From the Publisher
Praise for Emmanuelle:
"Lyrical and graphic . . . But it's not all salacious play-by-play. The sex scenes are interspersed with abstract musings about the nature of sex. One of the central ideas, which I will now clinically paraphrase to conform to standards of decency, is this: The definition of the erotic is arousal, not climax . . . the book's argument reverberates beyond the erotic. The writing I most enjoy now delights in the moment's contours and textures, not surprising plot twists. The best work seduces the reader through nuanced details and observations, and does away with italics and exclamation points. It takes pleasure in the ambiguous interstices of life while dismissing its flagrant resolutions. In short, it arouses." Teddy Wayne, NPR
"This new edition reminds us how this revolutionary epic had an impact on the sexual liberation of women." Le Parisien Magazine
"Hedonistic, joyful and much more fresh than Fifty Shades of Grey." Marianne
"Emmanuelle is not just sex; it is an eroticism that is vintage, oneiric, utopian, and tender, an optimistic and radiant eroticism." lepoint.fr
"An unrestrained erotic novel, replete with details of the author’s sexual experiences and erotic philosophy. Emmanuelle Arsan has launched an all-out one-woman crusade to liberate mankind from the sexual taboos that have woven themselves into our moral nature and end up by ruling us through unjust laws." Panorama (Italy)
"Emmanuelle writes nearly as well as the Divine Marquis [de Sade], and shows the same penchant for philosophy." Le Nouvel Observateur
"Emmanuelle’s eroticism is not pathological, unlike the eroticism of revolt. It is a crucial part of the satisfaction of the individual, which feels threatened by nothing, which unfolds in harmony with the world: an eroticism of perfect accord." Le Magazine Littéraire
Read an Excerpt
Chapter 2: The Invitation
She can not really be seen from the street, as there are trees obscuring the view. But she has no doubts whatsoever that her neighbors are ogling her behind their windows opening onto her garden across the hedge. Who are they? She has no idea. She has never seen them. Will they resent the sight? Perhaps they are masturbating? She imagines their frenzied hands--and her clitoris rises and hardens, sending urgent messages all the way up to her throbbing temples. . . .
Mario's voice gives her a start.
"Do you ever stroke yourself in front of your servants?" he wants to know.
But in actual fact only Ea is her mute confidante when Emmanuelle makes love to herself in the mornings, in her bed or in the shower, or, after lunch, on the chaise-longue, while reading or listening to records. Her other domestics--as far as she knows, at least--are lacking in such curiousity.
"Well, then," her visitor goes on, "be generous, call your houseboy. Yes, right now. He's so handsome!"
Emmanuelle feels her heart sink. No, that really goes too far! Mario must understand. . . . It would seem, she remarks, that he is making up for time lost! Then, for a moment, she thinks, she can her the "beeps" of fate, measuring her guilt. That's one, and there goes another: how many minutes of eternity have already been entered on debit side? Then she realizes she will, sooner or later, act according to his predictions (because he is not giving her any orders, but simply reading her own wishes, only half a step ahead of her consciousness); so what is the use of procrastinating? Without even a sigh, she calls out the boy's name, not very audibly at first, then loudly.
The servant appears, his eyes and gait like those of a jungle cat. Mario motions him closer and makes him kneel in front of her.
"Do you want him to make you come?" Mario asks.
Emmanuelle bites her lip; she wants to warn Mario that the young man understands French. But Mario has already started talking to him, in a language she has never heard before. The boy replies, muttering under his breath, his eyes downcast, and as ill-at-ease, it seems, as Emmanuelle herself. Mario sounds like a lecturer--the tone is familiar! How nice it sounds, she thinks, a little lesson in erotology, in demotic Thai. . . . She finds it amusing, despite the awkwardness of the situation. Nevertheless she is startled to point of bounding off the wall when Mario--without warning--guides the boy's hand to her vulva, showing him what needs to be done, preventing him from undoing his own clothes, and correcting his initial fumbling. But it doesn't take the boy's fingers more than a moment or two to acquire the right strokes, and Mario lets them pursue their task without his assistance.