The Blood Oranges by John Hawkes: A very dark and gorgeously written book about marriage and sex. Told in first person by a self-proclaimed “sex singer” who rivals Nabokov's and Poe's minipulative, silver-tongued, and mentally disintegrating narrators, the book follows the sexual exploits of a pair of couples on vacation in a small tropical town. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful prose, but very creepy.
(first paragraph) “Love weaves its own tapestry, spins its own golden thread, with its own sweet breath breathes into being its mysteries—bucolic, lusty, gentle as the eyes of daisies or thick with pain. And out of its own music creates the flesh of our lives. If the birds sing, the nudes are not far off. Even the dialogue of the frogs is raptuous.”
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