems often fickle and immature. At least he’s tries to do the right thing. That, combined with his sincerity, make him likable. His frustrations, his malaise, his hopes and fears, feel at once new and strange, but familiar.

We all understand heartbreak, and baser emotions like anger and jealousy. It’s hard to know how to relate exactly to a young man whose romance has been broken off by an arranged marriage. I’m never really sure what to make of his mother and father’s relationship, and his father’s relationship with him. In his own house, Alif seems to be both the treasured son and layabout.

I certainly know what it’s like to take pride in one’s work. I’ve felt the rush of gratitude too at the unexpected kindness of the stranger. My job doesn’t involve protecting the free speech rights of dissidents, nor do I know any jinn.

Wilson anchors us with familiar emotions and story arcs while showing us a world we’d never imagined, but millions live in every day. The constant clash of cultures, the just middle-class s Alif and his rich girlfriend, the unconventional Dina in her veil, the American convert and the lackadaisical Muslim, the jinn and the mortals, reminds us that we’re far from home. And I can honestly say, wherever Wilson went, I followed. To the Immovable Alley, the black prison cell, and into the chaos of a nascent revolution, I followed.

One of the most amazing things about this book, to me, is that Wilson started on it before the Arab Spring. In response to the way Westerners tend to blow off political activity on forums like Twitter and WordPress as forms of slacktivism, Wilson wrote a book showing how they weren’t. And in the end, despite the magic and the jinns, she wrote a story that is in many ways true.

It also answers something I’ve been wondering about for a while. Is the salon dead? Clearly, if an author is writing about current events that have yet to happen, then salons must be alive and well. They’ve simply moved out of the drawing rooms and cafés and on to the Internet.

Valentine’s Day Gift Hop: An Ode to Thorns

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amazon gift card, and evermore rose, blog hop, romantica, roses, Valentine's Day Gift Hop

Welcome to my stop on the Valentine’s Day Gift Hop! Keep reading for instructions on how to win a $5 Amazon gift card and the other grand prizes.

Valentine’s Day is fast upon us. A time for red roses wrapped in tissue paper and sticky chocolates. For those of you who need a break from Cupid’s saccharine smile, I provide this bit of bitter as a counter note to the sweet, and give the rose back its thorns when I consider some less savory facts about this famous flower.

Heliogabalus smothered his guests in them

In an attempt to one up the famous sensualist and politician Cleopatra, Heliogabalus showered his guests in roses. Only, there was such a profusion of flowers, his guests suffocated under the heady blooms. Please note: this little factoid comes to us from the ancient equivalent of the National Enquirer.

The Cherokee rose is anything but

It’s from China. Yup, that’s right, you heard me. From China. Not native at all. Just like those goddamn stinkbugs.

Red roses are for love

Yellow roses are for infidelity. What? A Japan rose is for someone who’s just a pretty face. Okay… A dried white rose for “death is preferable to loss of innocence.” And thank you, Lucy Hooper. Not sure when I would need that one.

Dr. Livingston presumes…

To complain to London’s Horticultural Society about William Kerr’s pittance of a salary.

Who’s William Kerr? Only a young Scottish man who sent 238 new species of plants (including his namesake, the Kerria japonica) back from China during his eight and half years there. Shipping plants overseas in 1803 was quite difficult. It took Kerr five months to travel from England to China, and the plants that he brought with him mostly perished. Three at least made it to China, though what happened afterwards can only be guessed (cough cough dead cough).

So, of the 238,000 plants young Kerr packed up and shipped back to England—I’m going off of Livingstone’s math here—238 made it, including the white Banksian rose, a flower still much admired and grown today.

So, what’s sad about this story? I’ll quote Jennifer Potter’s The Rose here: “So Kerr was drinking and perhaps worse, ground down by poverty and loneliness.” At this time in history, China restricted the movement of European traders in their country, isolating them, and according to Livingstone, Kerr didn’t even have enough money to buy new clothes and spent much of his time navigating congested streets instead of working. Eventually, his employers decided to make him superintendent at the King’s new botanical gardens in Sri Lanka. It sounds lovely, except he died shortly after arriving. While Potter indicates a fever, Wikipedia suggests opium.

