After years of people making excuses for the behavior of the beautiful Brian Jones, someone has finally written a book that gives a nod to his magnificent talent and style. Writing from a socialogical point of view, Reed comments on Brian's place in history comparing him to Quentin Crisp and Oscar Wilde. If there had to be a complaint it would be Marianne Faithful as a source. The woman was way too stoned to remember anything clearly. This is an interesting companion piece to Nicholas Fitzgerald and Anna Wohlin's memories of Brian Jones. Reed didn't KNOW Jones personally, but he did understand him. A very worthwhile read.

... This book about the life, death, and character of Brian Jones is absolutely as beautiful as it is chilling! ... Jeremy Reed has the gifted ability to transcend time and space and bring us right into the heart and soul - and life circumstances at the time of his death - of Brian Jones, founder and one-time leader of The Rolling Stones. ... I do not know if the conclusion of this book is true: that Brian Jones was killed and murdered in the swimming pool at his own country home by a group of bloody blockheads who were friends with employees of the Rolling Stones organization; but after reading this book, Bill Wyman's STONE ALONE, and the most recent OLD GODS ALMOST DEAD (about The Rolling Stones, by Stephen Davis), there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that Brian Jones' death was no accident! ... I was pissed after reading this book! Pissed, and sad. ... Where in the hell were the other Rolling Stones within hours of this happening to Brian, and why did they NOT insist on a thorough, precise, and intense investigation into his death?! THIS question haunts me MORE than if Brian was murdered or died of "misadventure;" MORE than if Brian was heterosexual, homosexual, or bisexual; and even MORE than if he, indeed, was getting his act together and on the verge of forming another great band. (On the last postulation, I have no doubt!). ... So, the real question to ask is: If Brian Jones was murdered, WHY was Brian murdered - and more importantly - to WHOSE BENEFIT would it be to see Brian dead? ... RIGHT?! ... 1969 was a bad year: The Beatles broke-up, Brian Jones "died," and The Rolling Stones had to suffer their own DEGREE OF MURDER (indeed!) during Altamont. ... The Beatles and The Stones had a lot in common, but especially astrologically. Both bands had a combination of 2 trines and 2 squares. In the Beatles, Lennon (Libra) and McCartney (Gemini) were both trined AIR signs, whereas Harrison (Pisces) and Starr (Cancer) were both trined WATER signs. Also, Lennon was "squared" to Starr, and McCartney was "squared" to Harrison. ... In the Stones, Jones (Pisces) and Wyman (Scorpio) were both trined WATER signs, whereas Jagger (Leo) and Richards (Sagittarius) are both trined FIRE signs. Jones was "squared" to Richards, and Wyman was "squared" to Jagger. The 5th member of The Stones, Charlie Watts (a Gemini), is "opposite" Richards, "sextiled" to Jagger, "inconjunct" to Wyman, and ALSO "squared" to Jones. THIS made Brian the odd man out, with a DOUBLE-SQUARE against him!! Oppositions are no picnic, but they harbour a certain degree of respect. Squares, on the other hand, can be VERY disrespectful. ... This book sheds much light on the sensitive soul of Brian Jones. Pages 29 and 94 also have some very inuitively perceptive and right-on remarks about serious sociological realities in modern capitalist societies; realities that - as a true artist - Brian found himself at odds with. Yet, unlike Jagger & Richards - who tried to bribe their way out of jail - when Brian got busted the first time, he honestly and openly admitted that the pot and / or hash - and ONLY that - were his. He did not lie! He may have been a petty thief at times, an irresponsible parent, and an abusive misogynist - to say nothing of his alcohol abuse - but he was honorable, dignified, and true to his artistic and individualistic spirit till the end. ... He loved music. Brian Jones was a Dionysiac Adonis and a Lord of The Muse, who he served with all his heart and soul. ... This book sheds light on the truth. If you love Brian Jones, if you love The Rolling Stones, and if you love the music that inspired them all to devote their lives to it, then you MUST read this short, but very insightful, book by Jeremy Reed. It is truly a labor of love. - The Aeolian Kid.

