The Monk, by Matthew Lewis. Supposedly one of the 18th century's great naughty novels, I read 20 pages while at work yesterday, it seems OK so far, even though the depravity hasn't started yet.
One annoying feature of the text is the voluminous notes. 18 pages worth. Oxford University Press must realize the stupidity of the modern reader, but they also should know the modern reader ain't gonna turn to the back of the book to look up all this shit. And really, is even the modern reader so stupid they couldn't figure out this one:
We need that annoying asterisk and explanatory note to figure out "relique" means "relic?"
Anyway, the incest and all the other debaucheries need to start soon, or I'll have to jump a couple centuries to a Jim Thompson novel.
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