Now you need some sugar, I know. In honor of all the flowers getting ready for their big day, I’ve dropped the price of The Love of Violetta from $2.99 to $0.99.

Violetta learns the bitter truth that, like the roses in the garden, young love fades. What sweetness can she find treading the halls where her love once walked? Who will kiss her, now that he has refused?

Available at Amazon and Smashwords. You can read the first part here for free.

To enter to win the Grand Prizes:

And the $5 Amazon gift card, comment  below with your email address and the bouquet you’d love to receive for Valentine’s Day (mainly your email address though). After you’re done, don’t forget to comment on other blogs for more chances to win the Grand Prize! Every comment equals an additional entry.

Click here to get back to the list of participating blogs!

As far as what bouquet I’d want, it would be full of messy old garden roses, cabbage roses and dog roses and moss roses. I’d also like to thank Jennifer Potter for her lovely book, The Rose, which has helped me to natter at family members about an even wider variety of plants.

GTA V: A Spectator’s Review

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GTA V, GTA V review, video game spectator, watching video games

 

Rockstar’s GTA V is a tapestry of snark. Plenty of reviews have come out talking about what it’s like to play the game. Well, I’ve been watching my husband play it since it arrived on Tuesday. I made sure it was installed when he came home, with this favorite controller all charged up and ready to go. He’s pretty much been excused from all household duties, because I knew how excited he was.

Not that picking up the slack was any great strain. I still had plenty of time to watch him play. One thing I enjoy about the game are all the satirical references. The store, Suburban. The radio ads always make me snigger. The characters are a riot, and every now and, my husband drives a car down a mountain and into a fiery crash. In fact, I wouldn’t even call it driving so much as artful falling.

My favorite character thus far has been the psycho hillbilly, Trevor. He’s got a big truck and a lackey to ride around the back of it. He idly sexually harasses those around him while other times voicing opinions you might find yourself agreeing with (like torturing is done for the torturer, not to gain information). Flipping back to him, my husband has found him puttering around on a scooter behind another scooter talking about his scooter brother. Another time he was spooning a distraught Floyd. Given that his special skill is to go on a psychotic rampage, I suspect he’ll be a lot of people’s favorite character.

Best scene thus far was Michael’s drug trip. The music was perfect, as were the voices accompanying Michael’s descent. The electric city beneath him, all red and gold, left tracers of lights as you guided his fall. Both my husband and I were impressed with how they put everything together.

I have to be honest, Franklin hasn’t made much of an impression on me. I like his crazy aunt, and his dog, but I’m thinking I may have been out of the room during some of his missions.

Of course, people buy games like GTA V for more than just the missions. They like the sandbox style of it too. I like offering my husband my opinion on clothes. Trevor has the Nacho Libre tank top with matching shorts. Franklin looks cool in gray with some sweet kicks. We both agree that Michael should look like a loser and generally put him in flip-flops. The cars are sweet. My husband says the chase scenes are harder in this game. I like that things like not wearing a helmet when you’re on a motorcycle will get you killed easily in this game. There are a lot of things interact with, from strippers to warm counter beer to bongs that provide amusement (or existential crises). A lot of work went into this game and it shows. They’ve certainly earned their accolades and their money. They’ve made a game that’s both fun to play, and fun to watch. At least, I have fun watching it.

Harry Potter and Quoth the Raven…

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harry potter, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, J. K. Rowling, Poe references I should be ashamed of, Pottermore, Rowling

Pottermore. (I should note, this is vaguely about my reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.)

Yes, I could hardly leave out my exploration of JK’s epic series without considering the full media juggernaut (don’t worry, I intend to discuss the movies).

Right now, I’m focusing on the website. Holy integrated marketing Batman! I think the people who thought this up use flash buzz words, wear whatever the modern day Don Draper would rock, and carry on the tradition of shit-faced by noon on Friday (at least that’s the way it used to go down at my dad’s job). It is very well done.

