In this book of love letters Kate Llewellyn reinvents that standard theme of male erotica, women's sexuality.Like all the best erotic writing, Dear You is about desire unsatisfied. Yet her passionate lyricism makes ecstasy and pain equally present and powerful, untrammelled by patriarchal guilt.Loss and longing are the pulse of life in this book, given form by the acts ofIn this book of love letters Kate Llewellyn reinvents that standard theme of male erotica, women's sexuality.Like all the best erotic writing, Dear You is about desire unsatisfied. Yet her passionate lyricism makes ecstasy and pain equally present and powerful, untrammelled by patriarchal guilt.Loss and longing are the pulse of life in this book, given form by the acts of daily survival - gardening, cooking, visiting and being visited. This unique combination, the strength of Kate Llewellyn's previous work, The Waterlily, is here brought closer to the erotic intensity of her poetry....
|Number of Pages||:||148 Pages|
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Dear You Reviews
The second book in her trilogy (Waterlily being the first, The Mountain the third). Quite an uncomfortable read at times because of her intense honesty and also because in this book she is writing to the love of her life in a series of letters. For a reason not entirely explained they can't be together, so in a lot of this book she is grieving and depressed. But she weaves in such beauty and heartbreaking humor, that you just can't help but accept her into your heart. She just makes you feel more connected to the human race and more compassionate. I cried when I read the last paragraph. Now on to "The Mountain"!
I am in two minds about Dear You, a book that calls itself a novel but is clearly a memoir if not even a diary. The prose is gorgeous, all gems and sweets, her words just loll around your body and make it swoon. But then, not infrequently this same beauty works against book’s quality, slipping into self-indulgence, into appearance over substance. And this last point is my main issue with the book. It is pure poetry, but in prose I seek particulars as well, well… the prose-aic is what I want too. It may seem as if the prosaic here is in abundance – I feel I know Llewellyn’s garden and cooking intimately now as well as her friends and the rhythms of her day and of her sexuality. But the main thread that is supposed to hold this book together – her doomed love story – remains opaque, obscure, tedious in this obscurity. The writer makes it clear this is so because of ethical concerns (is the lover-in-question married? It appears so but is never said, as most other things of him – he’s an abstract presence really). But if the ethics prevent her to say what needs to be said, then why this book? The muddle of the pain that dominates the story irritated and alienated me. And yet, despite my (quite significant) complaints, as I kept reading the book I kept feeling I am in the presence of a great talent. And this in itself is precious. While Dear You didn’t move as much as I hoped it would, I’ll be reading Llewellyn’s other, hopefully braver, works.
Second in a trilogy. It is hard to accept that this is a novel, not a diary, as she refers to so many real life things. Maybe she just wanted to keep some privacy. I wouldn't describe the book as erotica, although it is a long series of letters to a lost love. It also has lots of garden and nature writing and much introspection. Now on to book three.