![]() ![]() I, Louis, the Prince of Saint-Placide, know better. Everyone does it, all of humanity, the whole teeming, silly, idiotic mass, everyone does it except me. But we don’t, because we’re stupid, and because we all think we’re important, that we matter, that what we do matters, so we spend our time working meaningless jobs and struggling and fighting and trying to be something or someone other than what we are, which is animals. We should make sure our cocks are hard and our pussies are wet and our hearts are beating fast, fast, fast. We should be happy and spend our days in pursuit of pleasure and pain and every form of lust and desire that exists. Nothing I do or you do or anyone does means a goddamn thing. We live on a little ball, he says, a little blue ball in a minor solar system in a small galaxy in an infinite universe. He thinks of himself as a philosopher, a weatherman, an astronomer, a speaker of languages, an artist. I sat and drank and watched and imagined until I couldn’t think and stopped remembering and I woke up under a tree on Quai Voltaire and I walked back to the apartment. I went for a walk and bought a couple bottles of cheap wine and sat on a bench in Saint-Germain and watched pretty girls walk by and imagined what it would be like to be with them, to kiss them, make them smile or laugh, flirt with them, fuck them, fall in love with them. The scarf means stay out, though I could hear them through the door and knew without seeing the scarf. ![]() Louis likes Arab boys, as close to eighteen as he can find them. Last night Louis tied a red scarf on the door handle. And this is what I do here, in the most beautiful, most civilized city on earth. The same as they have been since the first day one of us stepped out of a fucking cave. Our desires, though, our desires are the same. It’s the end of the twentieth century and we are living in what is supposed to be an advanced society. The paint on the walls has been chipped away and the windows don’t close. The floor is covered with empty wine bottles and ashtrays, my mattress is on the floor in the corner. I want you to think and smile and remember. Yes, Jay, that has certainly been the case. ![]() That’s life, right? Sometimes it is, sometimes not. It started with a message request on Facebook. Written in the same percussive, propulsive, dazzling, breathtaking style as A Million Little Pieces, Katerina echoes and complements that most controversial of memoirs, and plays with the same issues of fiction and reality that created, nearly destroyed, and then recreated James Frey in the American imagination. Twenty-five years later, the writer is rich, famous, and numb, and he wants to drive his car into a tree, when he receives an anonymous message that draws him back to the life, and possibly the love, he abandoned years prior. Katerina, the explosive new novel by America’s most controversial writer, is a sweeping love story alternating between 1992 Paris and Los Angeles in 2018.Īt its center are a young writer and a young model on the verge of fame, both reckless, impulsive, addicted, and deeply in love. Betrayal and heartbreak, regret and pain, the melancholy of age. Love and sex and dreams, art and drugs and the madness of youth. From the New York Times bestselling author of A Million Little Pieces and Bright Shiny Morning comes Katerina, James Frey’s highly anticipated new novel set in 1992 Paris and contemporary Los Angeles.Ī kiss, a touch. ![]()
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