Daniel Radosh got his hands on the New Yorker film critic David Denby's new memoir. The memoir is pre-famous for Denby's gruesome, grueling, horrifying confrontation with his porn obsession. (Okay, I'm exaggerating.) The porn section begins:

"For the most part, I stayed home in the apartment that I loved. And instead of going out, I entered in that summer of 1999 a dark and empty tunnel, an enclosure illuminated along the walls by a flash of naked men and women. I had discovered porn on the Internet. In the solitude of night, and in my little study at home, where mighty volumes of Plato, St. Augustine, Hegel, Montaigne, Nietzsche hardly my regular reading but a recent obsession loomed over the desk, the kneeling young women awkwardly turned their eyes to the camera. They often had long and beautiful hair that they must have laboriously cared for; they looked for approval not from their partners but from the camera, which I thought was the true object of their desire. They wanted to be seen. And the men, ugly and strong, sullen, tattooed some of them, thick-membered, concentrating on their erection and their orgasm, lest they lose either they were amateurs, not models, exercising the democratic art form of exhibitionism, with me as their willing audience. They all wanted to be seen, but I didn t want to be seen."

Then I think Denby goes on a postmodern riff about post-teen taco-knocking but I lost interest.
Yes, yes! Oh, God, yes, The New Yorker [Radosh]