After two years of off-and-on reading, have at last finished the foul epic brick that is Juliette, by de Sade. Clocks in at just under twelve hunnerd pages of smallish print, but that ain't why it took me so long. One simply can't/shouldn't/doesn't read this junk in a few long, leisurely sittings like you would a big King 1000 pager. Can't be done, and not just because it's so disgusting and evil.
Nay, the damn thing gets tedious and boring, when read at long intervals, what with all those philosophical dialogues--seriously, characters make speeches that last for twenty, thirty pages. The erotic passages aren't erotic at all--not unless you're some kinda ghoul--and its ALL telling, never showing, mere ideas of sexual brutality sketched out in a few nondescript paragraphs. Description is limited to oddball positions, inane devices, and obsessive numbering. Repetition becomes some twisted theme running through the whole work, as ideas and arguments are constantly beaten into the reader's head.
After about six hundred pages the book picks up some steam and actually starts telling a 'story'. I mean, by this time the reader is numb to all the carnage, and hangs grimly on for the rest of the ride--eager to see just how far this monster will go. He doesn't disappoint; the last 200 or so pages build to the most depraved climax I've ever read. At last, I believe, we become aware of de Sade's winking eye and morbid sense of humor. Even he doesn't buy this insane crap, but hey! he's taking the ride as well, and is just as fascinated as the reader.
I found myself cackling like Renfield many times near the end, as the crazy old pervert tried topping himself again and again. Now that it's over, I need a shower, and maybe some electroshock therapy.