... This book about the life, death, and character of Brian Jones is absolutely as beautiful as it is chilling! ... Jeremy Reed has the gifted ability to transcend time and space and bring us right into the heart and soul - and life circumstances at the time of his death - of Brian Jones, founder and one-time leader of The Rolling Stones. ... I do not know if the conclusion of this book is true...and why did they NOT insist on a thorough, precise, and intense investigation into his death?! THIS question haunts me MORE than if Brian was murdered or died of "misadventure...So, the real question to ask is: If Brian Jones was murdered, WHY was Brian murdered - and more importantly - to WHOSE BENEFIT would it be to see Brian dead? ... RIGHT?!... This book sheds much light on the sensitive soul of Brian Jones. Pages 29 and 94 also have some very inuitively perceptive and right-on remarks about serious sociological realities in modern capitalist societies; realities that - as a true artist - Brian found himself at odds with... when Brian got busted the first time, he honestly and openly admitted that the pot and / or hash - and ONLY that - were his. He did not lie! He may have been a petty thief at times, an irresponsible parent, and an abusive misogynist - to say nothing of his alcohol abuse - but he was honorable, dignified, and true to his artistic and individualistic spirit till the end. ... He loved music. Brian Jones was a Dionysiac Adonis and a Lord of The Muse, who he served with all his heart and soul. ... This book sheds light on the truth. If you love Brian Jones, if you love The Rolling Stones, and if you love the music that inspired them all to devote their lives to it, then you MUST read this short, but very insightful, book by Jeremy Reed. It is truly a labor of love. - The Aeolian Kid.

I hunted this book down through what seemed virtually every bookstore in Manhattan until I finally found it used at the Strand. Having read Reed's amazing erotic classic, The Pleasure Chateau, & seeing how much Lautremont had influenced his style in that book, I was certain that a book by Reed dealing directly with Lautremont himself would be something extraordinary. I was extremely disappointed to read this dull, minutely over-analyzed fictionalized *report* on Lautremont's not-all-that-interesting comings & goings, relationship with his father, etc. Perhaps if I hadnt had such high expectations for the book I would have liked it better, but somehow I doubt that, for I wasnt even compelled to finish it. For that reason alone, I give it two stars, figuring it would be unfair under the circumstances to give it any less...and on the chance that Reed, who I still admire greatly for The Pleasure Chateau, might have done *something* of interest, eventually, with this book.

this fictitious yet engrossing and beautifully written biography of young isidore ducasse, the comte de lautreamont, author of the bizarre and slightly twisted "maldoror" and surrealist precursor par excellance (perhaps even surpassing rimbaud?), will keep the imaginative reader riveted and glued to it from start to finish. reed has an uncanny ability to 'hit the nail on the head', and we (or at least I) always get the sense that his portrayals of his poetic idols and heroes are not that far off the mark, although there is no way to know this to a certainty. we do know that lautreamont was a withdrawn, odd youth who frightened his classmates, very rarely spoke, and had virtually no companions either at the lycee or in paris, where he was to die at age 24. reed's ducasse is a rebellious, brilliant, and poetic genius with lofty feelings of contempt for humanity and a love for the creative imagination, which allows man to transform the banality and monotony of dull everyday reality into something more beautiful and aesthetic. and all of it comes off smoothly, never becoming pretentious or too fanciful. the only weakness lies in reed's botched attempts to explore 'the duality of identity', and explore lautreamont's supposedly schizophrenic nature. to my mind this assists in perpetuating false myths about the author which cannot be verified in any way whatever. from ducasse's letters to his father, his banker, etc, we see not the dionysian monster maldoror but a young man quite capable of being cool, rational, socially interactive and charming. not one word betrays even a touch of mental disturbance or inadaptability. it occasionally seems like reed is trying to imply that because he used a pseudonym to write maldoror, he was almost certainly a nutjob with two personalities tearing one another part. of course, this is entirely possible, but from the "poesies" and the aforementioned letters, it seems more likely than not that ducasse was provoking the writer by writing two such opposed and outrageously contradictory works, and it is quite an assumption indeed to read a great deal of neurosis or impending insanity into it. but other than that, this book is, as it says on the back cover, "an electric testament to the imagination", and anyone even mildly interested in surrealist literature should grab it immediately. another victory for reed.

