"The prose—ah, the prose. Like Shirley Conran’s Lace rewritten by a smartphone. “You beguile me, Christian. Completely overwhelm me. I feel like Icarus flying too close to the sun.” Or: “I’ll agree to the fisting, but I’d really like to claim your ass, Anastasia.” (That might be a better title for the book, actually: Your Ass, Anastasia.) But this is not the point. The point is that in Ana’s attempt to make a man out of Christian Grey, to summon him fully into her sexual-emotional presence, to soften (with love!) the beady eye of domination and surveillance, we rejoin the struggle against modernity to which all the great sexologists of 20th-century literature—Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin, D. H. Lawrence himself—were committed."