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3.08 AVERAGE
3.08 AVERAGE
adventurous
challenging
dark
emotional
funny
sad
tense
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Plot
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Sooooo… Do you want to read porn?
The good kind of course, not that literary disaster which is “Fifty Shades of Gray”. No, of course not, I don’t want you to be part of that sorry group who reads bad books, when you can get the same erotica in this good ol’ classic with the added seal of Literature with capital L stamped on it.
Actually, let me get that out of the way. In this book you can find, in no specific order: rape, gangbang, BDSM, torture, gay porn, orgies, incest, pedophilia, cumshot, fetish, bukake, golden showers and cropophagia (all forms of fluid consumption really) with a dazzling ensemble cast of outlaws, physicians, judges, friars (obviously), females aged 10 to 40 in all stages of sexual maturity, including pregnancy, carved with such a degree of elaborate paraphilia that makes child’s play out of RedTube and turns “The Human Centipede” into a mundane attempt at gratuitous horror. Now wrap it all up in a delicious prose that tastes like “vanilla” as some critic put it, probably thinking of how it would spread nicely on “tender meats”, and adorn it with a flowery euphemism that only an 18th century France could conceive. Let me give you some examples. Objects of desire become idols, sexual enablers are altars, sperm is incense (LOL) and feces are eggs. Go for your omelet now. I won’t even describe the hilarity of anal sex.
Never mind, this is to amusing. Here’s a morsel of what he can do, anally speaking: “The impure monk uninterruptedly occupied with me in like fashion, then tells me to give the largest possible vent to whatever winds may be hovering in my bowels, and these I am to direct into his mouth”. And flatulence ensues. The fore-father of proctology, what visionary! I bursted into laughter while in a public library, but thankfully no one around knew me.
Triple-socket Justine (or The Misfortunes of Virtue) is a bipolar book. Half is porn and half is philosophy justifying porn and pretty much all other conceivable forms of deviant behavior. The (very) thin plot follows Justine separated from her sister when fate robs them both of parents and fortune. Claiming an hedonistic lifestyle and the pursuit of pleasures as the only means fit to succeed in the world, the sis makes her way up the social ladder and before long is a wealthy baroness. Justine, on the other hand, pious and devote and ever-believing in virtue and the equanimous justice of Providence is forced to wade through the worst imaginable kind of shit, most of the times as a consequential reward to her steadfast beliefs.
Sade is a clever man. He’s barbarous, perverse, inclined to the most hateful kind of debauchery but nonetheless clever. In Justine, he has managed to paint the dark face of humanity with the most somber oils. Not only its obscene primal nature, selfish, self-gratifying and destructive but also its logic, twisted, that justifies every possible atrocity. He has single-handedly built the framework for the philosophy of libertinism (and a tab in all pornographic websites), where humans are naturally selfish, greedy, prone to inflict hurt as an augmenter of pleasure and utterly submissive to their dark lusts. Aristoteles, Rousseau, it doesn’t matter. Man is horrible. Man is grotesque. No holds barred.
Luckily, he was wrong. Although, admittedly, too complex to summarize in just a few paragraphs, much of his thesis rests on the premise that nature always trumps nurture. We are born with a personalized subset of impulses from which there’s no going around, though there is one we all share: the need to serve those very same impulses. Had he been born a couple centuries later, Sade, given his noble background, would have been taught on things like evolutionary biology, biological altruism, mirror neurons and other quirky topics which essentially say that if you want food in the pantry or not end as hyena meat you might as well tag up.
This sort of group behavior is something so deeply imprinted in our genes, and stretching back so far as Volvox colonies that in self-conscious beings as ourselves it could only manifest as in impulse. Not a thought, not a byproduct of experience or a moral imperative but a very elementary urge. Why then the extreme pleasure at helping a tourist you’ll never see again with directions? If the individual suffers without the group’s acceptance and integration then any deviant behavior that might throw you to the rims of sociability (like, let’s say, rape) either gets squashed with the millennia or pops every now and then with nature’s chaotic attempts at diversity, and picks blokes like Sade to be percentile 0,1 in compassion.
