Traditional narrative structure hit a wall--or rather it hit the glass of a kaleidoscope--in the 1990s, when art began to function as a kind of editing table on which daily reality could be remixed and recreated. Narrativity considers the importance of new narrative modes, looking not only at the visual arts but at contemporary literature and film, and the mutual influences between them. It tackles the question of narration--its ruptures and mutations--in an age of media culture and video games, where the ludic and interactive principle is an important element. Through reflections on time, duration and temporal protocols, which have taken on major aesthetic stakes, it seeks to reaffirm that the work of art is an "event" before being a monument or a mere testimony--an event which constitutes an experience. And, not least, it considers the artistic games and gambles allowed and forced by all this change.

For the majority of us, masturbation is the most widespread sexual practice, and for the majority of males, it is the first sexual experience of their lives. However, it remains the most unmovable taboo in Western morality.

This book shows how this came about historically and how modern psychology has compounded the problem. If the book claims the audience it deserves, perhaps the world will change. The storm will pass; masturbation will henceforth become a right. It will be deemed lawful, good, agreeable, beautiful, convenient, simple, excellent, decent, meritable, useful, valuable, happy, frequent, habitual, ordinary, comprehensive, exciting, appetizing, attractive, captivating, recreative, interesting, stimulating, passionate and a tonic.

There is nothing wrong with Alice. She is beautiful, young, intelligent and happy, living in Rome, enjoying its sights, food, fashion, and gleefully casting aside any man who dares to show an interest in her. She is untouchable and revels in the natural power she holds over the opposite sex. As she elegantly struts down Romes busy streets, her legs whisper "catch me if you can." Then her father tells her one day she is "no Marilyn Monroe" and that she "must be nice to men" in order to find her prince. The pathway to self-destruction opens up immediately for the self-obsessed beauty queen, whose self-image quickly takes a nose dive. Wounded by these hurtful comments from a father she barely sees, Alice begins to fill her gaping hole of anxiety with food: calzone and mozzarella, flavoured ice creams, chocolate tarts and pizza. Growing huger by the day, Alice loses all sense of refinement and allows herself to be used by countless men. Some pay her with money and others with food, which she eats as she offers her body and her speciality the ice cream cornet. Is this what being nice means? Presenting matters of body image and the self, Alice is a surreally comic tale with dark undertones and serious links to body dismorphia, depression and madness. It casts an interesting and original light on the way the female body is presented in society today, and subtly displays the connection between apparent image and self-esteem.