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Candy
Banned upon its initial publication, the now-classic Candy is a romp of a story about the impossibly sweet Candy Christian, a wide-eyed, luscious, all-American girl. Candy –� a satire of Voltaire’s Candide –� chronicles her adventures with mystics, sexual analysts, and everyone she meets when she sets out to experience the world.
224 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1958
179 people are currently reading
1,801 people want to read
About the author
Terry Southern
57books133followersTerry Southern was an American novelist, screenwriter, essayist, and satirist renowned for his sharp wit, fearless satire, and incisive observations on American life. A leading voice of the counterculture and a progenitor of New Journalism, Southern made lasting contributions to both literature and film, influencing generations of writers and filmmakers with his unique blend of surreal humor and cultural critique.
Born in Alvarado, Texas, Southern served in the U.S. Army during World War II, where he was stationed in North Africa and Italy. After the war, he studied philosophy at Northwestern University and the University of Chicago before moving to Paris in 1948 on the G.I. Bill. There, he became part of the expatriate literary scene and developed friendships with other writers and artists. It was during this period that he met Mason Hoffenberg, with whom he co-wrote the controversial erotic satire Candy, published in 1958. The novel was banned in several countries but became an underground classic, cementing Southern’s reputation as a daring literary voice.
Southern’s first novel, Flash and Filigree (1958), introduced readers to his darkly comedic style, but it was The Magic Christian (1959) that brought him broader acclaim. The book, which satirizes greed and corruption through the antics of an eccentric billionaire, exemplified Southern’s trademark irreverence and biting social commentary. He followed this with the acclaimed short story collection Red-Dirt Marijuana and Other Tastes (1967), the porn-industry parody Blue Movie (1970), and the semi-autobiographical Texas Summer (1992).
In the 1960s, Southern turned to screenwriting and quickly became one of the most sought-after writers in Hollywood. He co-wrote the screenplay for Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964), a black comedy about nuclear war that earned him an Academy Award nomination. His other screenwriting credits include The Loved One (1965), The Cincinnati Kid (1965), Barbarella (1968), Easy Rider (1969), and the film adaptation of The Magic Christian (1969). His work on Easy Rider was particularly significant, as the film became a landmark of the New Hollywood era and a symbol of the American counterculture.
Southern's literary and journalistic work also found homes in major publications such as Esquire, Harper’s, and The Paris Review. His style helped pave the way for the New Journalism movement, and Tom Wolfe cited Southern as a major influence. Beyond his literary and cinematic achievements, Southern was known for his friendships with notable cultural figures, including William S. Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, and Hunter S. Thompson.
Despite early success, Southern struggled in his later years with financial instability and health problems. He continued to write and teach, contributing to Saturday Night Live in the early 1980s and lecturing on screenwriting at institutions like New York University and Columbia University.
Terry Southern died in New York City in 1995 of respiratory failure. Though his name is less known today than some of his contemporaries, his work remains influential. Revered for his unapologetic voice and imaginative storytelling, Southern is remembered as a fearless satirist who pushed the boundaries of both literature and film.
Born in Alvarado, Texas, Southern served in the U.S. Army during World War II, where he was stationed in North Africa and Italy. After the war, he studied philosophy at Northwestern University and the University of Chicago before moving to Paris in 1948 on the G.I. Bill. There, he became part of the expatriate literary scene and developed friendships with other writers and artists. It was during this period that he met Mason Hoffenberg, with whom he co-wrote the controversial erotic satire Candy, published in 1958. The novel was banned in several countries but became an underground classic, cementing Southern’s reputation as a daring literary voice.
Southern’s first novel, Flash and Filigree (1958), introduced readers to his darkly comedic style, but it was The Magic Christian (1959) that brought him broader acclaim. The book, which satirizes greed and corruption through the antics of an eccentric billionaire, exemplified Southern’s trademark irreverence and biting social commentary. He followed this with the acclaimed short story collection Red-Dirt Marijuana and Other Tastes (1967), the porn-industry parody Blue Movie (1970), and the semi-autobiographical Texas Summer (1992).
In the 1960s, Southern turned to screenwriting and quickly became one of the most sought-after writers in Hollywood. He co-wrote the screenplay for Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964), a black comedy about nuclear war that earned him an Academy Award nomination. His other screenwriting credits include The Loved One (1965), The Cincinnati Kid (1965), Barbarella (1968), Easy Rider (1969), and the film adaptation of The Magic Christian (1969). His work on Easy Rider was particularly significant, as the film became a landmark of the New Hollywood era and a symbol of the American counterculture.
Southern's literary and journalistic work also found homes in major publications such as Esquire, Harper’s, and The Paris Review. His style helped pave the way for the New Journalism movement, and Tom Wolfe cited Southern as a major influence. Beyond his literary and cinematic achievements, Southern was known for his friendships with notable cultural figures, including William S. Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, and Hunter S. Thompson.
Despite early success, Southern struggled in his later years with financial instability and health problems. He continued to write and teach, contributing to Saturday Night Live in the early 1980s and lecturing on screenwriting at institutions like New York University and Columbia University.
Terry Southern died in New York City in 1995 of respiratory failure. Though his name is less known today than some of his contemporaries, his work remains influential. Revered for his unapologetic voice and imaginative storytelling, Southern is remembered as a fearless satirist who pushed the boundaries of both literature and film.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 228 reviews
February 20, 2025
Derision can be outright murderous� Candy is a flaming arrow shot at a target of human menagerie.
She was so kind� She couldn’t say no to anybody�
She’s as sweet as a candy�
Naivety� Silliness� She adores her professor Mephesto� His name tells it all�
In this humanitarian way her downfall begins� The further the more� The more the better� This is the way of the world�
Lambs are always admired by wolves.
She was so kind� She couldn’t say no to anybody�
She’s as sweet as a candy�
…t was something like a Valentine about Candy � one of the expensive ones, all frills and lace, and fragrance of lavender. But she was sometimes petulant, and perhaps it was this, her petulance, more than her virginity, which was her flaw and her undoing.
Naivety� Silliness� She adores her professor Mephesto� His name tells it all�
Candy involuntarily shuddered just slightly and looked down at the big fat hand on her leg � though, of course, she did not see it as that, but as the great, expressive hand of the Master � the hand she had seen so often raised from the podium in the beautiful extolling gestures to human worth and dignity, which did, of course, include her�
In this humanitarian way her downfall begins� The further the more� The more the better� This is the way of the world�
In the bathroom, standing before the glass, Candy finished undressing � unbuttoning her shirt, slowly, carefully, a lamb resigned to the slaughter, dropping the shirt to the floor, and taking off her brassiere, gradually revealing her nakedness to herself, with a little sigh, almost of wistful regret, at how very lovely she was�
Lambs are always admired by wolves.
February 14, 2013
if the difference in appeal between reading pornography and reading erotica is in the artistry of the language and the sophistication & depth of the emotions conveyed, then perhaps the difference between reading erotica and reading the erotic literary novel is in the richness of its thematic elements. right? Candy's depiction of a very horny 50s america is also a depiction of the various obsessions and bugaboos of that time period, and in that way it is somewhat interesting. thematically. somewhat.
it is a picaresque and fast-paced tale, and the similarities between the title name and candide are obvious. sadly, its many attacks on the staid ole 50s come across as tired and cliched. there is also, as always, something deeply problematic in the use of a naive sexpot as a symbol of liberation. i mean seriously, is this cliche jackoff persona really such a timeless icon that she has to be used so consistently throughout literature? i prefer her where she belongs, amidst the entirely unrealistic and two-dimensional caricatures of porn. there are surely more interesting personifications of empowerment, particularly female empowerment, to be drawn upon. and the various sexy scenarios were actually not very hot at all.
still, the novel is not without its worth, as a relic of its time.
it is a picaresque and fast-paced tale, and the similarities between the title name and candide are obvious. sadly, its many attacks on the staid ole 50s come across as tired and cliched. there is also, as always, something deeply problematic in the use of a naive sexpot as a symbol of liberation. i mean seriously, is this cliche jackoff persona really such a timeless icon that she has to be used so consistently throughout literature? i prefer her where she belongs, amidst the entirely unrealistic and two-dimensional caricatures of porn. there are surely more interesting personifications of empowerment, particularly female empowerment, to be drawn upon. and the various sexy scenarios were actually not very hot at all.
still, the novel is not without its worth, as a relic of its time.
July 17, 2018
I read this book a few times the summer between the 6th and 7th grades.
Candy taught me to refer to grown-up lady-parts as honey pots and spice boxes.
I wish I had known at the time that this was supposed to be satire.
Candy taught me to refer to grown-up lady-parts as honey pots and spice boxes.
I wish I had known at the time that this was supposed to be satire.