There are, of course, some other interesting things to take home. While I’m not sure if intentional or not, there’s a progressive desensitization to the crimes professed in the book, even as they get more hideous in nature. Could Sade be trying to prove that, we too, can grow numb to regret if we practice unlawfulness times enough, and chooses to evidence it in like manner? It’s weird but there’s a palpable attraction towards depravity, a sort of occult submission to the idol of wrongdoing.
There’s also the mirror, the metaphorical reflective surface with which Sade accuses society. So much pretty laws and traditions, so much shows of benevolence but, in the end, the powerful are either the product of nepotism or unfettered ambition, and the mass of peasants serves only as scape goats and fodder to keep the gears going.
With all that said, I feel sorry for Sade. I see a soul completely aimless, borne of a restless that will never meet release. Justine lived the martyr’s life only to get shanked with lightning, the holy device of smiting. But all pain is justified, the chthonic pleasures are but misdirections to test the faithful, who will be rewarded with everlasting bliss – a joy the Marquis will never reach.
Or maybe he just wanted me piteous and in a “weak” state. Bastard.
The good kind of course, not that literary disaster which is “Fifty Shades of Gray”. No, of course not, I don’t want you to be part of that sorry group who reads bad books, when you can get the same erotica in this good ol’ classic with the added seal of Literature with capital L stamped on it.
Actually, let me get that out of the way. In this book you can find, in no specific order: rape, gangbang, BDSM, torture, gay porn, orgies, incest, pedophilia, cumshot, fetish, bukake, golden showers and cropophagia (all forms of fluid consumption really) with a dazzling ensemble cast of outlaws, physicians, judges, friars (obviously), females aged 10 to 40 in all stages of sexual maturity, including pregnancy, carved with such a degree of elaborate paraphilia that makes child’s play out of RedTube and turns “The Human Centipede” into a mundane attempt at gratuitous horror. Now wrap it all up in a delicious prose that tastes like “vanilla” as some critic put it, probably thinking of how it would spread nicely on “tender meats”, and adorn it with a flowery euphemism that only an 18th century France could conceive. Let me give you some examples. Objects of desire become idols, sexual enablers are altars, sperm is incense (LOL) and feces are eggs. Go for your omelet now. I won’t even describe the hilarity of anal sex.
Never mind, this is to amusing. Here’s a morsel of what he can do, anally speaking: “The impure monk uninterruptedly occupied with me in like fashion, then tells me to give the largest possible vent to whatever winds may be hovering in my bowels, and these I am to direct into his mouth”. And flatulence ensues. The fore-father of proctology, what visionary! I bursted into laughter while in a public library, but thankfully no one around knew me.
Triple-socket Justine (or The Misfortunes of Virtue) is a bipolar book. Half is porn and half is philosophy justifying porn and pretty much all other conceivable forms of deviant behavior. The (very) thin plot follows Justine separated from her sister when fate robs them both of parents and fortune. Claiming an hedonistic lifestyle and the pursuit of pleasures as the only means fit to succeed in the world, the sis makes her way up the social ladder and before long is a wealthy baroness. Justine, on the other hand, pious and devote and ever-believing in virtue and the equanimous justice of Providence is forced to wade through the worst imaginable kind of shit, most of the times as a consequential reward to her steadfast beliefs.
Sade is a clever man. He’s barbarous, perverse, inclined to the most hateful kind of debauchery but nonetheless clever. In Justine, he has managed to paint the dark face of humanity with the most somber oils. Not only its obscene primal nature, selfish, self-gratifying and destructive but also its logic, twisted, that justifies every possible atrocity. He has single-handedly built the framework for the philosophy of libertinism (and a tab in all pornographic websites), where humans are naturally selfish, greedy, prone to inflict hurt as an augmenter of pleasure and utterly submissive to their dark lusts. Aristoteles, Rousseau, it doesn’t matter. Man is horrible. Man is grotesque. No holds barred.
