'That afternoon in the small bedroom the light was blue. The curtains were cream and blew softly in the wind. There was a cry, far off, almost out of earshot. There was a man in my bed and I did not know how he got there.
'A woman, on the eve of her fiftieth birthday, reflects on one hundred moments from a lifetime's sensual adventures. After the love, hatred and despair are done with, the great and trivial acts of her bodily life reveal an imperfect, yet whole self.
'... My Hundred Lovers captures the sheer wonder of life, desire and love.' (From the publisher's website.)
Epigraph: My lovers suffocate me,
Crowding my lips, thick in the pores of my skin,
Jostling me through street and public halls, coming naked to me at night,
Crying by day, Ahoy! From the rocks of the river, swinging and chirping over my head,
Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush,
Lighting on every moment of my life... Walt Whitman 'Song of Myself.'
'Some novelist court strife by pilfering character traits and plotlines from friends and lovers - but how far is too far?' Susan Johnson.