June 9, 2016
One of my all-time favorite films is Barbarella, and that's where I first encountered Terry Southern's name, as one of its screenwriters. Now, while I was reading Candy I couldn't help but notice remarkable similarities: Candy Christian behaves more like a battery-operated talking fuckdoll than a human being, just like... Barbarella. Candy is comprised of a series of disconnected events (calling it a "plot" is something I have a lot of reservations about.) just like Barbarella... however Candy is no Jane Fonda, and without the movie's campy but exotic studio sets, costumes, sci-fi props, Candy is far less fun.
I liked male characters somewhat better. They are not typical hunky, muscular studs we almost always read in erotica these days. Especially the Hunchback is quite memorable...:
The shop on this corner of Grove was a man's underwear shop, and the hunchback's eyes devoured another crotch or two before he looked up. He was also smiling. He supposed she was a policewoman. "Rubatubdub!" he said, agitating his hump vigorously against the tree. Getting run in was part of his kick.
"Three men in a tub!" cried Candy, laughing in marvel at their immediate rapport. How simple! she thought.
And this passage:
The hunchback was lying naked, curled on his side like a big foetus, when Candy appeared before him, standing for a moment in full lush radiance, a naked angel bearing the supreme gift. Then, she got into bed quickly, under the sheet, almost soundlessly, saying, "Darling, darling," and cuddling him to her at once, while he, his head with the most freakish thoughts imaginable--all about tubs of living and broken toys, every manner of excrement, scorpions, steelwool, pig-masks, odd metal harness, etc.--tried desperately to pry into the images a single reminder: the money!
Mmmmmm.
Addendum: Ok, I am reading and, according to the author, Southern clearly had Candy in mind when writing Barbarella: "Overall Terry loved writing Barbarella because he felt it was his Candy--a brave girl trying to do the right thing but in outer space."
I liked male characters somewhat better. They are not typical hunky, muscular studs we almost always read in erotica these days. Especially the Hunchback is quite memorable...:
The shop on this corner of Grove was a man's underwear shop, and the hunchback's eyes devoured another crotch or two before he looked up. He was also smiling. He supposed she was a policewoman. "Rubatubdub!" he said, agitating his hump vigorously against the tree. Getting run in was part of his kick.
"Three men in a tub!" cried Candy, laughing in marvel at their immediate rapport. How simple! she thought.
And this passage:
The hunchback was lying naked, curled on his side like a big foetus, when Candy appeared before him, standing for a moment in full lush radiance, a naked angel bearing the supreme gift. Then, she got into bed quickly, under the sheet, almost soundlessly, saying, "Darling, darling," and cuddling him to her at once, while he, his head with the most freakish thoughts imaginable--all about tubs of living and broken toys, every manner of excrement, scorpions, steelwool, pig-masks, odd metal harness, etc.--tried desperately to pry into the images a single reminder: the money!
Mmmmmm.
Addendum: Ok, I am reading and, according to the author, Southern clearly had Candy in mind when writing Barbarella: "Overall Terry loved writing Barbarella because he felt it was his Candy--a brave girl trying to do the right thing but in outer space."
April 23, 2018
Coming in at #2 on the 1964 bestseller list is what I found to be a quite silly book, intended to be a satire on American mores, mostly sex. I am a tough customer when it comes to satire and though I got a few laughs from Candy, I was glad it was short and soon over.
Candy is an ingenue who likes sex but has to pretend she does it to satisfy the "great need" of the men involved. Not that funny, is it? She has one adventure after another, just innocently finding herself with odd characters, always surprised to find herself so aroused.
Playboy Magazine listed the book in 2006 as one of the "25 Sexiest Novels Ever Written." So that tells you a lot. There are some fellows on ŷ who confess they read it for a certain purpose as teenagers.
Terry Southern co-wrote the book in collaboration with his buddy Mason Hoffenberg for a flat fee from Olympia Press, Paris, France, in 1958. Olympia was known in those days as the "dirty book publisher." The novel was banned in the United States until 1964. Southern went on to work on screenplays for Dr Strangelove, Casino Royale, Barbarello, and Easy Rider, among others. What a guy.
Not recommended, even for teenage boys in 2018, unless you are taking a class in how not to write satire. The book does speak volumes about where America was at in the mid 60s when it came to sex.
Candy is an ingenue who likes sex but has to pretend she does it to satisfy the "great need" of the men involved. Not that funny, is it? She has one adventure after another, just innocently finding herself with odd characters, always surprised to find herself so aroused.
Playboy Magazine listed the book in 2006 as one of the "25 Sexiest Novels Ever Written." So that tells you a lot. There are some fellows on ŷ who confess they read it for a certain purpose as teenagers.
Terry Southern co-wrote the book in collaboration with his buddy Mason Hoffenberg for a flat fee from Olympia Press, Paris, France, in 1958. Olympia was known in those days as the "dirty book publisher." The novel was banned in the United States until 1964. Southern went on to work on screenplays for Dr Strangelove, Casino Royale, Barbarello, and Easy Rider, among others. What a guy.
Not recommended, even for teenage boys in 2018, unless you are taking a class in how not to write satire. The book does speak volumes about where America was at in the mid 60s when it came to sex.
October 15, 2009
Few are the books which deliver on all possible levels and to all possible audiences, and Candy reigns supreme as their undisputed queen. There are those who might disagree with me, but there are also folk that don't believe dinosaurs existed since they aren't mentioned in the Bible. So don't be a hater; get up off your Candy(less)-ass, drum up a plan to finagle a copy of this book, and jump on the bandwagon of the winning team.
I have absolutely no doubts that my persuasive intro convinced you that to ignore the greatness of Candy would be the height of folly, but before you embark on a mission which risks life and limb tracking down this masterpiece, let me give you a little taste of the creamy goodness to come... just a little sample which will leave you writhing on the floor, begging to digest the story whole.
I came across this awesome work while kicking it in my old hood, at a resale shop I used to love going to and sadly now live about 45 minutes from. Paperbacks are usually 50 cents there, but on this fateful visit, there was a small collection of ‘vintage� books in a glass case ranging from $2 to $15 bucks. Naturally I was intrigued, and on first glance, I had some explanation as to why they were under lock and key, the selection was almost universally smutty in nature. Regardless, I risked looking like a pervert and asked to take a gander at these treasures, and solidified my perverted nature by purchasing a trio of them; I couldn’t help myself, all three presented themselves as completely tawdry smut, catering solely to purely prurient interests, basically, the sole reasons I continue to read.
I’ve got to make a quick sidenote here, within this sidenote, regarding the store I was purchasing this filth at. This particular resale shop allegedly supports/funds a battered women’s shelter, I assume the proceeds go directly towards castrating or shackling the former tormentors of the victims. However, with the number of studies (not that I’ve seen them, but often brought up by anti-porn pundits in debates) that show the sexual objectification of women as a gateway to battery and/or rape at the hands of the uncontrollable, drooling troglodytes which make up the male sex, I am somewhat perplexed as to how they justify selling this stuff. Turning a profit (or receiving a donation) from books which degrade women such as Candy seemingly goes against their principles, and thus supports my oft-mocked theory this place is actually a front for either a Nicaraguan drug ring or assists in exporting young white girls as slaves to Mozambique. Either that or it goes to show that there is no room for business ethics when a buck can be made in a cutthroat capitalist economy.
Anyway, let me explain to you just how seedy this book was, by providing sample text from the front and back covers (all I dared to inspect under the watchful eye of the slightly-frightened lady accommodating my perusal); the cover alone promised I was holding “the world’s most talked about book�, and the back had an excerpt from the story which contained this brilliance ”But, oh Daddy, when Uncle Jack looked at me that way, and when he beseeched me to give him all my true warmth on the hospital floor, his need was so great, so so –aching- of course I gave to him� The fact I enthusiastically purchased this gives you some sickening insight to my soul. The fact I also escalated it to the next book in my queue probably doesn’t put me in any better light.
