
(NYTBR) Librarians may regard me as a highbrow pervert, frowning over their spectacles at my choice of reading matter. In certain archives, I’ve even been directed to sit at a solitary table, where my movements can be carefully watched. But I’ve learned to ignore the suspicious looks. The truth is, for any writer who is researching a “golden age” of vice — whether it be Renaissance Venice, Georgian London, belle époque Paris or fin de siècle New Orleans — there is nothing quite so satisfying as a guide to local harlots. Continued
Photo: E. J. Bellocq

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