Biographical information about the elusive Isidore Ducasse, a writer whom Andre Breton referred to as "a contemporary, one who was among us, yet we know less about him than we do about Dante, Shakespeare or Homer," is sketchy at best. This makes Reed's novel a risky venture, while at the same time leaving him a great deal of imaginative freedom. His writing is so compelling, and the voice of Ducasse, also known as le Comte de Lautreamont, so strong, that at times you'll find yourself thinking, This is the way it must have happened.

As I read this book, I struggled to find some way to describe it to others, some appropriate comparison. I finally decided that this book was very much like a cross between _Naked Lunch_ (William S. Burroughs), _The Day of The Triffids_ (John C. Wyndham) and a long, drawn-out piece of David Bowie fan fiction. That was as close as I could get, barring hand gestures. This book is very interesting, very thought-provoking science fiction. It is also deeply weird.

The story opens on a post-apocalyptic, halluciantory version of a human city on Earth. Five survivors of the "change-over" live in the city, trying to cope with their new lives and pursue their ideas. The survivors, and the city itself, are obsessed with a trio of celebrities: J.G. Ballard, Andy Warhol, and David Bowie. The survivors, as they attempt to live their lives and take the final steps towards leaving Earth for the Diamond Nebula, break down due to the stresses of living in a world with no purpose and no sense. Throughout, David Bowie, led by his alien brethren, prepares for his own journey to the Diamond Nebula.

The plot is revealed indirectly, and must be extracted from the bizarre imagery and narratives of each character's actions. There is very little dialogue; rather, the author allows the reader to absorb what's going on by way of description and each character's thought processes. The book is written mainly in third person, allowing for a sense of detachment that is also evoked by the devastation of the setting and the character's fatalistic attitudes. The book is confusing at times, rather far-fetched, but not to the point of affecting the readability of the story. Occasionally the book seems repetitious because of the prominence of J.G. Ballard, Andy Warhol, and David Bowie, and the repetition seems like part of a paranoid delusion. But this is needed for the plot, and contributes positively to the book as a whole.

Diamond Nebula is certainly very good science fiction. There are flaws, of course. The bizarre details of the story will shock and annoy, perhaps bore, some readers. The obsessive attention to the life and work of the celebrity triptych may seem tiresome and repetitive. Basic knowledge of the careers of Andy Warhol and J. G. Ballard are important for understanding the work, although it is not necessary to be a huge fan of them. However, the life and works of David Bowie, and the folklore surrounding him, is explored in detail, and some readers may be left in the dark if they have never studied anything related to Bowie. If one is determined to read this book, he or she ought to read up on Bowie, or read it in the company of a knowlegeable fan.

In any case, this book is interesting and will provoke much thought about extraterrestrials, David Bowie, apocalypse, film, music, pop culture, and many other things. It is poetically written. If nothing else, Diamond Nebula is entertaining as bizarre science fiction. It's worth a chance.

Hamza Bogary's The Sheltered Quarter is a wonderful novel about the days before oil was discovered in Saudi Arabia. It details the life of Muhaisin AL-Baliy, a boy growing up raised only by his mother due to his father's death beofre he was born. The book tells of his trials in school with bullies and the like and that he does very well there and becomes an avid reader, so much so that he reads by a streetlight by night because his house doesn't have a proper light. You learn about Auntie Asma, a friend of his mother's who gives her advice on things concerning Muhaisin. She is also a strange women who believes in many superstitions and practices odd rituals. Other characters encountered are Amm Ustad, a freemason, and Muhaisin's likn to the changing world outside Mecca. Overall The Sheltered Quarter is a funa nad interesting read that can enjoyed by anyone looking for a book with good descripttive language and a fascinating story to tell. I know i sure enjoyed reading this wonderful tale, plus it enlightened me to some of things about the Saudi culture i didn't know.

