Walking round London recently and in the first 3 bookshops I went in this one was front and centre and hard to ignore. By the fourth one I pick it because, you know, it seemed like destiny or something. And besides who doesn’t secretly like reading about fucking.
So I pick it up, read the blurb, put it down and walk off round the shop. Never heard of the book, never heard of the author. Needless to say by the time I came to leave the place I had a copy of this plus a couple of other things in my bag.
With a title like that, you got a lot to live up to I think.
So, now, at home. I read it in under an hour – it says there are 108 pages but trust me, a lot of them are blank or barely filled. And now 30 minutes later we have a review.
It is 13 stories, set around the late 1960s / early 1970s, in a vaguely arty milieu. Each story has a moment of self-reflection and a fuck in it. Little else really. It is like an early Tom Waits album, with less heart and more biological exactitude.
She has sex with mainly different men, in mainly different cities, sometimes she is sober, other times, less so, sometimes she appears more ‘involved’, other times, less so. It is, we are told, a work of fiction.
Tillman writes in admirably short punchy sentences / phrases, that get the point across: “…heart located in cunt, inarticulate.”
It is interesting enough that it does not feel like (almost) an hour wasted. Not at all.