A few pages in, I thought I knew exactly what was going on in the book, that this was just some hastily-scribbled smut working the Daddy’s Worst Nightmare scenario; the protagonist, Candy Christian, is Daddy’s Little Girl, and also a mindless, burgeoning skank under the tutelage of erudite, bohemian hep-cat Professor Mephesto. I’m sure the average D.W.N. is pretty universal: walking in to find your daughter coated in layers of jit while your poker buddies are slapping her face with recently-spent (and enormous) tallywhackers and wiping the residual joy-juice from their monstrous schlongs off with your golf club warmers. Luckily for those of us reading Candy for a good laugh, “Daddy� Christian is a little more imaginative than all that. After catching Candy preparing to fellate the totally stereotypical and monosyllabic Mexican gardener, Emmanuel, his thoughts are revealed: “It was not as though he couldn’t believe his eyes, for it was a scene that had formed a part of many of his most lively and hideous dreams - dreams which began with Candy be ravished, first by Mephesto, then by foreigners, then by negroes, then gorillas, then bulldogs, then donkeys, horses, mules, kangaroos, elephants, rhinos, and finally, in the grand finale, by all of them at once, grouped around different parts of her, though it was Candy who was the aggressor, she who was voraciously ravishing them, frantically forcing the bunched and spurting organs into every orifice, vagina, anus, mouth, ears, nose�.he had even dreamed once that she asked him if it were true that there was a small uncovered opening in the pupil of the eye, because if it were she would have room there for a praying mantis.� Daddy is our type of man; utterly and completely fucking ridiculous!! However, right after his kangaroo/praying mantis gangbang recollection, he attacks the gardener, but his shabby, middle-class, white-boy fighting skills are trumped by Emmanuel’s inherently-Mexican trowel-wielding prowess, and he’s lobotomized! Don’t worry, Daddy’s quickly and quite conveniently replaced by his identical twin brother, and his drunken nymphomaniac wife, Livia.
It was at this point in the novel that I made a startling discovery; this book wasn’t just smut, this book was actually a parody of Voltaire’s Candide, a classic which I happen to be quite fond of. I have to admit, this actually did shock the shit out of me. In retrospect, there were a few clues which I overlooked, the first being the title page pronouncing the book as “Maxwell Kenton’s Satirical Novel�, and a quote from Candide kicking off the first chapter (which I honestly just figured was tossed in to give it some element of respectability to prevent it from being banned), and lastly, the similar-sounding names, Candy and Candide. Very fucking clever Maxwell, you wily rapscallion. Now, able to see my man Professor Mephesto as a modern-day Pangloss, causing untold damage to a naïve student with his philosophy consisting of balderdash and malarkey, I was able to continue reading with renewed pleasure. Sure, the fact that I didn’t immediately catch that this was a perverse retelling of Candide after the first page was somewhat embarrassing, but I caught on by page 30, illustrating how much smarter this book made me in such short time!
With my Daddy’s Worst Nightmare theory sadly thrown to the wind, the book continues as a tongue in cheek parody of Candide, except instead of arguing the idea that we live in the ‘best of all possible worlds� by entangling the narrator in all sorts of life-threatening misfortunes, here we see the argument against free love being the ‘best of all possible privileges� by getting Candy worked-over in increasingly insane sexual imbroglios. These events include anal action with the nose of a Buddha statue, incest, and of course, the depraved zenith of the book, Candy’s mind-blowing copulation with a bedraggled, wino hunchback, which climaxes with Candy demanding that he attempt forcing his unwashed and deformed hump into her succulent lamb-pit.
I’m proud to prematurely announce Candy as the winner of my 2009 “Holy Shit� Award, certain nothing in the next few months will come close to challenging its twisted magnificence.
I have absolutely no doubts that my persuasive intro convinced you that to ignore the greatness of Candy would be the height of folly, but before you embark on a mission which risks life and limb tracking down this masterpiece, let me give you a little taste of the creamy goodness to come... just a little sample which will leave you writhing on the floor, begging to digest the story whole.
I came across this awesome work while kicking it in my old hood, at a resale shop I used to love going to and sadly now live about 45 minutes from. Paperbacks are usually 50 cents there, but on this fateful visit, there was a small collection of ‘vintage� books in a glass case ranging from $2 to $15 bucks. Naturally I was intrigued, and on first glance, I had some explanation as to why they were under lock and key, the selection was almost universally smutty in nature. Regardless, I risked looking like a pervert and asked to take a gander at these treasures, and solidified my perverted nature by purchasing a trio of them; I couldn’t help myself, all three presented themselves as completely tawdry smut, catering solely to purely prurient interests, basically, the sole reasons I continue to read.
I’ve got to make a quick sidenote here, within this sidenote, regarding the store I was purchasing this filth at. This particular resale shop allegedly supports/funds a battered women’s shelter, I assume the proceeds go directly towards castrating or shackling the former tormentors of the victims. However, with the number of studies (not that I’ve seen them, but often brought up by anti-porn pundits in debates) that show the sexual objectification of women as a gateway to battery and/or rape at the hands of the uncontrollable, drooling troglodytes which make up the male sex, I am somewhat perplexed as to how they justify selling this stuff. Turning a profit (or receiving a donation) from books which degrade women such as Candy seemingly goes against their principles, and thus supports my oft-mocked theory this place is actually a front for either a Nicaraguan drug ring or assists in exporting young white girls as slaves to Mozambique. Either that or it goes to show that there is no room for business ethics when a buck can be made in a cutthroat capitalist economy.
Anyway, let me explain to you just how seedy this book was, by providing sample text from the front and back covers (all I dared to inspect under the watchful eye of the slightly-frightened lady accommodating my perusal); the cover alone promised I was holding “the world’s most talked about book�, and the back had an excerpt from the story which contained this brilliance ”But, oh Daddy, when Uncle Jack looked at me that way, and when he beseeched me to give him all my true warmth on the hospital floor, his need was so great, so so –aching- of course I gave to him� The fact I enthusiastically purchased this gives you some sickening insight to my soul. The fact I also escalated it to the next book in my queue probably doesn’t put me in any better light.
A few pages in, I thought I knew exactly what was going on in the book, that this was just some hastily-scribbled smut working the Daddy’s Worst Nightmare scenario; the protagonist, Candy Christian, is Daddy’s Little Girl, and also a mindless, burgeoning skank under the tutelage of erudite, bohemian hep-cat Professor Mephesto. I’m sure the average D.W.N. is pretty universal: walking in to find your daughter coated in layers of jit while your poker buddies are slapping her face with recently-spent (and enormous) tallywhackers and wiping the residual joy-juice from their monstrous schlongs off with your golf club warmers. Luckily for those of us reading Candy for a good laugh, “Daddy� Christian is a little more imaginative than all that. After catching Candy preparing to fellate the totally stereotypical and monosyllabic Mexican gardener, Emmanuel, his thoughts are revealed: “It was not as though he couldn’t believe his eyes, for it was a scene that had formed a part of many of his most lively and hideous dreams - dreams which began with Candy be ravished, first by Mephesto, then by foreigners, then by negroes, then gorillas, then bulldogs, then donkeys, horses, mules, kangaroos, elephants, rhinos, and finally, in the grand finale, by all of them at once, grouped around different parts of her, though it was Candy who was the aggressor, she who was voraciously ravishing them, frantically forcing the bunched and spurting organs into every orifice, vagina, anus, mouth, ears, nose�.he had even dreamed once that she asked him if it were true that there was a small uncovered opening in the pupil of the eye, because if it were she would have room there for a praying mantis.� Daddy is our type of man; utterly and completely fucking ridiculous!! However, right after his kangaroo/praying mantis gangbang recollection, he attacks the gardener, but his shabby, middle-class, white-boy fighting skills are trumped by Emmanuel’s inherently-Mexican trowel-wielding prowess, and he’s lobotomized! Don’t worry, Daddy’s quickly and quite conveniently replaced by his identical twin brother, and his drunken nymphomaniac wife, Livia.
It was at this point in the novel that I made a startling discovery; this book wasn’t just smut, this book was actually a parody of Voltaire’s Candide, a classic which I happen to be quite fond of. I have to admit, this actually did shock the shit out of me. In retrospect, there were a few clues which I overlooked, the first being the title page pronouncing the book as “Maxwell Kenton’s Satirical Novel�, and a quote from Candide kicking off the first chapter (which I honestly just figured was tossed in to give it some element of respectability to prevent it from being banned), and lastly, the similar-sounding names, Candy and Candide. Very fucking clever Maxwell, you wily rapscallion. Now, able to see my man Professor Mephesto as a modern-day Pangloss, causing untold damage to a naïve student with his philosophy consisting of balderdash and malarkey, I was able to continue reading with renewed pleasure. Sure, the fact that I didn’t immediately catch that this was a perverse retelling of Candide after the first page was somewhat embarrassing, but I caught on by page 30, illustrating how much smarter this book made me in such short time!
With my Daddy’s Worst Nightmare theory sadly thrown to the wind, the book continues as a tongue in cheek parody of Candide, except instead of arguing the idea that we live in the ‘best of all possible worlds� by entangling the narrator in all sorts of life-threatening misfortunes, here we see the argument against free love being the ‘best of all possible privileges� by getting Candy worked-over in increasingly insane sexual imbroglios. These events include anal action with the nose of a Buddha statue, incest, and of course, the depraved zenith of the book, Candy’s mind-blowing copulation with a bedraggled, wino hunchback, which climaxes with Candy demanding that he attempt forcing his unwashed and deformed hump into her succulent lamb-pit.
