An Epitome of Junk-nGael Greene:nBlue Skies, No CandynWhen confronted with a book like this, thenimpulse is to dismiss it as meretriciousntrash, written to make a killing in thenliterary marketplace, a hit and run novel. Innfact, it is doubtful whether Gael Greenenwould seriously contest this accusation. At anparty attended by New York’s “BeautifulnPeople,” a woman fashion designer whosendresses average $1000 per approachednGreene and approvingly commented thatnthe success of the novel would soon enablenits author to afford her clothing. So muchnfor literary recognition.nThe trend of “sexploitation” in fiction is,nof course, no recent phenomenon. Severalny«ars ago a group of anonymous MadisonnAvenue admen banded together andndecided to conjunctively compose a novel ofnhighest pornographic content, whose &olenaim would be to make money. This hoax,nentitled Naked Came The Stranger, wasnpassed off as the pioneer work of a suburbannhousewife, along with lines of GracenMetalious’s legendary Peyton Place. Thencollective did not make their millions,nwhich goes to prove that pure hack work isnsometimes the most difficult writing to donsuccessfully. A certain belief in one’s self, anconviction that one’s efforts possess value,nis often the pissing ingredient thatnseparates a commercial hit from a miss.nThe late Jacqueline Susann was convincednof her place as the Zola of the twentiethncentury. As much as the sophomoric scribblingsnof an Erica Jong might embarrass anreader, one is struck by Jong’s total narcissisticnfaith in herself; she projects a dimwittednbut sturdy belief that the uniquenessnof her talents and the fascination with hernpersona engulf anyone who turns her firstnpage.nAs a deliberate purveyor of junk, GaelnGreene seems to be an epitome. A gourmetncritic for New York Magazine and & formidablenexpert on the world’s mostncelebrated restaurants, she seems to havenwritten the book to be able to indulge herselfnat The Palace, the most expensive eatery innNew York, where dinner a deux can easilyn12- Chronieles of Cttltufcnnntotal $250. As Greene wrote recently in annecstatic review of The Palace: “Somenpeople buy emeralds … I am good to mynmouth.” Not sex, as her novel might imply,nbut gourmandise is the author’s vocation.nThis is not the basest of pursuits, but toncreate pseudo literature for this purposendebases it to the level of a drug addict’snfelonies to support hh coi^tiy addiction.nBlue Skies, No Candy is a sci-fi sex book;nthere are no recognizable human characters,nthe protagonists and their organs arenmade out of an indestructible vinyl. It is setnin a Ma.dison Avenue created world ofnfrantic consumerism where the credits arenthe most salient points of the narrative:nluggage by Gucci; accommodations by thenPlaza Athenee ; wardrobe by Saint Laurent;ncatering by Alain Chapel. In thisnhypothetical environment the men are allnimpossibly handsome, wealthy and virile,nwhile Kate Alexander, the fortyish, facelifted,nsoon-lo-be-on-the-cover-of – Time,nscreen-writing heroine can deny herselfnnothing from Gotham’s sexualnsmorgasboard. And each new helping isnmore delicious than the previous one. Bothnprotagonist and narrative are as farnremoved from reality as the adventures ofnJames Bond: not “kiss kiss bang bang” butn”bang bang bye bye.”nAnd in spite of — and because of — thensheer density per piEtge of fornication, it isndevoid of even the smallest hint ofneroticism. No one cares about KatenAlexander, twentieth century female stud.nWe always cared about literary couples whonwere enmeshed in strange and illicit, evennaberrant and deviant relationships: Cherinand Lea, Lolita and Humbert, TemplenDrake and Popeye, Sonya and Raskolnikov,nRachel-Quand-Du-Seigneur and RobertnSaint-Loup. Their off-beat encounters maynhave been far removed from our experiences,nbut we became engrossed inntheir fictional lives nonetheless. KatenAlexander may leave her husband or staynwith him, sleep with men and/or women,nwrite a prize winning script, but no onen