Let’s start with what it is: smash together Facebook (because there’s a social aspect plus some FarmVille qualities) and those old-school “point and click” adventures plus a few of those “Find your inner animal/mythical creature/sex goddess” quizzes, and you’ve got an idea of what it is. You can either interact with illustrations of the story, or play some mini-games.

The illustrations are very interesting to me. They include a brief quote from the book (and lots of links where you can jump over to buying the book) plus additional information Rowling wrote about the books. Sometimes the information is pretty interesting (like what she wrote about the Pureblood movement), but more often than not I’m amazed at how detailed this universe is in her head. One thing you realize reading her talking about the books is that she really did write what she knew, in a way. She drew a lot of inspiration from real life.

I also suspect the people involved in directing the design of the illustrations knew their psychology. All the faces are very vague, something which I imagine was done on purpose. When you read a book, you picture the characters a certain way (although in Prisoners of Azkaban there’s a very kabuki-ish illustration of Snape). These illustrations don’t interfere with your mental picture. The include things to find and places of interaction (generally a small animation triggered by a mouse-over). On the bottom there’s a progress bar, telling you if you’ve missed any objects or animation. And yes, like the goddamn mammal I am I want to make sure that bar is full! Thank goodness for the comments, as the often note where things are tucked away.

As far as the other aspects of the game, I’ve done the two quizzes (wand and sorting, Ravenclaw in case you were curious, although you can shape your answers to get sorted into a desired house, like Slytherin). I haven’t done many of mini-games. I made a potion once, and it was annoying, requiring you to do tasks in a specific time range and incorporating an incubation period (three minutes of nothing). The duels seem likewise annoying and are based tapping letters on the keyboard at specified times. It’s kind of “meh” for me.

I do have one overwhelming impression of Pottermore, gleaned form the videos where J. K. Rowling takes a minute to speak to us about sorting to her houses. I’m listening to her words and thinking to myself, “Goddamn is this woman tired of these books, and she still has four more to go for Pottermore.” It in fact reminds me of what the raven actually said: Nevermore. Hanging out with my sister’s kids, they were fantasizing about Rowling revisiting the universe, and I told them it’s not going to happen. She wrote seven books and helped make eight movies. She adopted a new pen name. She’s moved on.

Part of me wonders what will end up happening with Pottermore. It seems to me that people may become impatient, given the time it’s been out and the fact that only the first three books are done. I don’t know how much it supplements or enhances the reading experience. I like it because I like playing stupid games. Will I finish the series and then come back for the other four books? Probably, because it’s a free game in ways, and I do find some of Rowling’s exclusive material to be interesting. Or I’ll forget about it.

As far as finishing the series, I liked the third book more than the second, and the fourth movie (The Goblet of Fire) is my favorite movie, so it might be my favorite book too. I’m looking forward to it. Rowling’s comedic violence reminds me a lot of Dickens.

Harry Potter and I don’t know if I’m gonna make it man…

Tags

harry potter, harry potter and the chamber of secrets, pop culture, pottermania

Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett is shaping up to be one of those books–the kind where I read the occasional line to my husband, either because I want to, or he wants to know why I’m laughing. I greatly enjoyed this bit:

Human beings mostly aren’t [particularly evil]. They just get carried away by new ideas, like dressing up in jackboots and shooting people, or dressing up white sheets and lynching people, or dressing up in tie-dye jeans and playing guitars at people.

The last bit was particularly amusing to me, because unless it’s an actual musician playing a guitar, I generally want nothing to do with that scene.

What does this have to do with Harry Potter? I felt the first book was halfway there to something that could elicit emotions from me, enough to make my husband ask what I was reading, but Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets was just flat for me. It’s neither long nor difficult, but it wasn’t with any enthusiasm that I picked it up. Some of that probably has to do with the fact that the BIG REVEAL (Yer a wizard ‘Arry!) happened in the first book. It’s like those books you read, wondering when the characters are going to do it, and after they do you’re like, “Welp, done with that.” (This pretty much describes my relationship with the Anita Blake books.)