I’m proud to prematurely announce Candy as the winner of my 2009 “Holy Shit� Award, certain nothing in the next few months will come close to challenging its twisted magnificence.
February 14, 2016
This was awful. Just...awful. I would like to say it reminded me a bit of by , but that resemblance is backward. Anyone who has read will know what I mean.
I'm glad I knew, going in, that this was a satirical novel because if I thought it was serious I would not have been able to finish. Is it erotica? I guess, but the way in which Candy is painted as a such an innocent slut (talk about an oxymoron!) is offensive.
2/14 - I've been reading other reviews and feel I should add a note.
Another "gentleman" said that the ridiculous situations Candy finds herself in, i.e. a full gynecological exam in a public restroom, a Buddha statue's nose shoved up her ass as a penis fills her front, are all situations that men, being the oversexed beings they are, truly believe could happen. They don't, but true men are always ready. If and when...
If I had read that review first I know I would have been more amused by this book than sickened.
I'm glad I knew, going in, that this was a satirical novel because if I thought it was serious I would not have been able to finish. Is it erotica? I guess, but the way in which Candy is painted as a such an innocent slut (talk about an oxymoron!) is offensive.
2/14 - I've been reading other reviews and feel I should add a note.
Another "gentleman" said that the ridiculous situations Candy finds herself in, i.e. a full gynecological exam in a public restroom, a Buddha statue's nose shoved up her ass as a penis fills her front, are all situations that men, being the oversexed beings they are, truly believe could happen. They don't, but true men are always ready. If and when...
If I had read that review first I know I would have been more amused by this book than sickened.
July 17, 2022
7.17.'22 : Oh c'mon now can't this be read as in the frame created, those zany/sexy 60's cum 70's loosening of mores & habilments, cooky Pink Panther plotlines with just the right hint of catharsis, monkey momentum to haul-ass humdinging wanger-up wrap. Shit's funny still!
Earlier tab: This book would not see light of day, today. Southern would be modernly crucified, ostracized and maybe indicted for inciting violence to society of women, ethnic groups, race, etc., and who could argue otherwise? Well. How’s ‘bout a wee frame of context, yep that ‘ol set of circumstance thing, the times ya know were shaping things, grappling with re-shaping those entrenched attitudes, customs & pathologies of abuse, to forge new mores of behavior in accordance with equality and personal protections against all forms of manipulation sexual and otherwise. It was the times baby, the Beat on the street was in jazzy time with the louse on the loose eschewing constricting boa conventions and the tribe was feral. Panties were coming off bidden or not but the music played on.
So, the book is indefensible by today’s standards true enough, but so are other maybe less egregious novels that are offensive, statues, appropriations/naming, etc., etc., that’s where this is going isn’t it, banning everything that rubs the mob’s ire? “Candy� is a truffle scratched up out of the loamy reach of sexual piggish desires for open expression of repressed animality. Feminism on the rise played into that hand with resulting bad behavior in search of good. Candy the character is a benevolent climber in pursuit of wisdom [haha] via her hourglass charms as she willingly doles out like a Mother Teresa on point anointing wounds. The men are all despicable Harvey’s at the grab&poke. So that’s how it was (in places) while things were ‘shaping� - can’t we who know better survive the ignominy of looking/reading/comprehending the wrongness and move on unvictimized? The scrapheap is where this book mostly survives but it had its fifteen, and, serves as clear reminder of how we got here, So. [risibility]
Earlier tab: This book would not see light of day, today. Southern would be modernly crucified, ostracized and maybe indicted for inciting violence to society of women, ethnic groups, race, etc., and who could argue otherwise? Well. How’s ‘bout a wee frame of context, yep that ‘ol set of circumstance thing, the times ya know were shaping things, grappling with re-shaping those entrenched attitudes, customs & pathologies of abuse, to forge new mores of behavior in accordance with equality and personal protections against all forms of manipulation sexual and otherwise. It was the times baby, the Beat on the street was in jazzy time with the louse on the loose eschewing constricting boa conventions and the tribe was feral. Panties were coming off bidden or not but the music played on.
So, the book is indefensible by today’s standards true enough, but so are other maybe less egregious novels that are offensive, statues, appropriations/naming, etc., etc., that’s where this is going isn’t it, banning everything that rubs the mob’s ire? “Candy� is a truffle scratched up out of the loamy reach of sexual piggish desires for open expression of repressed animality. Feminism on the rise played into that hand with resulting bad behavior in search of good. Candy the character is a benevolent climber in pursuit of wisdom [haha] via her hourglass charms as she willingly doles out like a Mother Teresa on point anointing wounds. The men are all despicable Harvey’s at the grab&poke. So that’s how it was (in places) while things were ‘shaping� - can’t we who know better survive the ignominy of looking/reading/comprehending the wrongness and move on unvictimized? The scrapheap is where this book mostly survives but it had its fifteen, and, serves as clear reminder of how we got here, So. [risibility]
April 26, 2016
Acquired via interlibrary loan. Salacious comical odyssey of a young girl's carnal initiation. Written in 1958. This will be my entre into the world of Terry Southern (apart from films). If it's really good, I'll tackle "The Magic Christian" or "Blue Movie" next.
UPDATE:
Blazed through the first 73 pages on the bus and would have continued if not for pending family business. I actually laughed aloud on the bus when I came to this, spouted by the lascivious Aunt Liv: "I'm in the mood for cock and plenty of it! About ten pounds, thick and fast!"
So this is pretty fucking funny so far, written with confidence and it flows like the smoothest buttah. There's slapstick and satire and a certain hapless charm as Candy tries to lose her virginity. I'm not sure this is really a great book, but it's just plain fun -- and there's something to be said for that.
HALFWAY or so:
OK, well the antics in the hospital and then the hunchback thing, hmmm... Methinks the book is falling apart a bit after the terrific flowing momentum of its first third. It reads well, though. And there are laughs and imagination. Surprisingly, the book is not as dirty as a lot of people seem to be suggesting. When it is dirty, it is quite so, but it just isn't nasty very often. It's hard to think of anyone getting off to this book; it's mainly a comedy. Candy herself is a relatively poorly defined character, it seems to me. One minute she's supposed to be kind of dumb and naive, and other times she seems to possess smarts at odds with the cluelessness. It's hard for the reader to think of her as an erotic object/being, despite her appearance as one to the other characters.
FINAL:
Scattershot, but admirably transgressive.
UPDATE:
Blazed through the first 73 pages on the bus and would have continued if not for pending family business. I actually laughed aloud on the bus when I came to this, spouted by the lascivious Aunt Liv: "I'm in the mood for cock and plenty of it! About ten pounds, thick and fast!"
So this is pretty fucking funny so far, written with confidence and it flows like the smoothest buttah. There's slapstick and satire and a certain hapless charm as Candy tries to lose her virginity. I'm not sure this is really a great book, but it's just plain fun -- and there's something to be said for that.
HALFWAY or so:
OK, well the antics in the hospital and then the hunchback thing, hmmm... Methinks the book is falling apart a bit after the terrific flowing momentum of its first third. It reads well, though. And there are laughs and imagination. Surprisingly, the book is not as dirty as a lot of people seem to be suggesting. When it is dirty, it is quite so, but it just isn't nasty very often. It's hard to think of anyone getting off to this book; it's mainly a comedy. Candy herself is a relatively poorly defined character, it seems to me. One minute she's supposed to be kind of dumb and naive, and other times she seems to possess smarts at odds with the cluelessness. It's hard for the reader to think of her as an erotic object/being, despite her appearance as one to the other characters.
FINAL:
Scattershot, but admirably transgressive.
February 23, 2014
Candy was way ahead of its time. Total litporn (which is the vogue these days). A two-hour read at most with some laughs ("Derek" the hunchback) and some shocks (the Buddha's nose). Typical early-1960s era Olympia Press traveler-wank trash. And if the youtube trailer is anything to go by, the movie is not faithful to the book - going for a Laugh-In vibe, an aren't-we-naughty-wink-wink all-star cast (Richard Burton?! Marlon Brando?! JOHN ASTIN?!!? RINGO STARR?!?), rather than, well, the surreal manic degenerate energy of the novel. It's amusing to see both the datestamp of the hardback library copy I read (August 1964) - and the whiteness of the pages. Whereas whenever I see the E.L. James books on the shelves at the library - rode hard and put away wet is a kind term. Were folks around these parts too scandalized to check Candy out? I wonder. I really do.
