It's pure uncut megalomania. According to this book, not only is Klaus Kinsky the smartest guy in the room, he also has sex with almost every single woman that gets mentioned. This is not an exaggeration. His thinking about himself is so bombastic, egomaniacal, and inflated to such drastic proportions, that the book becomes a sort of mythic comedy. The Klaus Kinsky of reality writing the Klaus Kinsky of the imagination takes on the proportions of Blakean mythology in wh This book.

It's pure uncut megalomania. According to this book, not only is Klaus Kinsky the smartest guy in the room, he also has sex with almost every single woman that gets mentioned. This is not an exaggeration. His thinking about himself is so bombastic, egomaniacal, and inflated to such drastic proportions, that the book becomes a sort of mythic comedy.

The Klaus Kinsky of reality writing the Klaus Kinsky of the imagination takes on the proportions of Blakean mythology in which Klaus Kinsky is a cosmic force of energy and disruption. In this work, he becomes not merely a man, nor an actor, but a Christ-like being.

It's ridiculous. Read this book. It's worth it. It will change your life. I don't mean to state the obvious, but.

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Kinski was INSANE! This book is shocking and hilarious; most of it is lies, I am convinced. Kinski painted any woman who wouldn't sleep with him with a 'bitch/dyke' brush (for instance, his Fairy Tale Theater co-star Susan Sarandon) and shamelessly lusted after mother, sister, and daughter. His perspective on the human race is mostly hateful, and I found myself really hating Kinski.

However, there is an ongoing reverence for nature throughout his narrati I don't mean to state the obvious, but. Kinski was INSANE! This book is shocking and hilarious; most of it is lies, I am convinced. Kinski painted any woman who wouldn't sleep with him with a 'bitch/dyke' brush (for instance, his Fairy Tale Theater co-star Susan Sarandon) and shamelessly lusted after mother, sister, and daughter. His perspective on the human race is mostly hateful, and I found myself really hating Kinski.

However, there is an ongoing reverence for nature throughout his narration that I found touching. Two more things: his violent Herzog rants are hilarious, and he constantly compares female genitals to fruit and vise versa. I read All I Need is Love right after reading the Sandra Lee autobiography, Made From Scratch. If you want two accounts of troubled, impoverished childhoods and their polar opposite outcomes, read these back to back. I could never write a review that would do this book justice.

There are some amazing monomaniacal memoirs out there. For example The Dirt by Motley Crue, or John Lydon's No Dogs, No Irish, but then there is this. Kinski is either totally insane or an amazing liar. I don't know which, but the way he recounts his life and his sex life is something to behold. Why it is so difficult to get a hold of his two auto-biographies is beyond me. They should be perennial best-sellers.

Just for any interactio I could never write a review that would do this book justice. There are some amazing monomaniacal memoirs out there. For example The Dirt by Motley Crue, or John Lydon's No Dogs, No Irish, but then there is this. Kinski is either totally insane or an amazing liar. I don't know which, but the way he recounts his life and his sex life is something to behold.

Why it is so difficult to get a hold of his two auto-biographies is beyond me. They should be perennial best-sellers. Just for any interaction he writes about with Werner Herzog is worth reading this book, and that doesn't take into account the wonderful wartime stories that he has, or his preteen sex life, that is more active than probably anyone's normal life. So great, so insane. Thank you Karen for bringing this book into my life!!! UPDATE 11/17/13: Amazing Kinski footage added in comment section below review.

This is a treat. Kinski in his own words. Kinski Uncut is a portrait of mania, ego, and rage; all of these factors combined to produce one of the cinema's greatest actors. Sure he appeared in a lot of crappy films, but he was always the reason to sit through them. And the gems he did appear in are timeless: Doctor Zhivago, For a Few Dollars More, Aguirre: The Wrath of God, Nosferatu, Fitzcarraldo, Venus in Furs, and UPDATE 11/17/13: Amazing Kinski footage added in comment section below review.

This is a treat. Kinski in his own words. Kinski Uncut is a portrait of mania, ego, and rage; all of these factors combined to produce one of the cinema's greatest actors.

