Reviews for Venus in Furs: Letters of Leopold Von Sacher-Masoch and Emilie Mataja

The average rating for Venus in Furs: Letters of Leopold Von Sacher-Masoch and Emilie Mataja based on 2 reviews is 3.5 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2015-08-15 00:00:00 Andrew Rankin //www.youtube.com/watch?v=PK8ijrapwA8 Way back in 1869 Leopold wrote this book about some fun he was having. Tis true. Leo gave the world a new label for these exploits... masochism. What we've done with it since then is our own business. Severin did get what he wanted. So many people never do. They never dare ask.

Review # 2 was written on 2012-02-20 00:00:00 Kris Vander Putten Umm, okay... The first portion of this book is wonderful. The forced lasciviousness of the female protagonist, the pathetic attempts at seeming like a banshee, a Siren, all draped in furs and spouting some bullshit about Paganism. I have met this girl before, and this boy, I have watched their pitiful dance of apathy, their ham-handed fears of monotony and monogamy, the (in my opinion) bullshit notion that caring in the romantic sense for one chosen and well-suited person with whom you specifically connect and no other (and it goes without saying, no 'many others') is selfish and demeaning to the notion of 100% Venus-like, 'hypersensual' love of sexuality/sensation, inhibits one's ability to love all other human beings genuinely, and denies pure, primitive desires, bladdy fuckin' blah. I mean, I have greeted lovers with apathy, sternness, initial doubts which reached fruition in feelings chilling, freezing, eventually frozen; I would be completely out of touch with myself if I were to believe otherwise. We have all been cruel, we have all wavered, our eyes have wandered, our emotions fallen flat. Sure, sure. What I could never stand was the hyper-rationalizing of this emotion, the forcing of it. There was always a bit of schadenfreude which set in when some of the loftier of my hippie-dippie, "I just have to be free, maaaaan" acquaintances found themselves face-to-face with their own inherent, albeit denied natures, when all their trite musings and assumed sentiments about free love came back to kick them in their collective private parts via severe jealousy and heartache. It reminded me of this conversation I had a few years ago. I was at a bar catching up with some old friends I had not seen in forever, though they were all still quite close, and seeming a little cult-y to me based on our talks that afternoon. They were discussing the various free-love, non-committed relationships they were attempting, and how this was "opening them up" to the possibilities of connection contained in any number of people. (Snicker.) After my initial, more pressing questions (e.g. "Uh, you have health insurance, right?"), I just set to half-drunkenly saying "Good luck?" and "No way, man. I have enough trouble dealing with one person. Also, I would be, you know, really depressed and completely miserable in that situation." Once I began attempting to explain the few snippets of evolutionary science I had read on the subject of jealousy, eyes glazed over, and it was clear we had reached an impasse. "Again, good luck," I said. They all shortly ended their romances. I guess people got jealous and shit got complicated. Weird. Sorry to rant. I just adored the introductory chapters of this book for the fact that the woman they present is just. So. Full of it. What's better is, her nonsense about being free from attachments, a goddess who commands the love she needs then drops the tired bits like pencil shavings, a woman incapable of loving another human being, but rather simply bent on seeking out pleasure in the most hedonistic, unashamedly egocentric sense, seems to be heading toward a serious reckoning. What's more is, the man who is painted as her future slave represents all that is flighty in the dance of romance. He only loves a woman of stone, his interest wanes at kindness, he wants the one he can't have, and it's driving him mad all over all over all over his face every single goddamn time until the very moment when she cares, when she drops her guard and loves him back, and then his foot is suddenly wedged firmly in the door and his panties are noticeably roomier. We are all guilty at some point, right? People get bored. They want excitement and unpredictability and newness. They crave the hunt. Malaise. What could be were I free? It happens. It is not ideal. Unfortunately, her reckoning does not ever really come about, and this suddenly turns into some bullshit about not letting yourself care about others, lest you be a malnourished, mistreated donkey. Exactly where I thought this was going is precisely the opposite of where it went, and not in a clever, plot-twisty sense. About midway through, I came to realize that Sacher-Masoch saw this forceably cruel woman as some sort of lesson-teacher about how cruel Women are. The smart ones, anyway! They know how to hold on to a man: treat him like shit! Okay, I admit that the two men I have been wholly unfrosty with in my adult life are the two men who have broken my heart, but I would like to think this won't always be the case, and that it is a horrifying and just awful notion that to keep someone in love with me, I have to hate his guts, or just deal with his existence begrudgingly like I deal with Austin drivers or my next door neighbor who is constantly making humping noises through the wall. These things I deal with. Companionship is often played like a chess game, but I thought the idea was to find someone with whom all that crap drops away? Ever seen an 80-something year old man carrying his similarly elderly wife's oxygen tank for her through Denny's? Did that warm your heart? Don't read this. Ever had friends who slipped into counter-culture to such an extent that your conversations suddenly turned into the dynamic of them constantly preaching and you constantly scoffing? Did it suck? Don't read this. I should write an aside here that I know that there are all types of people in the world, all sorts of romantic arrangements, etc. I'm not saying it's impossible, I just think it goes against the more common manifestations of human nature to not feel emotions of possessiveness toward a cherished lover. Even a hated lover, sometimes! Your brain, your evolutionary history, your biology is playing tricks on you at all times, it's all very complicated, and sorry to over-simplify. It just seems like a lot of this modern embrace of what it is to be an Enlightened Lover and Self-Actualized Person is quite often going against the intrinsic needs of those who proselytize about it. It's, you know, hip, like riding a fixed-gear bicycle without being able to explain to me why you prefer not having brakes, or eating the 'Organic' ramen noodles because somehow they're better in this way you seemingly haven't even bothered to contemplate yet. You may have an explanation, and you may really feel it. More power to you. I'm quizzical by nature though, and am more often than not left, in my hippie-interrogations, with vacuous stares and zero answers from the interrogated. Hence the rant. So this book: thank you for the lame female character I could make fun of, thank you for the spotty but at times quite lovely observations of human emotional chameleon-ism and the malleable nature of attachment...thanks for all that stuff. I also thank you for The Velvet Underground & Nico, which in every single song manages to explore the subjects of dominance and submissiveness, passiveness and passion in a much purer, more accurate, and rewarding way than you ever possibly could, you mediocre book, ya. And that album has not just a heroine, but heroin! I'll be your mirror, and reflect what you are, in case you don't know: an overrated book; the scenes from a porno which lead into the actual pornography, as there is no sex in this book about sex, but just the ridiculous lead-up conversations. Do you watch Logjammin' to find out if he fixes the cable? No, you don't.