Probably NSFW:
Probably NSFW:
December 20, 2011
WTF? Seriously, WTF? What is this supposed to be? Satirical? Scandalous? Titillating? I'll tell you what it is - one big W.T.F. It's one wtf scene after another about Candy Christian (a walking/talking blonde moment who has Britney Spears' habit of somehow losing her underwear) and all the men who are trying to get into her "honeypot," her "jelly box," her "snapping turtle," her "fur pie," her "spice box," her "thermal pudding," her "lamb-pit" - yes, lamb pit. Because her "precious little honey-cloister" will be "bleating." (Confidentially, if you or your loved one has a vagina that emits sounds similar to a sheep's, I recommend you seek medical attention right away.)
October 30, 2011
Candy by "Maxwell Canton" (a psuedonym for Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg) is a 1958 novel that is apparently fondly remembered by lots of its fans for its breathless descriptions of an excessively naive, manipulable and attractive young lady as she careens through one bizarre encounter after another while a rolling cast of late-50s stereotypical characters attempts to seduce her: her teacher Professor Mephesto, her Uncle Jack and his wife Livia (who apparently also swings wildly between cocaine-fueled cockwhore and sullen brat), the peculiar Dr. Krankeit and the desperate Dr. Duncan, and thereafter by equally creepy physicians, doctors, police officers, cult leaders, Communists, religious gurus, and finally The Buddha himself. Very few of these men (and sadly, never Livia) ever get into her pants; those that do tend to have less-than-succesful moments. The book is replete with descriptions of her lush nakedness and cute euphemisms for various body parts.
The book is really a succession of farcical set-pieces about pretentious teachers, "liberated" women, the weird "sexology" of the late 1950's, the rise of strange religious cults (although why they take a swipe at the Quakers I can't tell), the relationships between cops and gay bars at the time. There's an almost painfully extended piece about Jews and the way they did or did not integrate well with the larger American community at the time. (I write "painfully" because there were a lot of men from my family and their extended communities who bore the scars of those battles. One of my relatives in the early 1970s delighted his mother by becoming a law professor-- "A doctor and a lawyer!"-- a career which he almost immediately abandoned to write porn. Sadly, I'm not actually related to him and my parents adamantly refused to tell me his pen name.)
I found the book a bit disappointing. I can see how it was a thrill to read in 1960. I can see how the authors thought it was subversive and funny. But one of the things I've learned in the past forty years is that we don't really run to a reductio world when we have one of these bizarre societal adolescent moments; instead, we outgrow them, establish a new equilibrium, and move on. It was a "smile, yeah, that was probably amusing once" kind of book.
The book is really a succession of farcical set-pieces about pretentious teachers, "liberated" women, the weird "sexology" of the late 1950's, the rise of strange religious cults (although why they take a swipe at the Quakers I can't tell), the relationships between cops and gay bars at the time. There's an almost painfully extended piece about Jews and the way they did or did not integrate well with the larger American community at the time. (I write "painfully" because there were a lot of men from my family and their extended communities who bore the scars of those battles. One of my relatives in the early 1970s delighted his mother by becoming a law professor-- "A doctor and a lawyer!"-- a career which he almost immediately abandoned to write porn. Sadly, I'm not actually related to him and my parents adamantly refused to tell me his pen name.)
I found the book a bit disappointing. I can see how it was a thrill to read in 1960. I can see how the authors thought it was subversive and funny. But one of the things I've learned in the past forty years is that we don't really run to a reductio world when we have one of these bizarre societal adolescent moments; instead, we outgrow them, establish a new equilibrium, and move on. It was a "smile, yeah, that was probably amusing once" kind of book.
May 19, 2019
Candy is about a young girl who is impossibly beautiful and the bizarre sexual journey that takes her from Maine to Tibet awakening her spiritual, emotional, and sexual desires. Candy is a satire of "Candide" and her character is that of the overly altruistic fool with a heart of gold. If Candy seduces a man or allows herself to be seduced she has so thoroughly reasoned it out in her head and heart as to make each act seem impossibly pure even in some very dubious situations, which is where most of the comedy is derived from. This book was banned in parts of Europe and it is easy to see why with its frank depictions of sex, frequent dirty talk (especially from the foul Aunt Livia), and myriad of euphemisms for Candy's vagina. This is perhaps the first dark comic novel about sex since I read Alissa Nutting's incredible "Tampa" last year and I found it less funny and way more slapstick in the way it dealt with taboo. Indeed I could downright hear some looney tunes sound effects in the back of my mind during some of the scenes. And that is not helped by the fact that the ending serves as a punch line after a long wind up is kind of lame. Regardless the writing was crisp, surprisingly poetic even at times, and the pacing still had my wanting to read on. It's a book that never takes itself seriously and is pretty foul so beware of that.
June 8, 2014
I would never have thought that I will be able to find erotic pastish that awesome as in works of Marquis de Sade! And "Candy" is just like that - as if Sade and Voltaire had written it together just for fun. Over the top, somewhere between philosophical tale and satire of the one, with freudian twist at the end.
Read
September 20, 2021Professor Petitti never disappoints.
February 27, 2018
I read this based on a comment of Jack Newfield's (I think) � mid-60s maybe � that the young people weren't reading Camus and C. Wright Mills anymore. They were reading putatively less worthy stuff like Jeremy Larner's Drive, He Said and Thomas Pynchon's V and Candy by Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg. This seems in many ways like an artifact of its time. It's couched as a satire, although the subject of the satire if a bit hard to parse. Candy, the main character, is a somewhat vacant young college woman, who writes on a philosophy paper that the greatest love is to give oneself away completely. She proceeds through a, I suppose, sexual farce, finding herself in a series of compromising situations, most of which we would call rape, and if they didn't call it rape, they should have. It seems to reveal two things as possible satiric objects: one pretty tired, the other somewhat more interesting. If, the target is the tendency toward an tepid search for enlightenment through self-abnegation, in Candy, as pretty young white girl, you have a typical target for male chauvinism of the left. To a kind of well-heeled political cynicism/realism, a naive young woman is the perfect emblem of a naive, idealistic culture. Candy seems to be the projection of a sort of stuffy, male pseudo-sophisticate. She searches for spiritual awakening by giving her body away. She's not sexual liberated; she's sexually � I dunno � castrated. It's not about her enjoyment at all. If you role all that into a ball you get the failure of sexual liberation in recapitulated macho bullshit. Whether that's intentional or not, I don't know. The implication I feel like I'm supposed to get is that all of this is a lot of fun. Not so much.
If on the other hand, the target is men themselves, the premise of the novel is that whatever one's stated intentions might be everyone wants to have sex with Candy. Beneath any pretense of politics, education, spirituality, if it's a man, he is after one thing. There is something to the idea, but "the romp" seems ill-suited to it. Despite the datedness of the sexpolitics there are still some moments of genuine humor: the way Hoffenberg and Southern peer into the greatest fear of Candy's dad � Mr. Christian � is wicked, and skewers the target who actually deserves it on his own culturally cretinous point.
If on the other hand, the target is men themselves, the premise of the novel is that whatever one's stated intentions might be everyone wants to have sex with Candy. Beneath any pretense of politics, education, spirituality, if it's a man, he is after one thing. There is something to the idea, but "the romp" seems ill-suited to it. Despite the datedness of the sexpolitics there are still some moments of genuine humor: the way Hoffenberg and Southern peer into the greatest fear of Candy's dad � Mr. Christian � is wicked, and skewers the target who actually deserves it on his own culturally cretinous point.
November 15, 2016
Published in 1958, Candy is dirty enough that even now many readers will snort “Filth!� and throw it in a trashcan.
Written by Terry Southern (1924�1995) and Mason Hoffenberg (1922�1986), it is not, if the Wikipedia entry is accurate, a satire based on Voltair’s Candide. (That’s fine with me as I haven’t read that.) It was first published under a pseudonym and widely banned in its day, though it eventually became a best seller. You still wouldn’t give it to a 14-year-old, even though by that age they’ve probably seen things as graphic on the internet.
Southern and Hoffenberg co-wrote it in a series of letters and were surprised at the Candide comparison.
Did I like it? Well, no. I read it because it was published the year I was born and it’s beginning reads more like a campus novel than a deliberately dirty sex farce. Note that I’m using the word “dirty� and not “erotic.� There’s not an arousing moment in it, to me, anyway. This isn’t Anais Nin.
The copy I got is the same as the one pictured here and is misleading. The girl on the cover is very much of the mid-to-late 60s generation. The girl in the book is in her late teens in the late 50s, a very different time. But we never judge a book by its cover, right?
The sex is silly at times—there are phrases like "jelly box" and "lamb pit"—but contemporary at others.
Written by Terry Southern (1924�1995) and Mason Hoffenberg (1922�1986), it is not, if the Wikipedia entry is accurate, a satire based on Voltair’s Candide. (That’s fine with me as I haven’t read that.) It was first published under a pseudonym and widely banned in its day, though it eventually became a best seller. You still wouldn’t give it to a 14-year-old, even though by that age they’ve probably seen things as graphic on the internet.
