I Spit on Your Graves


Nobody knew me at Buckton. That's why Clem picked the place; besides, even if I hadn't had a flat, I didn't have enough gas to go any farther north. Just about a gallon. I had a dollar, and Clem's letter, and that's all. There wasn't a thing worth a damn in my valise, so let not mention it. Hold on: I did have in the bag the kid's revolver, a miserable, cheap little. 22 caliber pea-shooter. It was still in his pocket when the sheriff came to tell us to take the body away to bury it. I've got to say that I counted on Clem's letter more than on everything else. It ought to work, it just had to work. I looked at my hands on the steering wheel, at my fingers, my nails. Nobody would find anything wrong there. No risk on that score. Maybe I'd get away with it.



In the tradition of Karl May and Franz Kafka, Boris Vian imagines an America even more amazing than the land he has never visited...A vivid and startling performance (Jim Hoberman)

Written as a result of a bet, this excellent novel was published in 1946 under the pseudonym Vernon Sullivan, an alleged American author. Tale of revenge, denunciation of racism and intolerance, this best-seller was at the time considered immoral and pornographic, which led to its ban in 1949 and conviction for this morality contempt.
I spit on your graves is the incredible story of a raw seductive, calculated and motivated by a deep desire for revenge. Violence and unbridled sexuality, moist atmosphere, nightmare and a ruthless final. I could say that this novel is for the readers who love extreme sensuality.
This book reveals, through a sober and precise style, the excesses of human behavior and what the physical and mental idleness leads. Lee is a disconcerting and we would have liked more details about his life, notably to identify and understand better its complex psychology and existential disgust for the world which leads directly to the murder of two young girls. This is, obviously, a reaction to American society of that time. This novel is not a place among all hands, but however, it's a relevant and original analysis of human behavior.
The style and humor are borrowing a surprising verve, including today. Taboos are mentioned as some sweetened acts, but not wasted on sex, racial integration, the culture in the neighborhoods, and even alcohol. The set offers a cocktail under the bottom of violence and revenge.
Boris Vian abandons surrealism of his headlights and under the pseudonym Vernon Sullivan, he signs the darkest of all his novels.

I Spit on Your Graves is genuinely shocking in its display of the loose ways of 40s youths, but only works because Vian has a good ear for dialogue and a good sense of pace. Much of the story, including Lee's various seductions, seem very implausible, but there's a confident air to the whole presentation that prevents it from seeming entirely ridiculous. It reads well, and is an excellent example of the pulp-thriller, even if Vian can't completely hold it together. It also has held up very well, perhaps because it is so much a work of the imagination (as opposed to being based on any real experience of the American South, since Vian had none at that time). This thriller will fascinate you with its feverish pace and its excessive violence. In effect, Boris Vian leaves the reader no respite and we embark with delight on the exciting and sometimes crazy hero, thirsty for revenge. While it is true that Lee Anderson is a manipulator, he's just as seductive as he's perverse and this is what captivates us throughout the book. The sensual darkness of the character gives particular force in this black and powerful book that is difficult to close.

This book does not hold unless a significant impact impulses, probably because Vian reached beyond mere mastery of convention in this type of novel, to give it a dimension that seems truly lived. This has been said on many Vian's biographers that it had much more of himself than he wanted to.


After reading this novel, we can understand why Boris Vian is sometimes described as being close to Raymond Queneau by his desire to find the poetry of any aspect and his attraction for all forms of insolence. The reader is caught in a tremendous flood of feelings. The physical or moral violence that emanates from this book is almost never measured. The erotic sequences are quite numerous, but they are never the same. Feigning any indifference is particularly difficult. Meanwhile, the various humourous manifestations, the perfect image of their author, are not bad. As for descriptions of Boris Vian, they speak for themselves, to believe that they lack for any detail. This faux-rythme, completely unchecked, quickly becomes oppressive when the bad intentions of the hero really take shape. The final is like the body of work: terribly exciting, not unpleasant.