This book, The Sex Appeal of the Inorganic, written by Mario Perniola, has patiently waited for me for four years. One of those books that sits on a bedroom shelf more a guilty reminder of money apparently mispent than an enticement. I always loved the title, the kind of thing that can inexplicably come out of someone’s mouth, bewildering the contented and frustrating the cynical.
It is a happy fortune that books do not lose anything with age, not this one anyway. Once unfolded, it begs for pulling this way and that, whether pulling of the book or oneself.
