This book could have easily been titled The Incessant Ramblings of a Neurotic Oversexed Misogynist of the Jewish Persuasion Who Just Might Suffer from a Raging Oedipus Complex.

Alexander Portnoy is basically Howard J. Wolowitz with one of those erections that has lasted long enough to notify your doctor. He detests all women, especially the ones he wants to bed. He keeps most of his venom in store for the female he despises the most, the overbearing mother he can’t do without. Their complicated relationship includes her frighteningly inappropriate method of teaching poor young Portnoy how to urinate into a toilet. Inappropriate and creepy.

The book’s main character spends 274 pages on a psychiatrist’s couch spilling his libido. He complains about his parents. He complains about the goyams who foolishly believe a guy named Jesus inhabited the earth. When he’s finished mocking Christians, he questions his fellow Jews. Most of all, he complains about the very women he wants to schtoop. He humiliates them. He looks down at them. He finds it difficult to accept the fact that they rule his life.

This book is not for the sexually squeamish. When Portnoy isn’t busy describing in detail how he violated the local librarian, he’s painting a picture of his self-indulgence. Yes, masturbation is a central theme of this piece of literature, right down to the cleanup. There. You’ve been warned.

This is my first Philip Roth book, and I understand why he’s revered. Sure, his main character is disgusting and offensive, but Roth delivers Alexander Portnoy in a brilliantly satirical manner. Some considered this a courageous piece of work. I don’t necessarily relate vulgarity to bravery, but I don’t completely dismiss the thought, either. I just appreciate Roth’s stream-of-consciousness wit. It worked for me. Plus, I’m not that easily shocked.

I’ll definitely try Philip Roth again. When it comes to this work, I don’t have many complaints.