Luckily, he was wrong. Although, admittedly, too complex to summarize in just a few paragraphs, much of his thesis rests on the premise that nature always trumps nurture. We are born with a personalized subset of impulses from which there’s no going around, though there is one we all share: the need to serve those very same impulses. Had he been born a couple centuries later, Sade, given his noble background, would have been taught on things like evolutionary biology, biological altruism, mirror neurons and other quirky topics which essentially say that if you want food in the pantry or not end as hyena meat you might as well tag up.
This sort of group behavior is something so deeply imprinted in our genes, and stretching back so far as Volvox colonies that in self-conscious beings as ourselves it could only manifest as in impulse. Not a thought, not a byproduct of experience or a moral imperative but a very elementary urge. Why then the extreme pleasure at helping a tourist you’ll never see again with directions? If the individual suffers without the group’s acceptance and integration then any deviant behavior that might throw you to the rims of sociability (like, let’s say, rape) either gets squashed with the millennia or pops every now and then with nature’s chaotic attempts at diversity, and picks blokes like Sade to be percentile 0,1 in compassion.
There are, of course, some other interesting things to take home. While I’m not sure if intentional or not, there’s a progressive desensitization to the crimes professed in the book, even as they get more hideous in nature. Could Sade be trying to prove that, we too, can grow numb to regret if we practice unlawfulness times enough, and chooses to evidence it in like manner? It’s weird but there’s a palpable attraction towards depravity, a sort of occult submission to the idol of wrongdoing.
There’s also the mirror, the metaphorical reflective surface with which Sade accuses society. So much pretty laws and traditions, so much shows of benevolence but, in the end, the powerful are either the product of nepotism or unfettered ambition, and the mass of peasants serves only as scape goats and fodder to keep the gears going.
With all that said, I feel sorry for Sade. I see a soul completely aimless, borne of a restless that will never meet release. Justine lived the martyr’s life only to get shanked with lightning, the holy device of smiting. But all pain is justified, the chthonic pleasures are but misdirections to test the faithful, who will be rewarded with everlasting bliss – a joy the Marquis will never reach.
Or maybe he just wanted me piteous and in a “weak” state. Bastard.
dark
mysterious
reflective
tense
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
adventurous
challenging
dark
tense
slow-paced
I could read between the lines, that there was something missing. That I only had scratched at the surface. After being done with Justine, I wanted to continue with Juliette, to get the whole picture de Sade was paining, just to find out, that this is only one small fraction of it all. The whole story is told in ten books - over 300 pages each - which I haven't found as ebook yet. Only hardcover, which I can not afford right now (http://www.matthes-seitz-berlin.de/buch/justine-und-juliette-band-i.html). Therefore I am not in the position to rate this book, and I am ashamed of all those writing reviews, only having read cut versions, and only one book of ten. It is like judging Don Quixote after he passed the Wind Mills in at the end of the first book and leaving out the rest of the 3000 pages...
As far as I can judge it there is a lot of society critics in de Sades writing and a good portion of philosophy. Not bad written and wrapped in a tainted cloak of perversion. I give it 3 out of 5 to keep the impact of this "non"-review, as low as possible.
As far as I can judge it there is a lot of society critics in de Sades writing and a good portion of philosophy. Not bad written and wrapped in a tainted cloak of perversion. I give it 3 out of 5 to keep the impact of this "non"-review, as low as possible.
challenging
dark
sad
tense
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Content Warnings
Graphic: Incest, Pedophilia, Physical abuse, Rape, Sexual assault, Sexual content, Sexual violence, Violence, Sexual harassment
reflective
medium-paced
dark
reflective
sad
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
challenging
dark
sad
fast-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Complicated
Hvor meget ondskab og grusomhed kan et menneske udholde og stadig opretholde sin tro på det gode i verden? Eller, hvor meget sadisme kan en læser trave igennem, før man bliver følelsesløs og ligeglad?