This book is certainly Reed's interpretation of Rimbaud. I found his interpretations to be a bit far reaching, and at times absurd. Reed often goes on into his own "poetic" rantings and all too often describes what he see's to be comparisons between his own life and that of Rimbaud. I had to force myself to finish this book. It was very disappointing. Any one interested in Rimbaud would do much better reading - Rimbaud- by Enid Starkie, or -Rimbaud- by Pierre Petitfils. Both are excellent.

"delirium" is nothing less than a work of creative genius, and i personally would be reluctant to criticize it for being 'self indulgent' when reading it is the linguistic equivalent of dropping acid or shooting up. it is that intense. after you finish it you immediately want another book by reed, or at least i certainly did. the source of poetry is free subjectivity and imagination, and there are parts in this book that are truly transcendent poetically. reed is interested in rimbaud when he was the 'god of adolescence', the period in his life of total rebellion and artistic frenzy. he does a near flawless job of showing that while verlaine and his somewhat cruel and hateful companion may have had a physical and shallow emotional bond, rimbaud was far above him on the spiritual and intellectual plane. this is a necessity for any admirer of rimbaud and surrealism.

Although this study of Rimbaud is, admittedly, a trifle self indulgent, it is, nevertheless, a poem in itself. Maybe not in the sense that the author had intended, but in terms of its unadulerated representation of the chaos that is the source of all poetry, it is a promethean breakthrough. I highly reccomend it.

Every media figure must get them. Fawning, gushing letters from fanboys and fangirls who dream of sharing in the public intimacy of stardom. In a perfect world, Jeremy Reed would have written his letter to Marc Almond, and Marc's secretary would have sent him an autographed picture and a sign-up form for the official fanclub.

In this world, Jeremy Reed published his fan letter as a biography and called it a work of art.

Suffice it to say it's neither.

Biographies succeed if they not only put us in silent observation of the subject's greatness, but also in observation of their flaws, which comprise the other half of their essential humanity. Reed's inability to find any flaw in Almond puts the reader an unassailable distance from him. Almond is the figure we see vaguely from an upper balcony while Reed forever sits beside us, excitedly talking our ear off.

For all its verbosity, this biography never tells us that much about Marc. There is no information about his birth, his childhood, or his adolescence. His time with Soft Cell gets only a vague mention, with five years going by in sixteen pages. Though he complains of small-minded music critics throughout the book, Reed seems incapable of being objective himself. Just as he dispises the critics for failing to appreciate Marc Almond's later torch singing, he himself fails utterly to understand the aesthetics of Soft Cell. Dave Ball is flippantly dismissed as "an offbeat keyboard player," and the group is portrayed as almost an impediment to Marc's own realization of his endless talent.

After that, though, Reed never seems to run out of breathless praise, metaphors involving colors, half-baked gender theory, and emotional cliche to dance around the one central, unexamined fact of this book: Marc Almond is everything Jeremy Reed likes and is nothing Jeremy Reed doesn't.

Marc Almond in The Last Star is the autographed photo, glossy and fey, perfect and paper-thin.

There's no point in writing about an artist's music at length unless you have real sympathy for the work. Dislike or ambivalence is better served in a half-dozen pithy pages. No question Jeremy Reed's full-length study of Marc Almond is half love-letter, but it is written by a lover who has lived long with and through his subject.

Lovers see the beloved with a unique and peculiar clarity, and this is Reed's strength here. He brings you very close to his subject, but really much closer to the subjective experience of a profound and critical listener lovingly engaging over the years with Almond's diverse art.

Almond's measure of musical genius has grown over the years in reverse proportion to the number of people willing to listen. He started as a star of limited ability and became a has-been of enormous power. Almond has been brave, exploring many musical avenues with rare emotional honesty, making the myriad boulevards of sound glitter. Reed is at least as brave and at least as gifted. His poetry, literary and music criticism is as great as Almond's music; would that more people paid serious attention to both. This book is a fine introduction to Marc Almond, and to Jeremy Reed as well.

