Dirty talk

After my arrival in Paris in 1962, I was exhilarated—among countless other things—by the possibility of purchasing and reading the original editions of various famous banned books such as those of Henry Miller and Lawrence Durrell.

[My copy of the Olympia Press edition of The Black Book,
which I purchased and signed in 1963, is not for sale.]

The literary censorship of the middle of the 20th century is rather has-been. Today, it's the the walls, not books, that talk. Dirty talk. But they don't necessarily need words. Graphic images suffice to get the sexual message across.

I've just encountered, with stupefaction, the supposedly clinical description of the allegedly evil acts of Dominique Strauss-Kahn in the company of a Guinean girl in a room of the Sofitel in New York.

OK. Enough. Let's put all that fucking fuzzy US legal shit between parentheses, for the the moment, and do a bit of simple dirty talk.

It so happens that I've just been reading the most alarmingly explicit document that could possibly exist today on the fucking all-important subject of foul language:

The brilliant Harvard professor Steven Pinker does a splendid job of explaining dirty talk, sex and sundry. And he thrusts vigorously all this lovely dirty stuff, in a manly fashion, into the soft warm global context of the hairy and smelly psychology of sex. Nice, mildly nasty at times, excruciatingly honest, amazingly revealing… essential reading for all us aficionados of dirty talk. Click the above image to access my article of 25 April 2011 entitled Books by Steven Pinker.