If I’ve reached the moment of satiety, why then, am I rereading them? It’s the rational question to ask at this point, if I’m already starting to feel lukewarm and I haven’t gotten near the long ones. It’s like after the third book they said, “All right, this is a gold mine, fire the editor that’s always red-lining long unnecessary passages of details.” Developmental editor maybe? Someone who loves Hemingway? The thing is, I’ve just started on this task, the task I gave up with one book to go, one that I happen to have gathering dust on a shelf. Chances of success are looking murky, especially given that I don’t do long series. So again, why am I doing this?

Lomonaaeren on fanfiction.net has written 270 Harry Potter stories, and she’s still at it. I downloaded Barbie Jeep by Kitty (produced by Hot Sugar!) for free off Adult Swim and found the word “muggle” in it and the charm “wingardium leviosa.” It’s like references to black poodles in literature. Pop culture is saturated with Harry Potter. People post pictures of lolita skirts to the group on Facebook and a discussion ensues about what everyone’s custom HP skirt would look like.

Pottermania isn’t something I quite understand, but goddamnit, I’m going to try. After all, I read both Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey out of morbid curiosity. HP can’t be any more difficult to read than Stephanie Meyers (I think seven books by Rowling works out to be about one book by Meyers). A Google image search with the keyword “yaoi” added is always enjoyable. It’s just everywhere, and I feel like maybe there’s something I’m missing, and I want to look harder. It’s not that I need it to mean the same thing to me that it does to other people, I just don’t want to leave any stone unturned. Not that any scientific study of HP will yield results that you can copy to make yourself into a successful author. If Rowling’s experiences with writing under a new pen name (a mystery that was reviewed well but sold little) shows us anything, it’s just how fickle fame is. Good thing I’m more interested in taking the HP experience apart like a clock as opposed to attempting to duplicate it.

Pacific Rim: A Review

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action films, godzilla, Guillermo del Toro, jaeger, kaiju, movie review, Pacific Rim

With spoilers! Because if you’re going to see this movie for the plot, you’ve missed the point. Although, I will address it, briefly. My husband’s biggest beef with the plot was that del Toro didn’t create a world in which people’s reactions to the monsters worked, something he thought was done very well in District 9. I thought about, and he’s right. It’s also probably the most succinct way to point out where the plot fails–it’s not that it’s fantastic, it’s just the world around it doesn’t support the fantasy.

Guillermo del Toro is one of my favorite directors, and not just because Pan’s Labyrinth is an amazing movie. I enjoyed his Hellboy films (the second more than the first) and The Devil’s Backbone as well. He’s a talented director, and with Pacific Rim I think he accomplished his goal of making a modern Godzilla film. It is a movie that makes full use of the movie theater, the scale and the thumping sound system, and the 3D only adds to the fun.

If you’re sick of the lazy way directors slap the high action moments in orange/blue and mute the rest (like the last four Harry Potter films), you’ll be delighted with the palettes used here. Blues, pinks, reds, gold… The monsters (kaiju) remind me of the fantastic creatures of Hellboy II: The Golden Army, and robots (jaegers) of old Transformers toys.

The characters were pretty slap-stick. Charlie from It’s Always Sunny is himself, only his obsession with rats has been replaced with one for the kaiju and he’s literate. The Russians pilot a first generation jaeger that looks like it’s designed to be repaired with a hammer on the tundra (muck like an AK-47). The Chinese triplets are all razzle-dazzle and red, much like their jaeger. Watching them fight it’s like Chinese New Years. The Englishmen of course have an English bulldog (at least their accents are English) and the youngest suffers from pugilist tendencies. They have the fanciest jaeger, and honestly, visually, it didn’t make that much of an impression on me. Of course I remember the main one, Gypsy Danger, which has a giant sword and a thermonuclear reactor in it’s chest, at least I think that’s what that glowing part is… It’s nicely symbolic too of how in the end Gypsy Danger and her fusion save the world. You know, chest, heart, that stuff.

Ron Perlman is a treat, and has the best exit of the film–down the gullet of an infant kaiju.

