Reviews Parody Contest 1999 (from December, 1999)
Merry Christmas, everyone, and a joyous holiday season to all! Today we announce the winner in our first ever Reviews Parody Contest! First we’d like to thank all those brave and talented readers who participated in the contest. Every entry was incredibly creative and laugh-out-loudable!
Proud Pillars Thrusting
It is rare to read a first effort of the magnitude of Proud Pillars Thrusting. I am, frankly, pleasantly surprised to discover this book in hardcover. The publishers have evidently realized the value of the perfection of prose and characterization. The dust jacket is of a Renaissance painting, one that depicts the richness of Venice and hints at the tale inside the covers.
Where do I begin?
The author has taken the unusual and innovative tack of having no underlying plot. But that doesn’t detract from the characters’ interaction. On the contrary, the avoidance of sub-plot and ancillary characters cleans the canvas of this remarkable work of art, leaving us to feel as the characters feel, experience the depth of their emotion as they learn about themselves and each other.
“John, oh, John!” she screamed, arching her hips.“Marsha, oh, Marsha!” he grunted, thrusting deeply into her.
Such is the clarity and the verisimilitude of this author’s prose. I found myself more than once wondering how a woman, clearly so young from her author photo, was able to tap into the emotions of people twice her age. But that was only one clue to her literary brilliance.
Her ability to communicate the anguish and the tragedy of syphilis had me weeping in compassion more than once. If I had had gonads, they would have swollen in sympathy.
The poetic purity of the author’s writing shines through each and every page. Especially in the final scene, where the hero lovingly and tenderly uses the heroine’s navel as a repository for his seed because she is too sore to take him once again. How much more uplifting and cerebral can writing be?
I simply cannot say enough about this book. It is, plainly put, a sweeping panorama of passion. One scene after another of turgid flesh and engorged nipples and fluids of all description had me turning page after page. I was captivated by the heroine’s tears, ached in compassion for her obvious (dare I say it?) saddle sores. But the last scene, where they fall asleep entwined in each other’s arms in the middle of the wet spot has me wiping yet another tear from my eye.