Sure he appeared in a lot of crappy films, but he was always the reason to sit through them. And the gems he did appear in are timeless: Doctor Zhivago, For a Few Dollars More, Aguirre: The Wrath of God, Nosferatu, Fitzcarraldo, Venus in Furs, and many others. This book reminded me of what I thought Henry Miller would read like before I actually read him (and I love Henry Miller). For all the anger, ego, and rage flaring from Kinski's pulsing, veined forehead, there is also remarkable tenderness just under the surface.

A complicated, talented, fascinating man. For those interested in Kinski, I highly recommend Werner Herzog's documentary on him, My Best Fiend ( ) - a perfect companion to this book.

5 raging, glassy-eyed stars. “These girls can’t be picky; they fuck with men of all races from all four corners or the world and they probably catch every conceivable kind of V.D. But I not only screw them without a rubber, I also eat our their pussies. I know its crazy. But I want to love them, I want them to feel that I love them and that I need love. That I am dying for love.” i read this book after watching herzog’s my best fiend.

Herzog claims that the book was largely fabricated to generate sales. Aside from all that-- “These girls can’t be picky; they fuck with men of all races from all four corners or the world and they probably catch every conceivable kind of V.D. But I not only screw them without a rubber, I also eat our their pussies. I know its crazy. But I want to love them, I want them to feel that I love them and that I need love. That I am dying for love.” i read this book after watching herzog’s my best fiend. Herzog claims that the book was largely fabricated to generate sales.

Aside from all that--what interested me most is his skills as a pornographer. 318 pages of “muff-diving feasts” & he never once repeats a description. Even when he is discussing something totally legit--scripts, the countryside, his hatred of X--the prose is peppered with “i’d rather fuck the usherette, whose panties smell so intoxicating that my nuts ache” or “I talk to no one and eat nothing. At night I can’t sleep a wink, I just stare at the ceiling. Every so often I go to the toilet and examine my hard-on. Then I lie down and stare at the ceiling again.” the passages regarding his second wife minhoi & their child ninhoi are incredibly tender even if he treated minhoi like shit in real life.

His dealings with women are just about the only place where he shows any kind of remorse for his actions. You can basically open this book and quote something awesome. 'I hold on to a street light and think that this is the end.

I pull out the kitchen knife and stick it down my throat like a sword swallower. And then it happens. The boil breaks!

And I puke half a liter of pus into the gutter. Now I'm rid of everything and my pains are gone.' 'When Barlog refuses to cast me as the lead in Ah, Wilderness! I smash the windowpanes of the Schlossparktheater. My one-year contract is not renewed. But I wou You can basically open this book and quote something awesome.

'I hold on to a street light and think that this is the end. I pull out the kitchen knife and stick it down my throat like a sword swallower. Download Crazy Taxi Mod Apk Terbaru on this page. And then it happens.

The boil breaks! And I puke half a liter of pus into the gutter. Now I'm rid of everything and my pains are gone.' 'When Barlog refuses to cast me as the lead in Ah, Wilderness! I smash the windowpanes of the Schlossparktheater. My one-year contract is not renewed.

But I would have lost my mind anyway and starved to death among these barnstormers.' Portrait of the actor as a crazed sex maniac? It can be said that this book is the messy result of Klaus Kinski’s throbbing egomania. Insane, relentless, and disgusting.

Kinski recounts his numerous sexual exploits. Somehow he slept with all women that he encountered. Of course, Kinski also recounts his squalor-filled youth (bedbug infested), his acting experiences (he only accepted big cash), his hatred for directors (Herzog bears the brunt, duh), and his marriages (though he rarely went i Portrait of the actor as a crazed sex maniac? It can be said that this book is the messy result of Klaus Kinski’s throbbing egomania. Insane, relentless, and disgusting.

Kinski recounts his numerous sexual exploits. Somehow he slept with all women that he encountered. Of course, Kinski also recounts his squalor-filled youth (bedbug infested), his acting experiences (he only accepted big cash), his hatred for directors (Herzog bears the brunt, duh), and his marriages (though he rarely went into detail).

To his credit, Kinski seemed to feel some regret about how he treated his last wife, the mother of his son. His relationship with her was rocky. Kinski had an intense devotion to his son, which was a little more creepy than endearing. There may be kernels of truth in this book, but I think it’s largely fiction masquerading as a memoir. The descriptions are hilarious and cringe-inducing. The translator chose mainly American colloquial language for the book, which made it all weirder.

