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An author of racy novels heads to picturesque Vermont to finish his manuscript—but finds his retreat less than peaceful—in this “bright, slapstick comedy” (The New York Times).
Told through a sequence of exchanged letters, this comic novel introduces softcore pornographer “Guy LaDouche” as he heads to the wilderness in the hope of solitude and concentration to write his next book under a looming deadline.
Instead of peace, he finds harassment and distraction—from his publisher, his old girlfriend, and an angry father convinced that LaDouche’s last novel, featuring a genuine nymphomaniac, was based on the man’s daughter. Soon, the author also finds his quiet getaway plan beset by a lawsuit and investigation by the FBI and local sheriff.
Clever, satirical, and at times over-the-top absurd, The Man Who Wrote Dirty Books has been delighting readers since its first publication in 1964.
“A very funny tale. . . . It would not be quite true to report that The Man Who Wrote Dirty Books contains no word capable of bringing the blush of shame to the cheek of modesty, but it is perfectly true that the thing is neither a dirty book nor about them.” —The Atlantic
Told through a sequence of exchanged letters, this comic novel introduces softcore pornographer “Guy LaDouche” as he heads to the wilderness in the hope of solitude and concentration to write his next book under a looming deadline.
Instead of peace, he finds harassment and distraction—from his publisher, his old girlfriend, and an angry father convinced that LaDouche’s last novel, featuring a genuine nymphomaniac, was based on the man’s daughter. Soon, the author also finds his quiet getaway plan beset by a lawsuit and investigation by the FBI and local sheriff.
Clever, satirical, and at times over-the-top absurd, The Man Who Wrote Dirty Books has been delighting readers since its first publication in 1964.
“A very funny tale. . . . It would not be quite true to report that The Man Who Wrote Dirty Books contains no word capable of bringing the blush of shame to the cheek of modesty, but it is perfectly true that the thing is neither a dirty book nor about them.” —The Atlantic
