As a teenager I was omnivorous reader, the type who would visit several different public libraries in hope that another one has different, better choice - they all had shelves full of best-selling authors like Harold Robbins and Sidney Sheldon who always had gripping stories and lots of sex. Coming from a greyness of Eastern Europe with economy collapsing and forced austerity, these stories about cutthroat movie agents, bitchy starlets and backstabbing millionaires represented another world to me - it was pure escapism, perhaps completely unrealistic picture of "America" and to this day I can't tell Robbins from Sheldon, in my head they merged into one big, guilty pleasure. I can probably safely add Jackie Collins to that list. Its not that I specially searched for these particular authors - its just that they were very popular and available so naturally I read their books, long before I had anything like taste. I would visit public library every Saturday with my school friend and we would happily look out for some new Agatha Christie or any of the best sellers - eventually I moved on to something different but she kept on borrowing same old pulp fiction until we stopped being friends. It made me realise that we are not so close after all.
I have mentioned this because somewhere along the line a book by Irving Wallace came my way and I clearly remember it because it was extremely salacious story - "The Fan Club" was basically a pornography packaged as a serious novel and some flimsy story was there just as an excuse for more of the graphic description of sex. It left a deep impression of me as a teenager but I never had desire to re-read it or even to return to this author, until recently I saw description about this novel and thought perhaps its the time for a change of pace reading wise, maybe I should read some light fiction for entertainment, after all.
The story itself is quite gripping and it kept me going until I finished the very last page, so as far as escapism goes, I guess it serves the purpose. Its a political thriller where KGB and White House try to outmanoeuvre each other with double agents and spies on top of double agents and spies. Russians replace the US first lady with identical imposter who was trained for this task and now they have a spy in a president's bedroom.
It is all fairly interesting and complicated and I loved how Wallace casually mentions squares and the streets in Moscow, knowing that he probably poured over city maps just to get this right. What spoils it for me is a constant insistence on graphic description of sex - obviously this was selling books back than and Wallace happily obliged but my God what a bore - it is a part of the plot, because Russians must find out how the president's wife behave in bed - its just that I am not a teenager anymore and this kind of stuff has no appeal for me anymore, I have actually skipped the whole darn chapter because it was going on and on about "jackhammering" hips and "rotating" asses. The rest of the book was just fine and I find the plot gripping but man did I hated this completely ham-fisted style. If anything, it reminded me on how much I have changed and hopefully developed in the meantime.
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