There are dicks in this books. And fucking. A Christmas miracle! Dicks! Fuck! Not a throbbing manhood in sight, no disturbing portrayals of sex as an out-of-body mystical experience, and a blessed absence of euphemisms. Why aren't more sex scenes written in everyday language instead of vulvas-flowering-like-tropical-orchids-purple-prose? I mean, it still wasn't interesting, but at least I didn't laugh myself sick and feel embarrassed for the author. Bonus points for including condoms and a sensible decision to not put food products in orifices.
Brandy, sodomy, and ocelots aside, this was a fairly straightforward story of a lonely rare book dealer who falls for a visiting British chemistry professor who has an unknown Dickens' manuscript to sell. Lanyon does an adequate job of establishing the attraction between the two characters, although since it takes place over only a few days their Love is hard to credit. James' passion for books was more convincing -- as is the author's. Plenty of allusions and puns here for booklovers.