Southern and Hoffenberg co-wrote it in a series of letters and were surprised at the Candide comparison.
Did I like it? Well, no. I read it because it was published the year I was born and it’s beginning reads more like a campus novel than a deliberately dirty sex farce. Note that I’m using the word “dirty� and not “erotic.� There’s not an arousing moment in it, to me, anyway. This isn’t Anais Nin.
The copy I got is the same as the one pictured here and is misleading. The girl on the cover is very much of the mid-to-late 60s generation. The girl in the book is in her late teens in the late 50s, a very different time. But we never judge a book by its cover, right?
The sex is silly at times—there are phrases like "jelly box" and "lamb pit"—but contemporary at others.
February 18, 2017
is incredibly funny :-) Hilariously so even, at times. I'm aware it's almost 60 years ago since the book was first published, and people might not have read it then the same way I did now, but nowadays it's really just a (very) good laugh. The scene at the hospital is hilarious, and also the episodes with the Mexican gardener and Grindle are very funny. Not to mention the end ;-)
At the back of my edition, a number of quotes are given, one of them (by Herbert Gold) saying "Good grief, it's a very funny book" and another (by Irwin Shaw) saying "Absolutely hilarious". As far as I'm concerned, they were right; because it is, as I said, an incredibly funny read :-)
For a review in Dutch, see the Winter Challenge 2016-2017 of the Netherlands & Flanders group.
At the back of my edition, a number of quotes are given, one of them (by Herbert Gold) saying "Good grief, it's a very funny book" and another (by Irwin Shaw) saying "Absolutely hilarious". As far as I'm concerned, they were right; because it is, as I said, an incredibly funny read :-)
For a review in Dutch, see the Winter Challenge 2016-2017 of the Netherlands & Flanders group.
June 21, 2014
Having just reviewed Fanny Hill, my first pornographic novel, I am reminded of the second, Candy.
The story of this encounter resembles the previous. A friend's father, a college professor of English literature, has an "interesting" book in his study which my friend sneeks out of his library whilst my family is visiting his for their annual Christmas party. We read it furtively, not once, but on successive Christmasses.
Years later, I find the book in hardcover at a used bookstore and finally get beyond "the good parts" to read it cover to cover. By this point I've read Voltaire's Candide and so get the references and social satire involved. The book is really very clever and sometimes quite funny.
Terry Southern, one of the authors, is most notable for having written the screenplay to what is probably the greatest political satire of U.S. film history, Dr. Strangelove.
The story of this encounter resembles the previous. A friend's father, a college professor of English literature, has an "interesting" book in his study which my friend sneeks out of his library whilst my family is visiting his for their annual Christmas party. We read it furtively, not once, but on successive Christmasses.
Years later, I find the book in hardcover at a used bookstore and finally get beyond "the good parts" to read it cover to cover. By this point I've read Voltaire's Candide and so get the references and social satire involved. The book is really very clever and sometimes quite funny.
Terry Southern, one of the authors, is most notable for having written the screenplay to what is probably the greatest political satire of U.S. film history, Dr. Strangelove.
March 8, 2010
Eh. I was really intrigued by this book, but it got old quickly, to the tune of rinse, wring, repeat. Read a chapter or two and you have the general idea. Ever. So. Shocking. Maybe it would help if I'd read Candide, which this purportedly satirizes. I'm just sorry that I didn't read it in a public place, what with the lurid cover posing the question: is it a YA book? Is it porn? Is it--YA porn?!?
Wasted opportunity.
Wasted opportunity.
June 17, 2022
Terry Southern ja Mason Hoffenberg kirjutasid raamatu algselt Maxwell Kentoni pseudonüümi all. Raamatu saamisloost on mõlemal autoril natuke erinev arusaam, küll aga toimus see suures osas kirja teel, kus omavahel pilluti peatükke ja ideid, mis siis ühel hetkel autoritel Tourrettes-sur-Loup kommuunis raamatuks kokku vormus. Algselt ilmus raamat Pariisis Olympia Press kirjastuse alt "Reisisaatjate" raamatute sarjas; kirjastus andiski välja erinevaid seksuaalse alatooniga (või mis alatooniga, ikka konkreetse suunitlusega) raamatuid, mille pealkirjad räägivad ise enda eest (näiteks "Vägistamine", "Patu kool", "Piitsainglid", "Lihavanker"). Kui "Candy" Ameerikas välja anti, siis seal osutus raamat äärmiselt populaarseks, aastal 1968. linastus ka samanimeline film.
Stiililt on tegu satiirilise romaaniga, mis on "dirty book" (siin kontekstis äkki "tiirane raamat", pehmekaaneline odav seksukas) stiilis. Peategelaseks on 18-aastane noor naine Candy Christian, kes satub oma eluteel kokku mitmete meestega, kõik on omal viisil veidrikud. Mehed on reeglina tiirased, samas ega ka Candy väga parem pole. Kõik see on kokku keeratud paraja farsina, kus ikka ja jälle liigub tegevus kindlajooneliselt "selles ühes" suunas ning ühtäkki juhtub midagi täiesti jaburat, coitus interruptus on läbivaks märksõnaks.
Kui korraks maitserikun:
No eks ürita sellist raamatut lugeda, saa nüüd aru, on see seksikas, jabur või lollakas. Eks pigem kaldub ikka jaburuse suunas, samas see on üsna hästi keel põses üles joonistatud ning piisavalt lühike, kannatas lugeda küll. Pealegi on puhtfüüsiliselt lahe lugeda 60 aastat vana raamatut, trükk, šrift, küljendus, kujundus - kõik, kõik on sellised mõnusalt teistsugused.
Eks raamat on oma ajastu laps, kuid mulle kippus vahel ikka pinda käima, kuidas mehed lihtsalt tahtsid ja Candy kord läks mänguga kaasa, kord põgenes eemale, aga ega naine ise väga mängu ei juhtinud. Jah, ma saan aru küll, et raamatut tasub vaadata oma ajastu kontekstis, kuid kohati kippus ikka "Lolita" hõng üle pea käima. Candy on küll mõnevõrra vanem kui Lolita - kusjuures ma ei saanudki aru, et kui vana ta nüüd on, kuna ta on justkui "sophomore", mis peaks olema 15-16 aastane, samas wikist jäi silma, et on 18. No see selleks, igaljuhul on raamat pigem mehelik ja vastavast vaatenurgast, kuigi peategelane on naine. Samas on see parajalt veider ja tõesti satiiriline ning üldse ei pea vast liiga tõsiselt seda raamatukest võtma.
Kokkuvõtvalt: korra lugeda oli tore, mõni päev ja tehtud. Rohkem lugeda ei plaani. Mu silmis ongi see hea näide seda tüüpi raamatust, mida korra lugeda pole kahju ning hea meelega ulatad peale seda järgmisele lugejale edasi. Ja edasi ja edasi ja edasi...
Stiililt on tegu satiirilise romaaniga, mis on "dirty book" (siin kontekstis äkki "tiirane raamat", pehmekaaneline odav seksukas) stiilis. Peategelaseks on 18-aastane noor naine Candy Christian, kes satub oma eluteel kokku mitmete meestega, kõik on omal viisil veidrikud. Mehed on reeglina tiirased, samas ega ka Candy väga parem pole. Kõik see on kokku keeratud paraja farsina, kus ikka ja jälle liigub tegevus kindlajooneliselt "selles ühes" suunas ning ühtäkki juhtub midagi täiesti jaburat, coitus interruptus on läbivaks märksõnaks.
Kui korraks maitserikun:
No eks ürita sellist raamatut lugeda, saa nüüd aru, on see seksikas, jabur või lollakas. Eks pigem kaldub ikka jaburuse suunas, samas see on üsna hästi keel põses üles joonistatud ning piisavalt lühike, kannatas lugeda küll. Pealegi on puhtfüüsiliselt lahe lugeda 60 aastat vana raamatut, trükk, šrift, küljendus, kujundus - kõik, kõik on sellised mõnusalt teistsugused.
Eks raamat on oma ajastu laps, kuid mulle kippus vahel ikka pinda käima, kuidas mehed lihtsalt tahtsid ja Candy kord läks mänguga kaasa, kord põgenes eemale, aga ega naine ise väga mängu ei juhtinud. Jah, ma saan aru küll, et raamatut tasub vaadata oma ajastu kontekstis, kuid kohati kippus ikka "Lolita" hõng üle pea käima. Candy on küll mõnevõrra vanem kui Lolita - kusjuures ma ei saanudki aru, et kui vana ta nüüd on, kuna ta on justkui "sophomore", mis peaks olema 15-16 aastane, samas wikist jäi silma, et on 18. No see selleks, igaljuhul on raamat pigem mehelik ja vastavast vaatenurgast, kuigi peategelane on naine. Samas on see parajalt veider ja tõesti satiiriline ning üldse ei pea vast liiga tõsiselt seda raamatukest võtma.
