I like dirty, old, preferably dead, men. Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll? Yes please. Charles Bukowski, J.G. Ballard, Arto Paasilinna, John Fante, Jack Kerouac, Hubert Selby Jr, Patrick Hamilton, William S. Burroughs and so on. Crash by J.G. Ballard is the book that has left the biggest impression on me. I drew, however, the line at the complete works of Marquis de Sade. It took me about 8 months to get through it, had to put the book down after a few pages and leave it for days as it was just too disgusting. I actually gagged while reading 120 Days of Sodom.
I spent my whole adolescence reading books written by young females, trying to relate. And I did relate. Francesca Lia Block, Elizabeth Wurtzel, Janet Fitch, Camilla Gibb. These days I prefer books written by non-English female writers. Books banned in China. Japanese female writers that are bad-ass; Natsuo Kirino, Hitomi Kanehara, Banana Yoshimoto. Chick-lit is too predictable for me. I do however buy the Shopaholic books by Sophie Kinsella if I come across them in a second-hand store. After reading the last sentence in Lipstick Jungle by Candace Bushnell (which I got for free with a copy of Cosmopolitan), I threw the book at the wall because it was so bad. And don’t get me started on 50 Shades of Grey and the likes.
What I do not read is science fiction and fantasy. The exception is J.R.R. Tolkien and books meant for children. Anything taking place elsewhere than on our planet is definitely out of the question.
The books I blog about are either bought out of my own pockets or borrowed.
When I get filthy rich, I’m going to have a library and a cat named
PS: I have tried to edit this many times since I wrote this four years ago. But it’s still more or less true. Except that I have definitely broadened my horizon during these four years. Diversity is the key to my reading.