The action scenes are amazing, and really, why we went to see it in a theater. At one point, a robot boxes a monster’s ears with some shipping containers. It made me giggle. There’s lots of city smashing as they battle, shattering glass-plated skyscrapers and throwing cars at each other.

Hong Kong made me think of Blade Runner, although my husband told me that that’s what modern Hong Kong looks like, all fierce neon and saturated in humanity–a sci-fi future come to life.

The only major complaint I have, and this may be said of del Toro in general, was the music was only okay. I think he missed out by not finding a place for anything off of Mochipet’s album, Godzilla Rehab Center, all devilishly catchy tracks. His “Get some!” song packed less punch than “Problem” by Natalia Kills or “Might Like You Better” by Amanda Blank. I know dubstep is super trendy right now, but a little wub-dub wouldn’t have been remiss, or some death metal or something. I actually started thinking how his music was unimpressive when I caught an atrocious cover of Nick Cave’s “Red Right Hand” on the first Hellboy. I know the original’s been used to death, but you couldn’t have substituted some other song like “Up Jumped the Devil” or any other brooding bad-ass sounding Nick Cave song? He wrote quite a few. The soundtracks are probably the place where I’d draw a distinction between him and directors like Stanley Kubrick and Jean-Pierre Jeunet. It’s almost like del Toro needs a music lover in his inner circle.

I wouldn’t let that keep you out of the theater though, because if you like pretty movies, and action, you’ll love Pacific Rim.

Harry Potter and the Yes I know I’m behind the times (Part One of Seven)

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behind the times, harry potter, harry potter and the philosopher's stone, Potter Mania, religion and harry potter

Warning: A collection of idle thoughts, not a review.

Since the last movie was released about two years ago, Potter Mania has finally died down. There are a just a few terminal cases malingering. Even my niece has finally given up on asking me if I’d finally picked up the last book (the answer is still no).

The first book was released in 1997, so let’s say it was over ten years of madness.

This is the part where some people would get stuffy, claim to be immune to such things as peer pressure. I’m not one of those people. I’ll have another beer, and occasionally read books I wouldn’t otherwise (why hello there Millennium trilogy) because flipping everyone is bugging me about it.

The first six Harry Potter books fall into that category. It’s not that I didn’t like them, it’s just I probably wouldn’t have picked them up otherwise. What finally changed that “well, this is nice” to “no, just no” was largely the people in the throes of Potter Mania. It wasn’t enough to like the books, you had to love them. Never mind the deus ex machina feel I got from the endings or the fact that the characters had little gray in them, that the writing wasn’t really the type of thing that made me go SPLOOSH! Anything besides ejaculations of adulation got you one of those, “What’s wrong with you,” type of looks.

Now with no one examining me, and I’ll admit, a healthy dose of curiosity about why people love these books so much, I’ve reread the first one, thanks to Amazon Prime lending (because I don’t think I’d pay to read these).

First, I’d like to complain that the e-book is in American English and not English English. “Gray” should be “grey” and “soccer” spelled f-o-o-t-b-a-l-l. I’d been looking forward to the appearance of “boogies” (or however it was spelled, I would know if they’d not changed it) too. Oh well.

I am happy that prior to my rereading of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone I’d also given Dickens another chance. One thing that Rowling did very well pretty much leaped out of the page at me–her archetypes are fabulous. I wish I hadn’t returned the book, otherwise I’d cite some instances here.

We know Dumbledore’s delightfully dotty, the Dursleys are a load of prigs, Hermione (no, spellchecker, I don’t mean “heroin”) is an huge flipping nerd, and Ron the best friend. We know Draco is a rich bitch. She lays it on thick just like Dickens did with his characters, and much like Dickens, she’s good at it too. Of course, for me this strength was also a weakness, because in creating characters who were clearly good, or evil, or annoying, I became bored.

You could even talk about houses in terms of sitcom characters. Let’s go for The Simpsons. Milhouse would be in Hufflepuff, Lisa in Ravenclaw, Bart in Slytherin. I’m not sure to elect as the Gryffindor…maybe Maggie? She did shoot Burns. Possibly the dog, Santa’s Little Helper. Bravery is not a trait you see in sitcoms really.