Kokkuvõtvalt: korra lugeda oli tore, mõni päev ja tehtud. Rohkem lugeda ei plaani. Mu silmis ongi see hea näide seda tüüpi raamatust, mida korra lugeda pole kahju ning hea meelega ulatad peale seda järgmisele lugejale edasi. Ja edasi ja edasi ja edasi...
December 16, 2019
Voltero "Kandido" interpretacija? Gali būti.
Erotinės literatūros šedevras? Gali būti.
Modernios visuomenės pizdavonė? Tikrai taip. Ir dar labiau manau, kad tai yra liberalizmo arba demokratų (amerikietiško varianto) pizdavonė.
Plačiojoje klasikinėje literatūroje nėra daug atvejų, kad grožinės literatūros kūrinys būtų parašytas daugiau nei vieno autoriaus; tiesąsakant sugalvoju tik vieną "Dvylika kėdžių" ir tęsinys "Aukso veršis". Ir tuo labiau, kad kūrinys būtų iš tiesų parašytas dviejų autorių, o ne ghostwriter'ių (šių atvejų nelaikyčiau tikrais atvejo pavyzdžiais).
O "Pupytė" būtent toks atvejis. Vikipedija sako, kad autoriai susirašinėjo siųsdami savo parašytas dalis vienas kitam (kol abu gyveno Europoje, bet skirtingose šalyse). Ir jiems pavyko.
Tas juodas humoras ir groteskas, erotika, o labiau pornoliteratūra artėja prie absurdo, farso. Ir didelė tikimybė, kad už to daugiau nieko ir nėra. Bet meną galime įžvelgti visur, tiesa? :)
Rekomenduoju visiems, kas nesibodi XXa. vidurio amerikietišku stiliumi: trumpos, išbaigtos mintys, kapotumas ir pan.
Erotinės literatūros šedevras? Gali būti.
Modernios visuomenės pizdavonė? Tikrai taip. Ir dar labiau manau, kad tai yra liberalizmo arba demokratų (amerikietiško varianto) pizdavonė.
Plačiojoje klasikinėje literatūroje nėra daug atvejų, kad grožinės literatūros kūrinys būtų parašytas daugiau nei vieno autoriaus; tiesąsakant sugalvoju tik vieną "Dvylika kėdžių" ir tęsinys "Aukso veršis". Ir tuo labiau, kad kūrinys būtų iš tiesų parašytas dviejų autorių, o ne ghostwriter'ių (šių atvejų nelaikyčiau tikrais atvejo pavyzdžiais).
O "Pupytė" būtent toks atvejis. Vikipedija sako, kad autoriai susirašinėjo siųsdami savo parašytas dalis vienas kitam (kol abu gyveno Europoje, bet skirtingose šalyse). Ir jiems pavyko.
Tas juodas humoras ir groteskas, erotika, o labiau pornoliteratūra artėja prie absurdo, farso. Ir didelė tikimybė, kad už to daugiau nieko ir nėra. Bet meną galime įžvelgti visur, tiesa? :)
Rekomenduoju visiems, kas nesibodi XXa. vidurio amerikietišku stiliumi: trumpos, išbaigtos mintys, kapotumas ir pan.
June 20, 2022
tldr: book was alright. some parts boring. i laughed, at times.
[SPOILER ALERT]
It was the end of my sophomore year at college. I was ready to leave because I wanted to go home for the summer. I hated the food there. And I lived in the worst dorm, where people were always loud and some of them used to shit on the bathroom floor (not satire—actually happened). Most of the people were alright, but I only had one friend named Pedro.
We used to walk around the main green and talk about philosophy and other things. He was an important person in my life. He shaped my character and taught me how to be confident. Most importantly, he read over and edited my essays before I submitted them. So when I asked him what his favorite book was, he was all giddy and excited to tell me. He said this book changed his life, that I had to read it before I died, and that nobody was complete without bracing this title.
He told me to read "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn." I told him I already did, and he turned gloomy.
Nevertheless, he stopped talking to me after I saw him, squat naked, alone, deriving some depraved pleasure as he defecated over the bathroom tile.
I was bummed about losing my friend, but what softened that blow was an email from one of my professors. He was a certain fellow by the name of Maxwell Kenton. He taught my creative writing class that semester, and I was pleased to know that he enjoyed my final submission for the class. He invited me to his office.
When I came in, he seated me at a rosewood chair and I looked at him, closely. This whole time I'd never seen him this close. He had this stern, tight face, like of a New England humanities professor, which he was. He brought out two empty glasses and a bottle of wine.
"Gee—I don't know if I can drink that, Professor Kenton. I'm still not of age," I said.
"Don't worry about that," he said, with a British accent, pomp and all. "I find that the finest undergraduates can take a drink maturely. Some might say 'handsomely'. Am I wrong in that assessment?"
"No, sir," I cracked, nervously. "I can take a drink. Actually, I can take so many—all at once too," I was reaching for the reeds to impress the old man. "In fact—I can take two! How about three! You know what, hand me a fourth while you're at it!"
"You said it!" he said, pouring the extra glasses. There was a brief, almost narcotic smile across his mouth.
After a few drinks, I felt a little buzzed, albeit still functional. We continued our conversation:
"The real pretense for this meeting," he said. "Were the last couple lines of your essay."
I thought about what he might be referring to. It must have been the conclusion paragraph that I slapped on a minute before midnight. "In conclusion," it went, "Shakespeare was an important writer who played a pivotal role in English literature, drama, and undoubtedly, the world."
Mr Kenton continues. "You wrote the following: 'Professor Kenton, I love you. And I want to have babies with you', and there was more explicit, quite graphic imagery afterward."
I sat in the chair, cringing, hollowing my soul out, dying of embarrassment. I knew who did it: that bastard Pedro. He planted those lines there, I know it. Maybe calling him "Poo Poo Pedro" got the best of him.
"Usually," he said. "I wouldn't accept such a paper. Those lines would seem to invalidate my authority and make a mockery of this class." Oh, boy. What's he going to say? He continued, "But with you, and I mean only you, my heart feels a bit partial." Thank god, I said to myself. "Do you understand?" he asked.
"Yes. I do."
"Are you sure?"
"I think so."
"I'm telling you to read-between-the-lines here."
I was proud at the moment. He really must of thought the rest of my essay was grand, so he couldn't have failed it because of those lines. He must of known I was close to a B. What a relief!
"Yes, sir. I do," I said. I winked too, to tell him know I appreciated his effort.
"Oh," he said. His cheeks went scarlet.
He stood up and rested his hand on my shoulder, leaving it there for quite a long time, moving it too like he was scrubbing something off my back. Why—he must have seen all that lint on my sweater sleeve. What an outstanding man!
"I've also got a gift for you," he said. He handed me a book. It was called Candy, written by a certain Terry Southern. "Now this Terry Southern," he said. "He's a grand writer. One of the best." He paused. "Very handsome as well," he added.
"Why—thank you Professor. Thank you so much for the gift!"
"I want you to read it by the end of the month," he said. "And then you can come to my home, and we may discuss it—its themes, motifs, and what not." He winked to me. Wow, I thought, why—he was so generous too to give me extra credit. Maybe I'll get an A+ now! I'll surely tell the administration how grand of a teacher Professor Kenton is! They should fast-track him to tenure without question!
"Alright. Sounds like a plan!" I said.
So I finally finished the book, and I have to say I was surprised. Mr. Kenton told me it was a literary masterpiece. But it turns out that it's just pornography. Why—Mr. Kenton must have assigned it for some reason. Maybe something I'm missing? If only I could read-between-the-lines better!
Anyways, I have my meeting with him tomorrow. Hopefully it will be fruitful. Wish me luck!
[SPOILER ALERT]
It was the end of my sophomore year at college. I was ready to leave because I wanted to go home for the summer. I hated the food there. And I lived in the worst dorm, where people were always loud and some of them used to shit on the bathroom floor (not satire—actually happened). Most of the people were alright, but I only had one friend named Pedro.
We used to walk around the main green and talk about philosophy and other things. He was an important person in my life. He shaped my character and taught me how to be confident. Most importantly, he read over and edited my essays before I submitted them. So when I asked him what his favorite book was, he was all giddy and excited to tell me. He said this book changed his life, that I had to read it before I died, and that nobody was complete without bracing this title.
He told me to read "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn." I told him I already did, and he turned gloomy.
Nevertheless, he stopped talking to me after I saw him, squat naked, alone, deriving some depraved pleasure as he defecated over the bathroom tile.
