Well, It Sure Ain’t Erotica

I couldn’t resist the marketing for Charlotte Roche’s Wetlands. I’m a big fan of both smut and literature; so with the tagline, “is it smut or literature” I was intrigued.

Wetlands is narrated by 18-year-old Helen, in hospital after a painful operation on an infected haemorrhoid. To pass the time, she reflects on her relationship with her body and her sexual history, in extremely graphic detail. Helen rejects societal preoccupation with the body’s “dirt” by eschewing hygiene, and exposing/touching/tasting/smelling all of her body’s secretions and emissions. Reacting to expectations that she repress her burgeoning sexuality, Helen has as much sex with as many partners as possible. But this isn’t just a cautionary tale against parental repression of sexuality: Helen’s family has managed to remain silent about her mother’s failed attempt to kill herself and Helen’s baby brother. The more Helen tries to convince us of her strength and invulnerability, the more tragic and disturbed she is revealed to be.

I find it hard to believe this book has been criticized as failed erotica. Like Chuck Palahniuk’s equally disturbing Snuff, just because a book is full of sex doesn’t mean the author’s trying to sexually arouse the reader. Rather, Roche’s intent is to provoke a reaction, and man, does she succeed. I’m very open-minded, and far from faint at heart, but the book really made me uncomfortable. I felt a little nauseous when I was reading, and when I finished I made a beeline for a long, hot shower. But, unlike the profound distress of the novel’s young heroine, my discomfort was short-lived. Well, relatively short-lived.