by Harold Robbins
Harold Robbins, 69, still writes with the tone of a 5 year old who's just discovered parts of his anatomy previously covered by diapers. With little finesse, Robbins describes the various ways to manipulate these parts and the surprising ways they respond. His scenes, remarkable only in their lack of imagination, take place in subways and offices, on sofas and boats—and occasionally even in a bedroom. In this novel, Robbins' 19th, the main character, i.e. the character whose body parts we know most about, is Joe. Joe is a writer who can't believe the amount of money he gets for churning out bad screenplays that are performed by casting-couch-trained actresses. When time permits, he writes bad novels. "When your book came out I thought you had some respect," says Joe's mother back in New York. "But instead, all our friends that read it said they never read so much filth like that. I don't understand," she goes on, "it was on the best-seller list for fifteen weeks." Ma, we know just how you feel. (Simon and Schuster, $17.95)
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