Holy jeez does this guy like flowers. It’s like if DeSade decides that, rather than wax poetic on philosophy, he’d just list the selections of the Burpee catalogue.
Nothing much really happens. There’s no “plot” to speak of. Time jumps abound for the first half with no real consequence and the last half takes place over one evening. Most of it involves flowers and fever dream descriptions of tortures.
And what the heck is that ending? Clara has a fit and... there’s a monkey? I figured the prologue might lead to an epilogue. But no. It just ends. Monkey phallus.
The narrator spends half the book telling us (vaguely) what a terrible lech he is but then he’s just an incapacitated spectator for the last half. Clara’s just a monstrous guide through the torment, but there’s no resolution one way or the other.
Unless you’re a completist in 19th century torture/porn novels give this one a miss. There’s better examples of both out there