Fifty Shades of Grey
Can we talk about this book for a minute? Because a minute is about all I want to give it. In fact, I never thought I’d stoop to putting up a post about it on my blog, but truly, I’m curious as to how you feel.
My exposure to the book started like this. In the school at which I am a faculty member, where colleagues know I’m a reader, someone asked at lunch, “Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey?”
“No,” I replied, because at that time the furor was just beginning.
“It’s the best book I’ve ever read!” exclaimed this person, and many others chimed in with exuberance that I simply have to read it.
So, I downloaded the sample on my nook. It began with trite, petty, ridiculous description that I wouldn’t have read in my teens. Curious, I read on to page 100 or so. Until I got to the Red Room of Pain and beyond.
When I felt absolutely convicted.
I’m not a prude. I’ve been married twice, as my first husband died. I’ve loved with all my heart. But this is not love. This is not romance. This is pure and simple pornography.
Have you read it? Would you call it literature? Do you know why it’s taking off in such popularity? Because personally, I think it’s a case of nonreaders liking pulp fiction. Or rather, the preference of pornography over literature.