Why cannot we accept that there is sexless greatness as well as hyper-sexual greatness? Jane Austen was a plain Jane. If she’d looked like Kate Winslet, and had as much glorious sex as Jordan, we would not – I fancy – have those wonderful novels.
And David Barnett laments losing his innocence at the movies (“Cinema stole my favorite books“):
Can there be anything worse than lovingly engaging with a couple of hundred thousand words of prose over perhaps two or three weeks, drinking in the author’s dialogue and descriptions, creating your own vision of the work in the privacy of your head, only to have every man and his dog (special offer on Tuesdays at your local Odeon) blast your intellectual ownership of the book out of the water after spending 90 minutes slobbing out in front of a cinema screen?