Nonetheless, I was quite entertained. I’d give the book an extra star if I didn’t end up shell-shocked 3/4 into it. Times have changed since a major publishing house issued Klaus Kinski’s Kinski Uncut, and maybe not changed for the better. Initially released in 1988 under the title All I Need Is Love, the German actor’s seething, potty-mouthed autobiography is apt to estrange any readers offended by graphic depictions of wanton boning and a blanket context of objectification that reduces female human beings to the sum of their orifices and secondary sexual characteristics and dumps the males of the species in Times have changed since a major publishing house issued Klaus Kinski’s Kinski Uncut, and maybe not changed for the better. Initially released in 1988 under the title All I Need Is Love, the German actor’s seething, potty-mouthed autobiography is apt to estrange any readers offended by graphic depictions of wanton boning and a blanket context of objectification that reduces female human beings to the sum of their orifices and secondary sexual characteristics and dumps the males of the species into the moron and bastard bins. The prose and the narrator’s intent are akin to the obscene vigor of Hustler magazine’s “Hot Letters” section from the same day and age. (If anyone is qualified to make that comparison, I am.) Kinski’s words are on the page to remove all assumption of comfort from life’s presumed consolations.

Kinski Uncut further piles steaming heaps of vile acrimony upon former coworkers and collaborators, many of them revered legends of literature, stage and screen. I have heard rumors, which I’d be pleased to verify, that the original All I Need Is Love is an even more unexpurgated screed against all things civilized and correct than the later Kinski Uncut version.

Neither book would be likely to reach the public in 2014. Is it bad that I miss the wrong old days? An autobiography so dirty, so depraved that it would reduce a book club comprised of Henry Miller, Phillip Roth and the Marquis De Sade to a series of blushing embarrassed silences.

Just when you start to tire of his endless (possibly, hopefully delusional) recounting of his sexual conquests, he'll toss off a description of coupling with such breathtaking scatalogical or bestial originality, or sometimes both, you just have to chuckle and tip your hat. And I haven't even gotten to the crazy yet.

An autobiography so dirty, so depraved that it would reduce a book club comprised of Henry Miller, Phillip Roth and the Marquis De Sade to a series of blushing embarrassed silences. Just when you start to tire of his endless (possibly, hopefully delusional) recounting of his sexual conquests, he'll toss off a description of coupling with such breathtaking scatalogical or bestial originality, or sometimes both, you just have to chuckle and tip your hat. And I haven't even gotten to the crazy yet.

I need to wash my brain after reading this. Suffice to say, I loved it. I'm not going to top. Goodreaders from 2007 and 2008 are so annoying. They get in there and write all the good reviews, have all the good ideas, etc.

Before all of us late bloomers get the chance. It isn't fair. Does anyone else have that problem? I have that problem.

He DID try to eat a live cow. I hope that was true. Please let that be true! There's a scene in Tom Dicillo's film Box of Moonlight that describes how I feel about Klaus Kinski and his book. Sam Rockwell plays thi I'm not going to top. Goodreaders from 2007 and 2008 are so annoying. They get in there and write all the good reviews, have all the good ideas, etc.

Before all of us late bloomers get the chance. It isn't fair. Does anyone else have that problem? I have that problem. He DID try to eat a live cow.

I hope that was true. Please let that be true!

There's a scene in Tom Dicillo's film Box of Moonlight that describes how I feel about Klaus Kinski and his book. Sam Rockwell plays this whim-led guy, the Kid (he also lives off the grid). The Kid tells Al Fountain (my favorite actor in the world, John Turturro) why he is always wearing this Davey Crockett outfit. The Kid had been an extra in a play about Davey Crockett. One day when no one else is around he tries on Davey's costume. 'It fit me so right I just took it.'

This shit fits me right. I don't know how. I don't know why. I'm gonna take it! I dug the hell out of the way he delivers all of his information (if you can call it that). Some of it painful as hell. I rolled my eyes after a while of constant sex.

Yet there was just. Something about him. (Good job at describing this, Mar.) The ending is like a John Lennon/Yoko Ono/Sean Lennon love triangle. I don't know if I buy that that love is 'redemptive'.

I think (in my years after the fact, has nothing at all to do with me way. I'm all judge-y from afar. I don't have kids, either!) it is more calming for a man desperate for something he never really found in all the ways he tried to find it. I don't think Kinski made a case for loving one person so intensely (or that being a baby makes you purer than any other loveable person) that it transformed. I don't know.

