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During the recent renovations of the Orchard House in Concord, Massachusetts-home of the famed Alcott family-workmen repairing rotting beams discovered a handwritten manuscript tightly rolled into a bottle and buried in the earthen floor of what was once the root cellar. Conservators from Harvard University's Peabody Museum date the manuscript from the late 1800s. Although the title page bears no signature, there can be little doubt of its authenticity or its author.
The text, published for the first time, will no doubt offend scholars-while capturing the prurient imagination of many readers. The author's true purpose is lost to us, save for hints throughout suggesting that writing this mémoire d'amour served as a cathartic exercise. Only the manuscript remains, and it is offered in unexpurgated form here.
The sex is repulsive ( neither erotic nor funny), the scholarship and history are inaccurate, and the writing neither captures the spirit/humor of Louisa May Alcott nor does it pass for decent prose of any style...
This is just a lame attempt to capitalize on the popularity of trash erotica. It is fan fiction based on the terrible fan fiction of a terrible series of novels. It ultimately succeeds only in insulting the memory and reputation of one our great women of letters (as well as the fathers of American literature). It is no small wonder that the author wishes to remain anonymous.
something caught my eye about this; maybe it was the woodcut of Henry David Thoreau buggering a doe. at once a humble homage, with erotica written in the imagined stylistic parameters of Ms. Alcott within the 50 Shades argot, satire featuring some of the most famous and famously idiosyncratic figures from our literary history, and, most of all, writing of great beauty and concision. when this whole 50 Shades thing goes away, this'll be the best ting remembered from it.
My! It is a wonderful blessing to see that intrepid readers are amused by my "memoire d'amour" -- for it was a labour of love to write it. That the nightwork of our little circle shall see the light of day is a source of great merriment to us all -- Mr. Thoreau, Mr. Emerson, Mr. Hawthorne, Mr. Melville, and all of the other "sages" who were but men, lusty men. And me amongst them like a lamb, a lascivious lamb.
Though I now reside deep beneath Authors Ridge in fair Concord town, I can sense the joy and outrage that the book is creating amongst readers here in the Amazon. As my friend Mr. Thoreau always told me -- "After the first blush of sin comes indifference." For indeed he was a wise but sinful man with a special fondness for both flora and fauna. So I am assured that I have done my task, scribbling out sinful words by night that will amuse many and offend few, save for porcupiny readers who seem to have butter churns lodged in their nether regions.
Laugh! Curse! Read! Be alive! For certainly I wish that I were alive to thank every reader who dares read my book. This note, then, will have to suffice. -- LMA
The world is full of surprises. Did I ever expect to read Louisa May Alcott's sex diary? I did not. Even when I downloaded this one, it was more for the lark of the title than particularly high literary hopes. So imagine my surprise to find a witty, detailed, and even touching tribute to the examined--and imagined--life. Unlike those other 50 Shades books, this one's raunchy in the best way, which means it doesn't take itself too seriously (I'm looking at you, Anastasia Steele and Christian Gray). So here we have the erotic adventures of a much-loved writer of American kidlit who in real life probably never got it on with anyone. That's what made this book so much fun to read--it gave Louisa May a chance she never got back then. The writer came up with a punchy idea, and carried it out with way more style than necessary, keeping the tone Alcottesque and betraying a believable familiarity with the Transcendentalists and their foibles.
Is this for die-hard and humorless Alcott fans, who think that virginal is the same as sexless? Probably not. Is it for people who actually go for the hooey-filled pages (and pages and pages) of E.L. James's books? Doubtful. But if you do find yourself with a sense of humor about sex and literature, give this one a spin.
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