The writing was better than I remembered, although I wonder if that’s just because this is an earlier novel, which was more tightly edited than the later ones. To me, it seemed as time went on, the book grew fatter and fatter, with more bits of plot and trivia I couldn’t be bothered to keep track of. In fact, were they all not out now, I wouldn’t be attempting a full reread of this series, because I’d never make it. Everything would get muddled, I’d be frustrated, and I’d be lured away by something nice and cynical.

While I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love with Potter (although I don’t mind some slash as light reading now and then) it’s easy to see why people did. For those who grew up with these books, I can see why the infatuation for them is so all-consuming that they might consider purchasing a $275 Slytherin corset.

Me? I want someone to explain why they celebrate Christmas. After all, they don’t even say, “Dear god!” It’s: “Dear Merlin!” One would have thought they’d stick with the original pagan holiday, Beltane, that Christmas replaced. They don’t even strike one as being Easter/Xmas type Christians, but somehow they go all out for Jesus’s birthday.

The only hint I can find is to look at the the pen name: J. K. Rowling. Very coy, it doesn’t reveal her sex, and probably reflects marketing data that boys are less likely to pick up a book written by a woman. Ditto I suspect for keeping this trapping of Christianity. As is, I know some people take issue with the books on religious grounds. I can imagine making them straight up pagans, instead of the garden-variety lapsed Catholics they could be, would have brought even more of this type of attention to the books.

Who knows though? I bet J. K. does…

I love the Abbe

Tags

17th century France, abbe de choisy, sexy quotes, transvestites

I love reading non-fiction. Its influence creeps into my writing in so many ways. The notion of all the vampires lying around in Jamie’s bed was inspired by the 17^th century French custom of offering guests your bed (more on that later—it’s good, I promise). Oftentimes I’m surprised how risqué it can be, like when Madame de Sevigne writes to her daughter about her son’s impotence, or when she casually talks about meeting his mistresses.

The Transvestite Memoirs by the Abbe de Choisy offers some of the most salacious fare I’ve run into. He describes his love’s bosom thus: “They were two little apples, quite white, whose shape could be seen, with a little rosebud on each; she put a large round patch between them to accentuate their whiteness.” (Pg. 53)

His preferred method of seduction? He pretended to be a woman. He made sure to go out and to be admired—the Abbe was quite vain. In France, one of the places to be seen, besides the theater and opera, was the late mass, also known as the Belle’s mass. It was there the Abbe overheard someone say, “But is it really true that that is a man? He is quite right pass himself off as a woman.” (Pg. 35)

With his guise, he convinced nobles to leave their daughters in his hand. He offered to teach them to dress their hair, and in the case of Mlle. de la Grise, he taught her much more. “Indeed the pain soon vanished, and the tears of suffering became tears of pleasure. She held me with all her strength and said not a word.” (Pg. 77) Later on, he has her mother over, and he mentions how he thoughtfully had the sheets changed.

What I found surprising was Mlle. de la Grise had no idea as to the Abbe’s sex, or sex in general. He compares Mlle. de la Grise (Agnes) with another woman who was a little worldlier, “She would never believe, like Agnes, that babies came through the ear.” (Pg. 80)

One of his favorite moments with Agnes was when he had some guests over. Remember when I mentioned them sharing beds with their guests? The Abbe recounts the night he had Mme. Gaillot over:

She came over and I took her in my arms and made her pass over to the grande ruelle. She was on her back and I was on the left side, my right hand on her breast, our legs intertwined. I bent completely over her to kiss her.

“See,” I said to Madame Gaillot, “she is quite unfeeling. She makes me do the running and does not respond to the affection I give her.”

Meanwhile I was advancing the engagement, kissing her mouth which was redder than coral, and giving her at the same time more solid delights. She had not the control to restrain herself and said, half aloud, with a great sigh: “Ah! That’s wonderful!” (Pg. 85)

It is wonderful Agnes. The Abbe himself thought having an audience increased the pleasure. Thank goodness in his old age the Abbe sat down to pen his memoirs. I still have Aspects of the Embassy to Siam to read. It’s kind of an odd couple thing—the frivolous Abbe was sent on a long sea voyage with a very serious man.

