Fifty Shades of Grey, E.L. James: Book Review

fifty shades of grey e l james book review
Fifty Shades of Grey Book Cover Fifty Shades of Grey
Fifty Shades #1
E.L. James
Adult Fiction, Romance
Vintage Books
June 20, 2011
Paperback
514

When literature student Anastasia Steele goes to interview young entrepreneur Christian Grey, she encounters a man who is beautiful, brilliant, and intimidating. The unworldly, innocent Ana is startled to realize she wants this man and, despite his enigmatic reserve, finds she is desperate to get close to him. Unable to resist Ana’s quiet beauty, wit, and independent spirit, Grey admits he wants her, too—but on his own terms.

Shocked yet thrilled by Grey’s singular erotic tastes, Ana hesitates. For all the trappings of success—his multinational businesses, his vast wealth, his loving family—Grey is a man tormented by demons and consumed by the need to control. When the couple embarks on a daring, passionately physical affair, Ana discovers Christian Grey’s secrets and explores her own dark desires.

Erotic, amusing, and deeply moving, the Fifty Shades Trilogy is a tale that will obsess you, possess you, and stay with you forever.

This book is intended for mature audiences.

This review contains spoilers

Imagine a one-night stand: The guy drops his pants; you notice his dick is less than impressive but you screw him anyway; and in return, he gives you the most uneventful five minutes of your life. That is E.L. JamesFifty Shades of Grey in a nutshell, over, and over, and over again.

Before I begin, I only picked up this book because I was truly bored of reading The Hunger Games trilogy and I needed something juicy and entertaining. All my friends lied to me by telling me that this was a really “good” book, and a part of me knew they were only saying that because they were closeted sex freaks but so am I, so I figured, “Let’s do this!”

After Chapter 8, whatever fun and suspense that was there virtually vanishes, and then you wonder what prompted you to spent $10 on this fucking book in the first place. That was me; that was my reality. Ugh, I spent all those sleepless nights skimming for something good about this book, something of substance. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.

Because I don’t want to waste too much of my energy on this review, here’s a spoiler-y breakdown of what Fifty Shades is actually about:

We’re introduced to Anastasia Steele, a clueless twentysomething virgin who allows herself to be manipulated countless times by a crude, controlling, nymphomaniac named Christian Grey who can last no longer than two paragraphs in the sack before collapsing in his own muck.

I think this book is single-handedly responsible for reigniting the conception that misogamy is acceptable in literature. The fact that most people “praise” this book for its being so saucy and pushing the envelope of sex is one thing; but what it also does is tell women that they should be submissive to their male partners. I mean, I don’t really think there’s much else to this book than that. There is no love in this book, and even there was an inkling of it, it doesn’t exist. This book was literally the worst; it is the most rudimentary, classless representation of what happens when you’ve been so sexually deprived and mistreated that you trick yourself into believing companionships like these are actually healthy.

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Not to mention, James is a very poor, tacky writer. Hell, I’ve read YA books that were more developed than this immature piece of shit. Let me say this, the majority of bad reviews have surprisingly been less about the fact that this book is salacious than they were about how fucking cringe-worthy it’s written. James does a miraculously horrible job distinguishing her own lurid fantasies from that of the equally dysfunctional Anastasia.

In her first sex scene with Christian, Anastasia literally makes the statement that her “first time” with him was the best sex she’s ever had. How the hell would she know that it was her best when she’s never had any other sexual experiences yet? I mean, I guess if I were a virgin again I could relate; you don’t necessarily know if sex gets any better (or worse) than your first time UNTIL YOU’VE HAD SEX MULTIPLE TIMES WITH DIFFERENT PEOPLE.

Anastasia’s brainless passivity in this book will literally make you want to throw a brick at her head. It’s like, this girl has no mind of her own because she’s been sexually manipulated by this sicko, demented snob. She practically becomes a sex-sponge as the book progresses; she’s defiled by Christian and lunges at any opportunity to get undressed and penetrated with little recognition of how much of a loser douchebag her so-called boyfriend actually is. It really disgusts me how content she made herself in order to satisfy his sadistic appetites.

Now let’s talk about the man of the hour, Christian fucking Grey. He is a fucking loser throughout the entire book and he makes no apologies for it. I’ll admit this much, James did a damn good job with that first sex scene and I’ll admit I go a little turned on (bite me!) by Christian but I think any person of dignity and respect for themselves would know better than to continue a real relationship with this guy.

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Christian is quite the charmer until he cracks out a fucking belt and flogs you with it to get his rocks off. (What the hell is this, James?!) Who knew that (some) hot guys would really turn out to be crazed sex slave-owners in their private lives? This shit is berzerk. Also, was it just me, or did anyone else get the feeling that Christian’s habits only come from his weak-ass dick game? Oh sure, Anastasia was making a big deal about how big his dick was in the book, but what does she know? She probably has never seen a dick before in her life… This motherfucker couldn’t last more than a single page before climaxing, and so to make up for it, he has to resort to using toys to get his girls off because his dick can’t do the job. Fuck this book.

Overall, Fifty Shades is a great start if you need an introduction to granny-porn literature (no offense). And for everyone’s sake, I hope that really doesn’t exist.


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Written by Paris Close

Paris Close

Editor-in-chief at Paperback Paris. Saving myself for Andy Cohen. Give me Gillian Flynn, or give me death.