As George Bush wisely said while most likely clearing brush, freedom isn’t free. What that means, precisely, I can’t say, but here’s one theory: there’s a collective price we all must pay for our collective freedom.
Specifically: since Henry Miller liberated writers to write freely and openly about sex, we – students of literature – also must pay a very dear price by having to read really terrible sex scenes. It’s an all-or-nothing proposition.
Such is the gist of the 2011 “Bad Sex Award” (and no, as long as last weekend’s Cuervo-fueled debacle in Fernwood’s tent cabin G is never committed to paper, it doesn’t qualify.)
And here’s a funny thing about this award. Oftentimes the winners aren’t some no-name hack, but some really popular and accomplished writer. Tom Wolfe, for example, won the award for his gnarly sex writing in “I am Charlotte Simmons.”
Example B: one of this year’s high-profile nominees is my man Murakami, who’s been taking a lot of heat for his so-so “1Q84.” Take it away Haruki!
“[Her breasts] seemed to be virtually uninfluenced by the force of gravity, the nipples turned beautifully upward, like a vine’s new tendrils seeking sunlight.”
Hmmm…Yeahh…(looking around, fidgeting…) Sooooo….hey, how about those 49ers, eh?
Ultimately, all this bad sex writing lead us (and specifically, the author of the original article) to wonder: How come since Henry Miller’s “Tropic of Capricorn” and “Tropic of Cancer” few authors have even managed to make sex seem vaguely interesting?