It's great to read a well written biography and artistic examination of such a multi faceted performer/songwriter/genius. Reed writes with such beauty it's almost like reading Almond's lyrics and poetry itself. Also recommended for it's exhaustive discography and the beautiful photographs of the hero of the piece. This should compliment the imminent release of Almond's autobiography "Tainted Love".

Very male, no feeling, no poetry

This is a great collection of very sexy but also philosophical and disturbing stories by Jeremy Reed, author of the erotic classic The Pleasure Chateau. Many of these stories seem to me about creating representations of states of mind in which loss of self is possible, and thus certain sorts of fantasy engagements become possible. In a way, it is about the pain of "taking yourself with you" into the bedroom, and beyond the bedroom into the city and the night where sex is: about evading the otherness of the Other through abstraction. Here are a series of brilliant contrivances for the mind and other organs: but be careful---these pleasure villas are made more for critical reflection than masterbation.They hold sadness closeby and morn for other kinds of less provocative but more intimate and sustainable sexual possibilities.

For me, Reed is among the great writers of our fin de siecle and JG Ballard, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Kathleen Raine, John Ashberry, David Gascoyne and the late James Merrill have all said so. Sadly, while Reed has a devoted following among our best writers, at present many ordinary readers still don't know his work. So if you are new to Reed's non-erotic output, here is a little bit about him.

Jeremy Reed has published more than 40 major works in under twenty years. He has written more than a dozen books of poetry, as many novels, and several volumes of literary criticism. Reed has also published important and respected translations of Montale, Cocteau, Nasrallah, Adonis, Bogary and Holderlin. His own work has been translated abroad in half a dozen languages. He has been the recipient of numerous awards, including those of the National Poetry, Somerset Maugham, Eric Gregory, Ingram Merrill, and Royal Literary Funds. He has also won the Poetry Society's European Translation Prize. Reed's poetry displays a masterful light-fingered lyricism in which acute social observation and humour combine to create a public poetry in the tradition of Auden and Merrill. In other moods, Reed is a masterful observer of the specific details of passing strangers. As they move through the unmatched variety of London's daily procession, he engages them in moments of imaginative meeting, creating a private poetry of urban encounter whose affinities lie closest to Frank O'Hara and Baudelaire. In these poems, Reed allows his profound sympathy for others to form a bridge inward, a bridge sustained through arresting imagery, into the mains circuits of the world we share.

For a poet considered one of the three greatest of the century, and a Nobel winner to boot, Eugene Montale's poems, especially the early, famous ones that make up the bulk of this volume, can be very formulaic. They follow the same pattern each time, an evocation of a land- or sea-scape conjured up in a couple of evocatively chosen images; a natural force, like a storm, or rain, descending on it, threatening to destroy it (often symbolising fascism, you feel, but Montale is never that crude); sometimes the musings of the human actors (often there is no such presence); and finally, a leap from this vividly concrete world into the metaphysical, the void, the speculative, whatever you want to call it. Calvino has called this the 'something behind a concrete wall'.

Another Calvino essay is called 'Montale's cliff', and this is a good description of the poetry - the reader is invited to walk along the solid ground of Montale's natural observation, and than make the philosophical jump. It's a jump, I'm afraid, that often eludes me, and the close of a Montale poem usually makes me feel baffled, lost and stupid, which is probably the point. But the obsessively repetitive nature descriptions have a dense simplicity and overwhelming power, while 'Times at Bellosguardo', which is like the whole of Proust compressed into a single poem, is now one of a handful of my favourite poems.

Jeremy Reed, himself a major poet, has called his translations 'versions', attempts to fuse with the original to create something now. He says this will save the enigmatic spirit of a poetry that would be deadened by pedantic transliteration. All translators say this, of course, and while Reed's work here is the only translation I have ever read to have the toughness and integrity of original verse, the clear differences between it and the original make me wish a literal version had been offered, as footnotes perhaps, so we could see how Reed came to his 'version'. That process would have been exciting.