I just kept thinking about Yoko Ono. I really got that vibe from those parts of the book. Suffering through that had as devastating an impact on me as if I hadn't only always suffered as Woyzeck but continue to do so over and over. Malaria of the soul, recurring again and again.

My total being is one large breeding ground for the shocks of the world past, present, and future. All living and dying, all vibrations pass through me. The entire universe pours into me, rages in me, rampages through me and over me. Annihilates me.

It comes and goes wherever it likes. Microsoft Office 2007 Toolkit Ez Activator Download. It rules me, commands me, envelops me, threatens me, and waits for me everywhere and all the time. It sucks me up, sucks me dry, grows through me. It's in my spinal marrow. In my brain mass. In my blood, in my bones.

In my days and my nights. In my thoughts. In my feelings. In my courage and my fear. In my despair and my hope. In my weakness and strength.

Everywhere and all the time. Kinski wrote that his son's love would save him from that wound in his soul. The wound he used to pick over whenever it began to heal. Maybe I'm still in the old place of his movies. I feel drawn to (for lack of a better word in my knowledge) act it out. You can't learn how to feel all of those things but it is how I can feel that difference in me, and in others. Kinski is one of my favorites to do that with.

I liked that his 'memoir' was acting himself. It doesn't make sense to know any of it is true. It was good to feel something. I was bothered by the Yoko Ono part of the book. That he was doing something wrong with how he lived and loved. A lot was said and written about Kinski being intense, being crazy. How else can you do it but as yourself?

He had a drive to move towards something. I was really bothered by it and upset.

It was a really lonely and sad end of him being alone without his son. I think that's why I love this book so much. That it was about that, even if MOST of the book is sex scenes (that was like when you listen to someone brag about themselves and you wait for them to stop telling you how to feel about them so you can decide if you feel anything about them at all. I should've just said when people try to impress you. That feeling like they KNOW what will impress you, without bothering to know YOU at all). It's about yearning and trying for love and not knowing that that is what is anyone else's heart at all.

And he was an actor who was making a living out of being someone else. His memoir is being him through being someone else? I get the feeling of what that meant to him (even if he hated it in the end). Why can't I go into the jungle and have a burden of dreams? To become another person, their heart and soul, show those dark spaces and shadows in their minds?

The man's writing is just as flamboyant and exaggerated as his acting was. The penultimate egoist, this book reads like a ploy to perpetuate his image, or the image he would like everyone to regard. Half the stuff I just don't believe - he comes off as a sociopath who only randomly excuses his behavior because he has 'so much love to give' - but 'love' might be a mistranslation of 'sex' - because I didn't see any love at all: to his wives, his children, his friends (of which he never mentions). The man's writing is just as flamboyant and exaggerated as his acting was.

The penultimate egoist, this book reads like a ploy to perpetuate his image, or the image he would like everyone to regard. Half the stuff I just don't believe - he comes off as a sociopath who only randomly excuses his behavior because he has 'so much love to give' - but 'love' might be a mistranslation of 'sex' - because I didn't see any love at all: to his wives, his children, his friends (of which he never mentions). Nonetheless, I enjoyed the nature of Kinski's prose and his tales of extreme poverty throughout his childhood, even up to his early adult years, are intriguing.

Painted here is a man who was willing to sacrifice everything for his art - which is about the only redeeming quality of this book. The German actor Klaus Kinski, best known in his roles in Werner Herzog's films, is one of the most outrageous characters in film. His autobiography is mostly filled with the explicit details of his many sexual exploits, exposition on his feelings of isolation and misery, and insults directed toward some well-known film makers.

It's a shocking story--and not for the squeamish--but it's a great companion piece for anyone who was enthralled by Kinski's performances in movies like Fitzcarraldo, Agu The German actor Klaus Kinski, best known in his roles in Werner Herzog's films, is one of the most outrageous characters in film. His autobiography is mostly filled with the explicit details of his many sexual exploits, exposition on his feelings of isolation and misery, and insults directed toward some well-known film makers. It's a shocking story--and not for the squeamish--but it's a great companion piece for anyone who was enthralled by Kinski's performances in movies like Fitzcarraldo, Aguirre, Wrath of God, or Cobra Verde. It's a great piece if you're just interested in hedonism, also. Without a doubt one of the most outrageous 'autobiographies' I've come across, this is really just a detailed inventory of the multitudes of women Kinski claims to have bedded.