The Vampire’s Gallery

Tags

Erotica, paranormal erotica, paranormal romance, the vampire's gallery, Vampire, vampire erotica, vampire romance

Unlucky. Unloved. And now undead.

Maria hasn’t been touched in years and sustains herself on her friends’ sexual encounters. She’s coerced into trying out internet dating, and she soon attracts the attention of a stud named Jamie. When he invites her out for a beer, she accepts, her mind focused on the one thing she wants—a warm body pressed against hers. Jamie makes her laugh and she invites him in, never guessing that he’s doesn’t want to bed her, but drink her.

The Vampire’s Gallery follows Maria as she leaves one life of dull city apartments for another of sex, sensation, and blood. She rattles the stilted hierarchy of Jamie’s home when she makes the ancient, distant vampire feel again.

But what about the vampires that surround Jamie? Who are her enemies, who are her friends, and who’s just pretending?

Warning: This book contains sanguine vampire seductions, M/F/M scenes, waltzing, and light bondage.

Available at Amazon and Smashwords.

18+

Excerpt:

He took a step away from me. “This isn’t a museum—you can touch the art.”

I made my way to the statues, and he told me, “They’re made of marble and ebony, Grecian and Victorian. They’re also my favorites. You have a good eye.”

I stood in front of the carved Jamie. A youth enervated the statue’s limbs. Unlike the man, nothing ancient hung about the marble. A gilded wreath of laurel crowned his brow, and he held a lyre. Even frozen in stone, his smile was familiar. I touched the cold lips, and behind me Jamie purred. My nipples pebbled at the sound, an icy trickle working down my spine.

His light touch skimmed up the back of my leg, sending shivers through my skin. I trailed my hand down the statue’s throat, and he moved closer to me, cupping my thigh, just below my ass. I slipped my hand lower, and his slipped higher. I arched my back, bringing my breasts against the marble and my ass more firmly into his hand.

He fell to his knees behind me, tearing off my underwear. He licked me from my clit to my quivering asshole, back and forth, until my knees trembled.

“Are you going to fall?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you feel faint?”

“No, just very, very horny.” I wiggled my ass as I spoke.

Whirling me around, he picked me up by my thighs, resting my cunt over his cock. He held me tighter as I bucked against him. His tongue was in my mouth, and as I sucked it, my fangs slid in. A strange sensation, my gums moving aside to make room for them.

“Go ahead and gnaw on me with your new teeth.”

I bit his lip, and honey coated my tongue. I moaned, suckling his lip. He pressed me to the bed and pulled my dress over my head. Jamie stripped, revealing the tight cords of his muscles, and then he was over me, rubbing his throat to my mouth. “Do you want me to drink from you, master?”

“Yes, and I’m going to impale you with my cock while you take your fill. Bite me.”

I rubbed his throbbing vein with my lips as he pushed at my entrance. I sank my teeth into him, and he thrust himself home. His blood poured down my throat like ambrosia, and I was lost in the sensation of his life flowing into me. His heart faltered, a skip, and I stopped. A fatigue suffused his limbs, and I didn’t want my master to be weak.

“Take a little more,” he said. “I’m going to have to feed today regardless. Besides, in a weakened state, I’m still stronger than any vampire here.”

I flicked my tongue over the blood smeared on his neck. “Do you like it when I nibble on you?” I asked, coyly rolling his blood vessel between my teeth.

In reply, his hips picked up their rhythm and he pushed my leg against my chest, allowing him to pound the back of my pussy. Gripping his head, I held him to my mouth and bit again. This time I drew long, slow mouthfuls, lapping at the wound between breaths.

“Yes, that’s perfect. I want you to come on my cock while I rub your clit.”

“Yes, master,” I said.

“I love hearing you say that with my dick pummeling you and my blood on your lips.”

Doesn’t he have a dirty mouth?