Jeremy Reed, Sister Midnight (Velvet, 1998)

Woe be unto the person who feels the need, upon completing the first book of a trilogy, to go on and read the next two even when his reception of the first book was lukewarm at best. Sister Midnight is the sequel to Reed's novel The Pleasure Chateau, the latter being one of the few erotic novels to combine the worst elements of Anne Rice's unreadable Sleeping Beauty books with those of the "naughty" novels of J. K. Huysmans. It took me about five pages of Sister Midnight to realize it was going to be more of the same, but I continued until I hit the fifty-page rule before tossing it to the dustbunnies. If you liked The Pleasure Chateau (poor soul that you are), you'll certainly find much to enjoy here; unimaginative, mechanical sex scenes broken by pages of pendulous pontification. What fun. (zero)

This short, odd novel is a work of imagination and poetry. There's no plot to speak of, more a series of juxtapositions (and other kinds of positions) and atmospherics. Contrary to what the cover says, the Marquis De Sade is very much alive in this book. He has discovered some occult sexual secret which keeps him alive. With his sister, Marciana, he enacts incestuous rites of sodomy intended to unite the Marquis with his tutelary female ideal, Laura. In the end, brother and sister are married, which Sade sees as the culmination of the work of three centuries. The castle the Marquis inhabits contains a basement that represents his own tortured subconscious. Much of the novel revolves around a similar use of atmosphere to expound on the Marquis' psychological state. Even the wine bottled on the estate contains the essence of eternal autumn midnight. The key contrast comes from the meeting of the House of Sade with another house which is similarly sealed from the outside world. At a great concert followed by an orgy, we are introduced to an alien "posthuman" named XZ. The conflict between this guru and the Marquis basically points out the conflict between Nature, represented by Sade in full Pan-ic, and technology represented by the trancsendental XZ. "Sister Midnight" is a difficult, sometimes disturbing book. Some of the metaphors, such as Sade's whip, are never fully fleshed out. One wonders why it was added at all. This, and other elements, lend an unnerving quality to the book. Whether that was the intent, or just an oversight is difficult to say. Either way, the book is not for senstitive readers. For those with a stronger psycholgy, however, "Sister MIdnight" is an odd but interesting work sure to make one think if nothing else.

As a amateur historian specializing in ancient cultures such as the Romans, I found this book to be nothing but pure fiction. While the authors do make it seem as though these events could be true, a little common sense tells the intelligent reader that they are not. What I found even more incredulous was that the authors give absolutely no sources for their information. On the other hand, this piece does work as a pornographic salute to the Romans. Hilarious but not true at all would best describe this book. If you are a fan of murder, sodomy, beastiality, and lurid female conduct then buy this book. If you are more interested in the facts of the ancient Romans, then avoid it like a Lybian lion going for the anus of a young slave.

Caligula: Divine Carnage capitalizes on our enduring fascination with the excesses and perversities of the "bad" Roman emperors. The Foreword promises that this book "eschews the mind-numbing minutiae of politico-military history and instead brings the glorious, often shocking decadence of Ancient Rome to bloody, pulsating life." Indeed, drawing from the usual contemporary sources and biographies as well as from "newly-excavated documents," authors Stephan Barber and Jeremy Reed attempt to reconstruct the lives of a few of the more notorious Caesars in a graphic and direct manner.

The fundamental problem with Caligula: Divine Carnage is that it doesn't seem to fit into any useful literary category. The book never makes its intentions clear; it is neither pure history nor straight entertainment, and as such, it is difficult to identify an audience that it will fully satisfy.

