Letters from a seducer by Hild Hilst
Brazilian fiction
Original title – Cartas de um sedutor
Translator John Keene
Source – Personal copy
I picked this up last month on my trip to Suffolk from the excellent Aldebrough books. If you ever get a chance, pop into an excellent shop with a wide selection of books. I was drawn to the cover art, it reminds me of those folio-shaped flower photographs that Robert Mapplethorpe did. In a way , this book is like some of his other photos. Like yesterday’s book, this is another slim novella from a country that, years ago, had few female writers translated. It shows that this writer died in her late seventies, and it isn’t until the last few years that we have got her books in English. A writer who liked to challenge in her time, Hilda Hilst was known for her challenging writing that would tackle sensitive political and, in this case, sexual subjects. This book is a set of letters from Karl, a libertine, to his sister. This book has a nod to the European writers she likes, such as Joyce and De sade. I also felt she must have been a fan of Casanova because this man is perhaps a Brazilian version of the great lover.
I tiptoed out and still could hear Franz’s guffaws and Frau Lotte’s sobs-giggles-farts. Listen, Cordélia, seriously: you told me in your last letter that Albert’s balls and cock and little asshole are of no concern to you. That you’re not interested any more by all this filthy sex stuff. I feel you’re lying. But anyway, you said “filth.” And then you talked about “feelings.” But please, dear irmanita, you never had them! Are you calling
‘feeling’ what you were exuding for father? Hanging around the room’s terrace, behind that B. Giorgi sculpture, massaging your pussy while papa played doubles, are you calling that a feeling? I had reached my lovely 14 years, you your 24, I was lifting your satin nightgown and standing up screwing you in the ass right there behind the statue (the sculpture there before), while you were masturbating yourself moaning, babbling childish things that always ended in Ohs, Ahs, and you were squatting, crouching down, finishing all sprawled out atop my harmonica, howling, howling, and that never stopped.Later still I licked you, you lying beside the stone vases, and the ferns concealed your view of father on the court, and you propped yourself up on your elbows to see him better, then you saw him… and you would jump up (I still with the tongue hanging out) roaring: bravo papa! bravo!
I picked this as it is totally shocking but like most of the book also in a way!
The book is in three parts. It has an introduction of letters from Karl to his sister Cordelie about his sexual acts and the acts they had when he lived at home. This is very eye-opening. You can see how Hilst, as a writer, likes to push the boundaries in her writing. The book then moves as Karl discovers the works of a lost poet whose letters he finds in the trash. The last two sections see these other letters intertwining with the conquest of her brother, as we see a very. Male sexual view of the times the other man the lost Poet Stamatius is from the pother enbd of the social class a dpown and out man just getting by and having lioots of sex like Karl as well this is a book that questions class, sex and also is the poet really just Karl in a way if that makes sense this is a book that gives a nid towards the modernist writers she liked.
I do have a lover but she’s married, that I’m afraid to pick up women out there, all this AIDS-related stuff alarms me and because of that I always have to masturbate. I cited several men illustrious defenders of masturbation, John C. Powys, Havelock Ellis, Theodore Schroeder etc. But I spoke with much brilliance, with much elegance, slightly agitated, occasionally passing my hand on his thigh like a very manly man, sympathetic, relaxed. I described wonderful moments of getting it in and when I detailed an uncommon position (do you want to know, irmanita? She with legs open at the edge of the bed, me licking her and under the bed another woman sucking my pod) he laughed with pleasure, made nervous movements with his leg, and I glanced at him and visualized the dick stuffed inside his pants. I asked abruptly: you never masturbated with your friends?
I laughed when he tried justify himself by using some well known writer about there sex lives
This is a book that isn’t for those who get easily offended by a lot of sexual chat and discussion of acts that are maybe taboo even when the book is set but this is a man obsessed with sex and telling people about that but maybe imagining himself as the down and otut opoet and his poems and conquests as well this is if Cssanova had been latin american he would been karl sending these dispatches of his sexual acts and conquests in Brazil rather than in Venice. This is a book designed to provoke the reader. I was reminded of the splurge of sexual references in Pierre Guyotat’s book. I tried to find a connection between these two writers, but all I saw was a shared attempt to shock their readers. As I said, the Mapplethorpe-like cover, phallic in its appearance, is apt for the book. Have you read any of her books that have been translated into English?





















