That Decade in Paris

In Paris in the 1950s and early 1960s, we would go to Brentano’s book store on l’Avenue de l’Opèra and ask whether they had any new Henry Miller. The clerk, feigning furtiveness, would reach under the counter and produce The Tropic of Capricorn or Max and the White Phagocytes. On the title page there would be a stern warning: “Not for sale in U.S. or UK.” And we Canadians knew that if the customs officer at Dorval Airport found these books where you had concealed them in your suitcase, they would immediately be confiscated. There might possibly be even more severe consequences.

One day, at Brentano’s, the clerk said to me, “J’ai aujourd’hui quelque chose de très spéciale,” and, with great pretence of looking around to see if any police were in the offing, he handed me The English Governess by Miles Underwood. The clerk was right: this book was the most elegant work of hot pornography that I’d ever read.

So you can...