As history, it certainly presents some interesting facts, but since it lacks footnotes or even a bibliography, it is impossible to follow up on most of its novel claims or even to verify whether they are true. The book definitely poses as a work of non-fiction, but some of the claims are so outrageous, that even to readers who are not especially well versed in Roman history might seem suspect. If any of the "facts" are indeed unfounded, then this book does the supreme disservice of misleading naive readers in the guise of a credible history. At the very least, the authors should explain themselves when they venture far from the consensus of the standard sources.

As entertainment, the book is actually quite successful. Barber's vivid treatment of Caligula and the arena would make enthralling fiction and the thought that it is true makes it all the more fascinating. With the possible exception of the final chapter, there is never a dull moment in the text. Some of the qualities that make the book fail as history are actually beneficial to its entertainment value. Dates and detailed historical background are included only when necessary to the context of the book's theme. It is definitely an easy read.

One aspect of the text that limits its appeal to either serious historians or casual readers is its excruciatingly colorful language. There are many examples, which I will not repeat here, of language that borders on offensive and which definitely disqualifies the text from being used in the classroom setting. Sensitive readers are advised to stay away. Especially problematic is the fact that the book is neither marketed nor jacketed in a way that indicates the rawness if its language. There are many readers who are interested in learning about the subject matter promised by the cover, but it is not until a few pages into the text that the reality of the portrayal is revealed. On a scale of offensiveness, I would place this publication near the un-edited Caligula of the Bob Guccione variety.

Another weakness of the book is the dramatic shift in tone that occurs in the last chapter. Jeremy Reed, who authors this single chapter, discards the abrasive language found in the rest of the book. Instead, he descends into indecipherable psychobabble in search of the true motivations for the young emperor Heliogabalus's ridiculous behavior. This chapter really would be best published elsewhere, for readers who appreciate it will probably not enjoy the others and vice versa.

In summary, I would most recommend this book only to casual enthusiasts of Roman history who have a healthy sense of skepticism and a strong stomach, and for whom Seutonius is too restrained. Even for these readers, there are doubtlessly more reputable sources to visit first, and doing so would probably be prudent. Caligula: Divine Carnage is an interesting and thoroughly entertaining work, but suffers some substantial weaknesses that limit its usefulness in most conventional categories.

THIS BOOK IS HILARIOUS!!!

Especially if you know anything about the subject, because it is so tragically inacurate. This is thinly disguised pornography written by two [individuals] whose only resources were an encyclopedia article and a copy of the Bob Guccione movie. This book is also Exhibit A in the case against ever allowing an Englishman anywhere near a word processor.

So much of this book is brazen [material] ' ... ' but in a sick way that's part of the charm.

This book HAS to be a joke ' just check out the description of how to capture a lion on p. 78: 'Armies of slaves were expended to capture those majestic beasts ' they were impervious to tranquilizer arrows, and the only way to subdue them was for a particularly handsome slave to present his [body] to the lion's mighty sexual apparatus; then, once the act of copulation (which invariably proved terminal for the unfortunate slave, due to unsustainable blood loss) reached its critical point and the lion was momentarily distracted, a gang of a hundred or more whooping slaves would wrestle the lion to the ground and throw a net over it.'

Whew!

I'll be generous and say that 5% of this book is historically accurate. But sometimes the guys weren't even trying to be real. We are presented with page upon page describing Caligula at various Coluseum events, but unfortunately in their 5 minutes of research the authors missed the fact that Caligula died in 41 and the Coluseum wasn't built until 80!

To an extent, that is what is so purplexing about this: given the vast wealth of dirt and absurdity that are amply documented about Rome's nuttiest Emperor, it is a mystery why these two buffoons would chose to go into uncharted territory and brazenly make up lurid fiction. The only solution I can fathom is that this is a straight-faced joke.

If you know nothing about Caligula and actually want to learn, avoid this book like the plague and get a *real* book. But for a good laugh, check it out.

I have also discovered it is possible to make a drinking game out of it. Get a case of beer, and a copy of this book. Take a sip every time some historical 'fact' is presented that is obviously wrong. Take a swig every time a sex act is referenced, and pound the rest of the can upon the use of the term 'plebeian scum.'

You'll be wasted before you finish a chapter.