The descriptions of incest, copulating on a church altar with a virgin, and sex with a giantess whose back he would scale and hair he would hang on to so as not to fall, indicate that this is autobiography as performance art. Personally, I take great joy in knowing that Kinski was equal parts crazy and brilliant. Best pur Without a doubt one of the most outrageous 'autobiographies' I've come across, this is really just a detailed inventory of the multitudes of women Kinski claims to have bedded. The descriptions of incest, copulating on a church altar with a virgin, and sex with a giantess whose back he would scale and hair he would hang on to so as not to fall, indicate that this is autobiography as performance art. Personally, I take great joy in knowing that Kinski was equal parts crazy and brilliant. Best purchase ever!

Really disappointing. I keep reading on, hoping it will turn into something I want to know about this tortured, gifted actor. There is just so much in his career he could have written about extensively (Paths of Glory, Nosferatu (in detail), Fitzcarraldo (in detail). I wanted to know what made him tick.

Instead, I am reading this big bowl of crazy (i.e. Having sex with anyone and everything) which borders on pathology (or crosses the border.)Every damn page he is having sex with something or som Really disappointing. I keep reading on, hoping it will turn into something I want to know about this tortured, gifted actor.

There is just so much in his career he could have written about extensively (Paths of Glory, Nosferatu (in detail), Fitzcarraldo (in detail). I wanted to know what made him tick. Instead, I am reading this big bowl of crazy (i.e. Having sex with anyone and everything) which borders on pathology (or crosses the border.)Every damn page he is having sex with something or someone is coming onto him and, of course, he has to do them.His brushes with the law, desertion from the German Army at sixteen and being a POW in Britain,mental hospital commitment, would have made interesting, informative reading. It would have given us real insight into the character of this man. Instead, I think he doesn't want us to have insight into his character; he alienates the reader using his bizarre sexual antics, real or imagined.

It keeps us from knowing him which is what I think the intention of this book was. He probably got an enormous advance, wrote a nutty book then had a good laugh. I'm afraid we'll never know him, which is sad. He seems to have had a real love for children and animals, but he mentions those things only in passing.Don't buy this book, if you are reading it right now, give up on it. It isn't going to get better. There is no light at the end of the tunnel.There is nothing he wants to tell us.

Klaus Kinski isn't just any meglomaniacal narcissist -- he sets a new standard of self-aggrandizement in this autobiography, which makes for a riveting tale of loathing, sexual conquest and insanity. It's the type of read that is exhausting after just a few pages, because the reader is so thoroughly immersed in Kinski's world, which is not for the faint of heart. Tales of having sex with his mother, sister and pretty much every other woman and girl who cross his path are interspersed with his Klaus Kinski isn't just any meglomaniacal narcissist -- he sets a new standard of self-aggrandizement in this autobiography, which makes for a riveting tale of loathing, sexual conquest and insanity. It's the type of read that is exhausting after just a few pages, because the reader is so thoroughly immersed in Kinski's world, which is not for the faint of heart. Tales of having sex with his mother, sister and pretty much every other woman and girl who cross his path are interspersed with his profound loathing for most humans -- particularly directors -- that he comes into contact with. That being said, in many places it's laugh out loud funny, albeit not intentionally. This goes on 'fiction' as well as 'memoirs' because it is so over the top, overwritten, and obviously fictionalized (the latter has been corroborated by friends and collaborators).

That said, it is fascinating writing, a melding of Kinski's own storied personality and his image of himself, it is an austere and gripping work of self-mythologizing with some passionate reflections on acting and some chords of tenderness later in the book as he addresses fatherhood and the difficulty of relationship This goes on 'fiction' as well as 'memoirs' because it is so over the top, overwritten, and obviously fictionalized (the latter has been corroborated by friends and collaborators). That said, it is fascinating writing, a melding of Kinski's own storied personality and his image of himself, it is an austere and gripping work of self-mythologizing with some passionate reflections on acting and some chords of tenderness later in the book as he addresses fatherhood and the difficulty of relationships. Although much of this is fiction, its psychological territory is authentic and heartbreaking.