Confessions of a Flesh-Eater by David Madsen

Confessions of a Flesh-Eater Reviews

• 
  Andy

  The most exquisitely spine-shuddering of sexual climaxes, believe me, cannot be compared in any degree to the exstasis of communion by consumption
  
  I gotta say, this has some of the grossest prose I've ever read, I can't think of anything close to what Madsen achieves here at times. It's very cringe-inducing, but this isn't some sort of slapdash splatterpunk, this is very well written neo-decadence. And I think it is that earnestness and sincerity which makes it all the more disturbing.
  
  Madsen revels in descriptions of the human body, particularly the aged, diseased and unhealthy, I opened her blouse and uncovered one breast. It was hideous, collapsed in on itself like an old suede bag [...] It could have been the air-sack of an obsolete Celtic wind instrument. [...] Her breath was, I should imagine, somewhat similar in odour to the first farting flutter of air to escape an Egyptian tomb opened after three thousand years.
  
  Another revel is in lecherous descriptions of meat, excuse me, flesh, and what our protagonist does with it Meat is flesh and vice-versa, yet the word 'flesh' captures the true flavour, the concentrated extract of the passion which rules me, and I infinitely prefer it. There are quite a few recipes scattered throughout the book as well.
  
  And our protagonist likes going into decadent dream states. Here he finds a dead bird as a child, I could smell its still-warm body - a kind of tangy, sour-sweet, meaty odour rather like that of a wet dog. [...] Strange images popped into my mind: small, blind creatures, new-born pups squashed tightly together in a deep, dank burrow beneath the surface of the ground…the pungent ripeness of animal haunches sweating after a swift run…
  
  If this isn't enough, after a knock on the head the protagonist achieves the ability to "turn on" synaesthesia at will, and things get even weirder; Red causes the sound of bright, clear trumpets, and yet strangely enough, trumpets make me see huge, tree-like extensions of the purest gold [...] I may tell you that an orgasm (one’s own or another’s) is a starburst of brilliant white light whose centre and heart is a little circle of water-colour; to pass through that circle is to cross over into no-time and no-place - an infinite suspension, if you like - and to be there forever, because there is no way back...
  
  This book is quite funny too, what kept me interested is the very dark humor and colorful, flamboyant characters who create hilarious moments. There's also a willingness to shock with violence and sex, 'He’s crazy,' the Master once observed to me, 'but I adore him, not least of all because he’s got the cock of a rhino. You know what he said to me after we’d done it for the first time? He looked at me with those liquid chocolate eyes of his and he said, "Well it’s better than shafting the pigs, anyway."'
  "Obviously an incurable romantic."
  
  ‘I can’t breathe,’ I managed to say.
  She withdrew the tongue (it occurred to me that - braised, sliced and set in aspic - it would make a very nice salad meat)...
  
  I'm not sure what you call this, don't expect horror, it's more black comedy, told with a wink. As much as I enjoyed this, there are some sections throughout written by a doctor who is studying the protagonist which I thought put a brake on the action and slowed things down too much. These are brief fortunately.
• 
  Michael Brown

  The thing that makes this book so memorable is that it is not just gruesome, dark and funny, it's also remarkably well written. It's as if John Fowles got drunk, watched three nights of the Horror Channel and thought he'd give something reprehensible a go.
• 
  S. M.

  The only way I can think to describe this book is like if Dennis Cooper wrote a blackly comedic novel about an Oedipal Hannibal Lecter.
• 
  Joel

  Reading Confessions of a Flesh Eater is like reading John Fowles writing a Dario Argento movie tie-in. Blood is copious and yet it breaks out into scenes which come of out the leftfield.
  
  Orlando Crispe, the titular flesh eater, is erudite and as a master chef is a very slick character. Set in the present, it’s grim and yet funny. Something which I don’t find in, say, TV’s Hannibal, Stalker, or the Following. Cannibalism and erotica have been fodder for horror movies. I guess it must have been rooted deeply in “becoming one” with your lover or your object of desire.
  
  The last time I read erotica which repulsed me was Pan Pantziarka, while that one was described as “scorched-earth porn,” this one is very steeped into high-hats without getting annoying. A blind buy but I had no regrets having read it.
  
• 
  Guy

  Confessions Of A Flesh-Eater van David Madsen is bijna uit, en kan aanspraak maken op de volgende adjectieven: decadent, pervers, ziek, hilarisch, weerzinwekkend, sensueel, en..euhm… lillend. Het boek lezen valt te vergelijken met het kneden van gehakt om er vervolgens balletjes van te draaien: aards, lijfelijk, vunzig, plakkerig. Van seksuele perversie, uitzinnige filosofische opvattingen tot bruut kannibalisme, het komt allemaal aan bod in deze roman over Orlando Crispe, een culinaire chef aan het altaar van het vlees. Het heeft iets van Süskinds Het Parfum, maar dan wel de X-Rated versie. Ik wacht op de verfilming.
• 
  Czeska

  This was easily the weirdest book I have ever read, yet I thoroughly enjoyed the storyline. In terms of weirdness, this will be hard to beat
• 
  Anna Prejanò

  Le quattro stelle sono eccessive e non del tutto meritate, ma mi sono divertita e questo vale.
  Sulla cucina come arte e sul rapporto tra cibo e sesso c'è una bibliografia pressoché sterminata, composta in massima parte di stronzate. Qui non ci allontaniamo più di tanto dalla categoria, e in più l'autore infarcisce il tutto di ammiccamenti pseudo-eruditi buoni solo a titillare l'ego di lettori orgogliosi della loro cultura media e a far venire i nervi a tutti gli altri. Del resto è un accademico che scrive sotto pseudonimo e gli accademici sono bravissimi a trasformare il vino in acqua, come diceva Oscar Wilde.
  Per una ben più succosa e profonda riflessione, molto meglio "Il cuoco" di Harry Kressing, che con originalità porta alle estreme conseguenze il motto secondo il quale l'uomo è ciò che mangia, esplorando il lato manipolatorio dell'arte culinaria e il potere che potrebbe derivarne.
  Oppure rivediamoci "Il cuoco, il ladro, sua moglie e l'amante" e non se ne parli più.
  Ah, il cuoco è eretico solo perché il nano del precedente romanzo era gnostico. Sarebbero le confessioni di un Flesh-Eater.
• 
  Beth

  Very Strange and morbid but enthralling.