Justine, en yndig og dydig pige, får sat sin tro på prøve, når hun panisk løber fra den ene sadist til den anden. Uanset om det er forbrydere, lærere eller præster, møder Justine voldtægt og tortur, hvor end hun flygter til.
De mellemlange skrækindjagende passager med misbrug, voldtægt og tortur af den stakkels pige bliver adskilt af endnu længere passager, hvor hendes misbrugere indgår i lange snørklede teologiske og filosofiske diskussioner af etik, hvor de forsvarer deres handlinger, der nærmest må være endnu mere ulidelige, end hvad de ellers udsætter hende for.
Det er svært at motivere sig selv til at læse videre, når man kan ane, at de næste 10 sider, af den bog man er igang med, kommer til at beskæftige sig med en detaljeret liste af præcist hvor mange piskeslag Justine får, mens hun præsentere det ene og andet "tempel" for en mand, der er en kopi af samtlige andre, der har misbrugt hende i løbet af de forgående 200 sider. Det bliver kedeligt. Alt det, der burde kunne få det til at vende sig i dig, går fra krisetilstand til hverdag, og man kan kun have åndenød så længe, før man trækker vejret dybt og læser videre upåvirket.
Hvis denne her bog har nogen værdi, udover en straight-to-the-point tortur-fetischisme, er det som en moderne udgave af Jobs Bog, hvor et menneske får taget alt fra sig for at se, hvor længe de kan opretholde deres tro. Hvor meget uforklarlig og tilsyneladende meningsløs ondskab, man kan udholde, og stadig tro på det gode i verden, Desværre synes bogen at være mere interesseret i at beskrive den repetitive ondskab end i Justines tro, og det er svært at bedømme, om Marquis de Sade er libertinernes skytsengel eller største kritiker.
Jeg havde håbet på nogle friske vinkler på sadisme og skandaløs erotik, men 'Justine' er en lang(!)trukken udgave af det skidt, man kan finde på nettet, og det bliver ikke stor litteratur, fordi det er skrevet af en franskmand for længe siden.
Justine, en yndig og dydig pige, får sat sin tro på prøve, når hun panisk løber fra den ene sadist til den anden. Uanset om det er forbrydere, lærere eller præster, møder Justine voldtægt og tortur, hvor end hun flygter til.
De mellemlange skrækindjagende passager med misbrug, voldtægt og tortur af den stakkels pige bliver adskilt af endnu længere passager, hvor hendes misbrugere indgår i lange snørklede teologiske og filosofiske diskussioner af etik, hvor de forsvarer deres handlinger, der nærmest må være endnu mere ulidelige, end hvad de ellers udsætter hende for.
Det er svært at motivere sig selv til at læse videre, når man kan ane, at de næste 10 sider, af den bog man er igang med, kommer til at beskæftige sig med en detaljeret liste af præcist hvor mange piskeslag Justine får, mens hun præsentere det ene og andet "tempel" for en mand, der er en kopi af samtlige andre, der har misbrugt hende i løbet af de forgående 200 sider. Det bliver kedeligt. Alt det, der burde kunne få det til at vende sig i dig, går fra krisetilstand til hverdag, og man kan kun have åndenød så længe, før man trækker vejret dybt og læser videre upåvirket.
Hvis denne her bog har nogen værdi, udover en straight-to-the-point tortur-fetischisme, er det som en moderne udgave af Jobs Bog, hvor et menneske får taget alt fra sig for at se, hvor længe de kan opretholde deres tro. Hvor meget uforklarlig og tilsyneladende meningsløs ondskab, man kan udholde, og stadig tro på det gode i verden, Desværre synes bogen at være mere interesseret i at beskrive den repetitive ondskab end i Justines tro, og det er svært at bedømme, om Marquis de Sade er libertinernes skytsengel eller største kritiker.
Jeg havde håbet på nogle friske vinkler på sadisme og skandaløs erotik, men 'Justine' er en lang(!)trukken udgave af det skidt, man kan finde på nettet, og det bliver ikke stor litteratur, fordi det er skrevet af en franskmand for længe siden.