The Diary of Anne Frank is being reimagined, as a sex book for teenaged girls.
Sharon Dogar, who specialises in novels for teenagers, has written a book of fictional diaries of Peter van Pels, Anne's close friend who lived in the same building while she was hiding in Amsterdam.
The diaries, which are to be published in the autumn, include graphic accounts of Peter’s desire for Anne and intimate scenes between the two.
I've always thought that the one thing The Diary of Anne Frank lacks is a handsome romantic lead. Ideally, in Dogar's reimagining, Peter Van Pels will turn out to be a vampire, a Jewish vampire, born at the time of Christ. In fact, Peter, before his claiming for the children of darkness, will have had had a smoldering love affair with Judas Iscariot 2000 years ago. Long passages in the new diary will tell of Peter's rapturous love with the doomed Judas, who is misunderstood. In fact, Judas, a handsome, brooding presence looming over all of The Diary of Anne Frank, due to his forbidden love with Mary Magdalene, attempted to buy off Christ's executioners with thirty pieces of silver. And so, before claiming Anne himself for a life of tragic but ever blossoming immortality, Peter explains to Anne that the entire Holocaust is founded on a lie. The Jews, of whom Peter's mortal lover Judas was the chief, attempted to save Christ from the wicked Pontius Pilate, and have been persecuted ever since. Especially dark, magnetic, tender yet murderous Jews like Peter Van Pels and his new bride of darkness, Anne Frank, who leave Amsterdam reborn, for Berlin. There, the two lovers brush aside the SS and the Wehrmacht, to seize the mad Adolf Hitler. Before draining every drop of Hitler's life essence, in the sight of his sultry mistress Eva Braun, the vampires Frank and Van Pels inform him of their immortal lives and loves, and that his entire career has been a mistake. Hitler, drained of the precious blood but denied the vampire's gift of an immortal unlife of eternal desire, dies in an ecstasy of the blood haze, crying, "Forgive me!" Then the two damned lovers, Van Pels and Frank, escape to a ship bound for Buenos Aires, and then to New York, where they haunt the nightclubs and the dinner parties of the high and the beautiful in an eternal unlife of longing and lust.
That's exactly what Anne Frank needs.
But I'm not the man to write it. Nor for that matter is Sharon Dogar the woman to write it. Anne Frank has had enough. She was forced into hiding, murdered before her time, and transformed from a human being into a symbol. Now she's been transformed into a piece of postmodern teen masturbation fantasy. The only difference between Anne Frank and Mister Spock is that Frank's erotic fan fiction will be assigned a slightly higher place in the literary canon.
But if some outraged librarian wants to ban it, I won't complain.