An Englishman of indeterminate age whose spiritual home has always been France, Tarquin embarks on a journey of the senses, regaling us with his wickedly funny, poisonously opinionated meditations on everything from the erotics of dislike to the psychology of a menu, from the perverse history of the peach to the brutalization of the British palate, from cheese as "the corpse of milk" to the binding action of blood.
As Tarquin peels away the layers of his past, he proves himself a master of sly wit and subversive ideas. …
An Englishman of indeterminate age whose spiritual home has always been France, Tarquin embarks on a journey of the senses, regaling us with his wickedly funny, poisonously opinionated meditations on everything from the erotics of dislike to the psychology of a menu, from the perverse history of the peach to the brutalization of the British palate, from cheese as "the corpse of milk" to the binding action of blood.
As Tarquin peels away the layers of his past, he proves himself a master of sly wit and subversive ideas. Only gradually, insidiously, do the outlines of a distinctly quirky aesthetic and a highly eccentric moral philosophy emerge, until the truth becomes unavoidable: This is not the voluptuary's memoir it purports to be, and Tarquin Winot is a master of something more than wit and opinion, something infinitely, quiveringly, sinister.
251 Seiten
Sprache: English
Am 2001 von Picador USA/Henry Holt & Co. veröffentlicht.
Not just quite the book for me. The narrator is as wordy as Humbert Humbert, but much less charming or interesting, and cares desparately what people think of him. It's just not much fun listening to him. But yes, I like strong narrators, and food, surprises, and crime, so it was fun enough, in its way.