I was bummed about losing my friend, but what softened that blow was an email from one of my professors. He was a certain fellow by the name of Maxwell Kenton. He taught my creative writing class that semester, and I was pleased to know that he enjoyed my final submission for the class. He invited me to his office.
When I came in, he seated me at a rosewood chair and I looked at him, closely. This whole time I'd never seen him this close. He had this stern, tight face, like of a New England humanities professor, which he was. He brought out two empty glasses and a bottle of wine.
"Gee—I don't know if I can drink that, Professor Kenton. I'm still not of age," I said.
"Don't worry about that," he said, with a British accent, pomp and all. "I find that the finest undergraduates can take a drink maturely. Some might say 'handsomely'. Am I wrong in that assessment?"
"No, sir," I cracked, nervously. "I can take a drink. Actually, I can take so many—all at once too," I was reaching for the reeds to impress the old man. "In fact—I can take two! How about three! You know what, hand me a fourth while you're at it!"
"You said it!" he said, pouring the extra glasses. There was a brief, almost narcotic smile across his mouth.
After a few drinks, I felt a little buzzed, albeit still functional. We continued our conversation:
"The real pretense for this meeting," he said. "Were the last couple lines of your essay."
I thought about what he might be referring to. It must have been the conclusion paragraph that I slapped on a minute before midnight. "In conclusion," it went, "Shakespeare was an important writer who played a pivotal role in English literature, drama, and undoubtedly, the world."
Mr Kenton continues. "You wrote the following: 'Professor Kenton, I love you. And I want to have babies with you', and there was more explicit, quite graphic imagery afterward."
I sat in the chair, cringing, hollowing my soul out, dying of embarrassment. I knew who did it: that bastard Pedro. He planted those lines there, I know it. Maybe calling him "Poo Poo Pedro" got the best of him.
"Usually," he said. "I wouldn't accept such a paper. Those lines would seem to invalidate my authority and make a mockery of this class." Oh, boy. What's he going to say? He continued, "But with you, and I mean only you, my heart feels a bit partial." Thank god, I said to myself. "Do you understand?" he asked.
"Yes. I do."
"Are you sure?"
"I think so."
"I'm telling you to read-between-the-lines here."
I was proud at the moment. He really must of thought the rest of my essay was grand, so he couldn't have failed it because of those lines. He must of known I was close to a B. What a relief!
"Yes, sir. I do," I said. I winked too, to tell him know I appreciated his effort.
"Oh," he said. His cheeks went scarlet.
He stood up and rested his hand on my shoulder, leaving it there for quite a long time, moving it too like he was scrubbing something off my back. Why—he must have seen all that lint on my sweater sleeve. What an outstanding man!
"I've also got a gift for you," he said. He handed me a book. It was called Candy, written by a certain Terry Southern. "Now this Terry Southern," he said. "He's a grand writer. One of the best." He paused. "Very handsome as well," he added.
"Why—thank you Professor. Thank you so much for the gift!"
"I want you to read it by the end of the month," he said. "And then you can come to my home, and we may discuss it—its themes, motifs, and what not." He winked to me. Wow, I thought, why—he was so generous too to give me extra credit. Maybe I'll get an A+ now! I'll surely tell the administration how grand of a teacher Professor Kenton is! They should fast-track him to tenure without question!
"Alright. Sounds like a plan!" I said.
So I finally finished the book, and I have to say I was surprised. Mr. Kenton told me it was a literary masterpiece. But it turns out that it's just pornography. Why—Mr. Kenton must have assigned it for some reason. Maybe something I'm missing? If only I could read-between-the-lines better!
Anyways, I have my meeting with him tomorrow. Hopefully it will be fruitful. Wish me luck!
April 23, 2019
A lazy dime-novel with a dime-novel’s title. Terry Southern was a fine film writer but an atrocious novelist. His humor hasn’t aged well and he can’t end a book or write compelling characters. This book makes one appreciate the fact it was banned in Europe and the US initially. Nobody was missing out on anything.
February 22, 2021
This was a NY Times bestseller. I must assume that it was a sign of the times (1964), and the sexual revolution, the age of hippies, transcendental enlightenment, and excessive use of hallucinogenic drugs. It had its moments of humor, some of them quite funny, and while it is a satire of a satire, it just wasn't for me. I found it rather vulgar. Maybe that's what they were going for?
Read
September 19, 2023that is quite the ending, huh?
July 24, 2024
I get why this book was banned.
April 26, 2021
What did I just read?
January 18, 2018
Pagrindinė knygos veikėja Kendi čia yra parodoma kaip visiškai gyvenime nesigaudantis žmogus, nesuprantantis, kad juo yra naudojamasi. Ji tiki bet kokiais paistalais, yra įsitikinusi, kad jos visiems sutiktiems vyrams labai reikia, tik jie to dar nesupranta. Vyrai čia parodomi labai šlykštūs, norintys tiesiog pasinaudoti kvailele. Williamas Styronas sakė, kad ši knyga "kelianti nesuvaldomą juoką". Deja, visiškai nejuokinga.
September 7, 2023
No sé ni qué decir sobre el libro. Tal vez sea un ignorante y no haya terminado de entenderlo o me esté perdiendo algo, porque más allá de que entiendo que sea sátira y un libro de 1958, no termino de captar el mérito en que un hombre (primera decepción porque pensé que Terry era el nombre de una mujer) se ponga a escribir sobre una adolescente envuelta en situaciones que se notan son sacadas de las típicas fantasías masculinas. Estoy de acuerdo en que la crítica a algo puede venir en mil formas y las mejores siempre son las sutiles y las que están entre líneas, pero si no hay ni una mínima referencia a la sátira ni cuestionamiento de lo que supuestamente está criticando, entonces no sería parte del problema? Obviamente se nota que no se tiene que tomar en serio, pero aún así se siente completamente hueco y llano.
Mientras iba casi por la mitad y pensaba que mierda estoy leyendo 🙏 empecé a buscar más información y vi que era una parodia de Voltaire (después al final resultó que no había sido originalmente pensada así, lo notó un lector y se lo comentó a los escritores), y me sentí tonto porque tal vez era yo quien no entendía su complejidad o algo así mientras leía. Creo que por eso, sumado a que es de relativas pocas páginas, me "obligué" a terminarlo, "total, no pierdo nada". Pero la verdad es que se siente como si hubiera perdido tiempo leyéndolo, porque no te deja nada, no divierte. Lo único que dejó este libro es la promesa de que nunca más voy a seguir con un libro porque le quedan pocas páginas, tal vez haya un bruto giro o porque tal vez el final sea buenísimo, etc., porque este libro no fue nada de eso y ya desde la mitad cuando ves que es todo más o menos lo mismo, se te hace eterno.
Probablemente jamás lo habría leído de no ser porque fue completamente una elección al azar y "bajo presión" de elegir rápido, y supongo que hay cierto encanto en eso; además, fue un préstamo, podría ser peor todo esto si hubiera gastado dinero en comprarlo. Vi cómo lo venden los comentarios de la portada y me esperaba una novela cruda y ácida llena de comentarios sociales. No necesariamente tendría que ser una con la que estuviese de acuerdo, no me molestaría que "ofendiera", después de todo, es una cápsula del tiempo de los principales tabúes y fantasías de esos años, pero es que ni para eso le da, solo aburrió.
Mientras iba casi por la mitad y pensaba que mierda estoy leyendo 🙏 empecé a buscar más información y vi que era una parodia de Voltaire (después al final resultó que no había sido originalmente pensada así, lo notó un lector y se lo comentó a los escritores), y me sentí tonto porque tal vez era yo quien no entendía su complejidad o algo así mientras leía. Creo que por eso, sumado a que es de relativas pocas páginas, me "obligué" a terminarlo, "total, no pierdo nada". Pero la verdad es que se siente como si hubiera perdido tiempo leyéndolo, porque no te deja nada, no divierte. Lo único que dejó este libro es la promesa de que nunca más voy a seguir con un libro porque le quedan pocas páginas, tal vez haya un bruto giro o porque tal vez el final sea buenísimo, etc., porque este libro no fue nada de eso y ya desde la mitad cuando ves que es todo más o menos lo mismo, se te hace eterno.
Probablemente jamás lo habría leído de no ser porque fue completamente una elección al azar y "bajo presión" de elegir rápido, y supongo que hay cierto encanto en eso; además, fue un préstamo, podría ser peor todo esto si hubiera gastado dinero en comprarlo. Vi cómo lo venden los comentarios de la portada y me esperaba una novela cruda y ácida llena de comentarios sociales. No necesariamente tendría que ser una con la que estuviese de acuerdo, no me molestaría que "ofendiera", después de todo, es una cápsula del tiempo de los principales tabúes y fantasías de esos años, pero es que ni para eso le da, solo aburrió.
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