The summer morning reflects all its splendor on the beach’s sand and invites you to swim in the salty sea and the vacationers are not unrelated to this appeal.
Children jump, scream, balls bounce from one side to the other, sand flies, tents are assembled, towels are laid, some goofy eat greedily with their eyes women from top to bottom, others nibbling buttocks here, two breasts there, the lucky ones can foresee briefly after a swim one erect nipple daringly homeless from a bikini; older people proudly display the decrepitude of life; fanatics attempt within 30 days to clean the body of fat accumulated in 11 months of gluttony.
We see men with dump, round, oval, hairy bellies; we see women with pleats, jelly thighs, with baroque bellies. Some young, sculptural women contrast this symphony of flabby and ribbed flesh, diaphanous they glide at the seaside showing steady buttocks; small breasts are transformed into big breasts thanks to modern the engineering of bikinis, triquinis or swimsuits; large breasts are voluptuously bouncing or flattened reminding sardines in a can…
Unaware of all this is a reader of The Lunar Tickle by Rhys Hughes. And why? Simple. Everything that is inside the book is superior to what may be observed outside its pages. What surrounds him is a pale shadow.
The adventure, the environment has no substantive or adjective that can be glued easily. The best definition for the “The Lunar Tickle” is to say “that there isn’t definition” – this prevents me headaches and close in gold the review: I hope.