You don’t have to believe that the story comes from a true-life prostitute, just that the character you’re watching is believable. Issues of authenticity fade away, however, when it comes to the TV series, because it’s not at pains to sell itself as the real deal. Euripides and Plato were bedside standards. My parents claim I taught myself to read, and set about reading everything within reach. Psychedelic sci-fi disguised as literature: Aldous Huxley. The house was stuffed with books of all kinds. In the Telegraph, she offers this bit of background, in which neither the style nor the content passes the smell test: “My parents fancied themselves 1970s revolutionaries so we grew up with unfettered access to the writings of Angela Davis, Germaine Greer et al. She wasn’t abused as a child everyone in her family was too busy reading, apparently. (I know what you’re thinking: I wish I’d thought of that.) Belle makes it clear that she’s not a victim in this situation. The conceit is that Belle is a university-educated young woman who went to London in search of a job and couldn’t make ends meet, and found that being a high-priced escort created the perfect synergy between her desire to make a lot of money and her avowed love of sex. The diaries aren’t trying for greatness they’re trying to make the cash register ring, and that they have done. ![]() The writing I have come across seems not just fictional but false there’s a lazy archness to the tone, a superficial intelligence, and a mere pose of thoughtfulness-all of which may be intentional, part of the joke. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find them in the Ho section of my local Barnes & Noble (the subtitle of the American edition, earnest and accurate, is “Diary of an Unlikely Call Girl”), so I’ve seen only the Telegraph columns and short passages from the books. The authority of the diaries is something worth pondering, especially at a time when a number of high-profile memoirs have turned out to be, to some degree or in their entirety, not what they professed to be. ![]() There’s been speculation in the British press that Belle, who has never revealed her real name and is now retired, is an impostor-that is, that she was never a prostitute, and may even be a he. All this enterprise, which is almost Disneyesque in terms of the length of its chain of monetization-the only thing missing is a theme park with kinky rides that cost five hundred dollars an hour-is the product of someone whose identity is open to question. It was based on a book called “The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl,” which was written by a high-end prostitute and was itself an outgrowth of a blog, called “Belle de Jour: Diary of a London Call Girl,” whose success then engendered a newspaper series in the Telegraph, called “Belle de Jour’s Naughty Notebook,” and led to another book, called “The Further Adventures of a London Call Girl.” The TV series is now shooting its second season over in England, and has already been renewed for a third. The series was produced in England, and was originally shown there last year. Stripping down to the essentials in “Secret Diary of a Call Girl.” Illustration by Istvan BanyaiĪs befits a show about a woman of the night, “Secret Diary of a Call Girl,” an eight-episode blast of summer heat from Showtime that started last week, arrived with something of a reputation.
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