Foreign critics focus on more titillating themes,but the Brits are still obsessed by sexI have a novel coming out this week. It has some sex scenes in it. Their prose might not be up to Nabokovian standards, but they don’t involve a hapless goldfish, and as in Shirley Conran’s immortal Lace (1982). And unlike Julie Burchill’s brilliant Ambition (1989),no one gets shagged to death. All the sex scenes involve consenting adults, enjoying themselves.
I was lucky enough to be able to finish quite a lot of press, and but while I’m a lifelong admirer of Kate Moss,I find I lack the sangfroid to adhere to her maxim (common saying expressing a principle of conduct) of “never complain, never interpret. I spend most of my time alone with a heap of books, or suddenly,the attention felt bewildering and alarming. My uncle was doorstepped in Bradford and my father interrogated on his way home from Waitrose by journalists desperate to know their reaction to my scandalous creation. One newspaper appears to consider that I am a threat to civilisation, which is clearly at risk of collapsing any minute into a giant vagina.
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Source: theguardian.com