Imagine being only 27 years old and that you have decided to chase the dream of being a literary giant.  This Argentine-Danish American has already published over a dozen novels and four collections of poetry. His name? Constantine Sult.  Discovering him and his book, The Murder of Linen, was a happy accident for me, and had me pondering if what I was reading  either bordered on insanity or pure genius.  You have to be careful with the distinction, because often the two are confused. 

Why highlight his book?  This work is an erotic confession of the most sinister kind.  You feel the protagonist, Wyndaul Dressage, in his state with all of the old voices of literary figures dancing in his maze of the mundane and ordinary, and yet you are transfixed on how anyone could digest this stark existence. Sult reminds me of Henry Miller.  His vulgar nature is for some like hearing nails screeching on a chalkboard.  As the author once shared with me, “I expect no love letters for ‘Linen’”.  He wants to be bold and controversial and cutting edge.  To bring something back to literature. 

The Murder of Linen for me was the actual witnessing of the Murder of Sensuality.  The lack of it.  I had to take a second look, and wonder for a moment “Is this the disease of all?  Do we kill the sensual nature and actually parade with it on display?”  Those are just some of the questions Constantine Sult’s work provoked.  As a work, you will either be repelled by it or entranced to discover what the author seeks to reveal in the ordinary moments of a man who has conquests that should be fantastic, but that have become as common place as a handshake without the firm grip.

For more details, click on www.constantinesult.com

Filed under: Erotic Confessions