There’s a popular column in New York magazine’s the Cut called Sex Diaries, which features first-person accounts by people who are having sex: rarely monogamous, often wrapped in infidelity, always salacious and intimate.
As I read Anna Dorn’s third novel, Perfume and Pain, I couldn’t help thinking that it would make a fantastic Sex Diary. Revolving around Astrid Dahl, a semi-successful writer forever on the brink of a breakdown, the novel is an homage to 1950s lesbian pulp fiction, down to the most revealing details.
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