After tanning hides for five years in a Montreal factory, Dany Laferriere worships no sacred cows. The title of his first novel and new movie -- "How to Make Love to a Negro Without Getting Tired" -- makes this clear from the start.

Newspapers including the New York Times, The Washington Post and the Boston Globe have rejected the use of the full title in advertisements for the film, which opens in Washington today, choosing instead to publish a truncated version ("How to Make Love ...") with the full French translation in smaller type below.

Such cautiousness makes Laferriere fume: "This is hypocrisy and I am shocked at it. The title is neither racist nor pornographic because the film is neither racist nor pornographic" (though some critics disagree).

He sounds bewildered by all the fuss, and his "obsession with truth," he says, gives him the strength to face any accusations of prurience.

"Years ago, a white woman came up to me in a bar," Laferriere remembers, "and asked me what we black men said about white women behind their backs. And I wrote the book. This is what they talk about. This is the truth. I think if one is frank about what one feels, one demands respect."

He does admit that he first wanted to title his book "How to Make Love to a Negro When It Is Raining and You Have Nothing Better to Do." But that title, he says dryly, was "unfortunately too long."

But such irreverence subsides as his sparkling eyes caress an Henri Matisse print on the wall. "Matisse is my favorite. He is good, very good. I am obsessed with colors," he says -- through an interpreter -- lapsing into a moment of pregnant silence as if he were waiting for the violent, primitive colors to spring from the gilded rectangle to life. And scream.

For Laferriere, 37, a Haitian immigrant who has lived in Montreal since 1978, colors are not merely decorative frills; they are the walls that reinforce individual isolation and shape the experience of the Third World immigrant in the West.

"How to Make Love" was published originally in French in Canada five years ago to enthusiastic reviews. It has also appeared in English translation, also in a Canadian edition. Laferriere collaborated on the film version with Richard Sadler.

The book looks at the cliched dilemma of the immigrant's social and psychological alienation through an unconventional lens: sexuality. In 117 pages of freewheeling, crackling prose that constantly shocks and sensitizes, Laferriere rings the death knell for the Western stereotype of the "Negro stud."

He asserts that "it is not an autobiographical novel." But he says that "in 1981, there was a guy called Dany Laferriere and he felt the same thing as the protagonist feels in the book. It's not necessary that he feels the same way now. But at that time, he did. And I put it in black and white."

And red and green and blue and yellow. The colors brashly jump off the pages, hitting the reader with bursts of the narrator's manic energy: "an enormous green fly with bloodshot eyes, drunk with the heat, crashing into things" ... "black vengeance and white guilt together in the same bed" ... "the sight of one yellow {Japanese} doll on the arm of a long, tall girl is enough to make you cry the blues."

The book, set in Montreal, is an anthology of experiences in the immigrant's wasteland. The narrator, anonymously called "Man," is an aspiring black writer who lives with an African friend, Bouba. The two men live in a "narrow room, awash in dark sweat, cut lengthwise by a horrible Japanese screen ... and jammed in between a roach-ridden restaurant frequented by small-time hoods and a minuscule topless bar."

Bouba is the "Freudian": a whisper of tolerance as he spends the days sleeping, the evenings reading the Koran and the nights chomping lettuce heads to the haunting notes of Miles Davis or Charlie Parker. Man is the "Cartesian": a scream of reason as he quotes Hegel, Virginia Woolf and Erica Jong, and has the wildest sexual adventures with a bevy of white women.

Bouba and Man are each dreamers dreaming a different dream, with no bridges to the past. "Unlike other Third World immigrant writers who get nostalgic, I am not tied to history," says Laferriere. "My ideology is the ideology of witnessing the present. I want to tell the reader what it is like now, not what it had been in the glorious past or should be like in the dreamy future."

The sexual fire between Man and the white women, Laferriere says, is fueled by hatred rather than love. His most frequent companion, a doctoral student in English literature at McGill University, is Miz Literature. In one of his innumerable jabs at traditional feminism, the narrator says, "That's Bouba's method. The girl we met the other day at a sidewalk cafe on St. Denis eating ice-cream -- he called her Miz Sundae. So as not to get Gloria Steinem on our case, we say, 'Miz.' " Man and Bouba also meet Miz Sophisticated, Miz Suicide and Miz Afternoon.

The effect is droll, but his intent is serious -- even angry. "When I was working in the tanning factory in Montreal, it was easier to meet a white woman in bed than talk to her in a restaurant," says Laferriere.

In a world fraught with prejudice and perverted stereotypes, according to Laferriere, the raw universality of sex becomes appealing. "When you are a black writer and you are looking from down below at the whole picture, the only way to analyze the society is to play on the sexuality of the black man," says Laferriere. In the book, sex becomes shorn of any emotion except the striving toward acceptance by the ever-elusive foreign society.

It is this stark, emotionless sexuality that recurs like a dissonant leitmotif in the dark symphony of the book. The sexual act -- even its smells and its sounds -- becomes symbolic of Laferriere's deep frustration at being misunderstood and hence ignored. His rebellion is aimed at the idea that a sexual organ can represent a man's whole being. Alienation, at the sexual level, becomes the denial of emotions; sensuality becomes redefined as indecent.

Laferriere's vitriolic barbs are tipped with a dark humor reminiscent of Charles Bukowski, one of Laferriere's idols in modern literature. They never fail to shock sedateness into taking a stand -- as in one scene in the book, where Man observes Miz Literature puttering about his room:

"I don't get why she's doing it here in the slum. Must I tell her that a slum is not a salon? Maybe it's part of her double life. ... Miz Literature climbs into my bed. I put the book down at the foot of the bed, next to the bottle of wine, then bring her down to my level. Europe has paid her debt to Africa."

And it is in such occasionally contemptuous portrayals of women as cardboard cutouts swooning in orgasmic ecstasy at the sight of black males that Laferriere runs the danger of being misunderstood. The book and movie have been labeled by critics as sexist; the NAACP has faulted Laferriere for "perpetuating the stereotypes" he seeks to dispel.

"I am an educated man and could have written what the people wanted to hear. But I went with truth. Truth is better than any ideology," Laferriere responds. His portrayal of women hasn't been greeted well in a world of liberal rhetoric, where "everyone says, 'I'm a feminist,' or 'I'm not a sexist,' " but pays only lip service to it, he says.

And though the book may appear to be a fun-filled hedonistic saga of a black male -- some critics have said the movie is nothing but -- "How to Make Love" is also, Laferriere says, a tragic song of rejection.

"The reason that I didn't include the views of the white women in the story is that I did not know their views. They never came to me and said, 'I think this' or 'I think that.' Also, they have no idea what Man is all about. They did not give themselves even a chance to know him," says Laferriere, his voice suddenly rising.

But in the novel, he uses the sugary coating of humor to force the distasteful pill down the readers' throats:

" 'Where do you come from?' the girl with Miz Literature wants to know.

"Every time I'm asked that question, flat out like that, without any previous National Geographic references, an irresistible desire to kill fills me. The girl is wearing a tweed skirt complemented by a white blouse in some refined material. No doubt about it, she's a snob. Miz Snob.

" 'What country do you come from?' she asks me again.

" 'On Thursday evenings, I come from Madagascar.' "

Laferriere says he is thankful for this "luxury" of invisibility. Constantly having to explain who he is, where he is from, helps keep the traditional social and mental hierarchies intact, he says.

"I am a male black immigrant and that is the best combination for a writer," says Laferriere. "It puts me at the top of the social ladder in the Third World and at the bottom in the Occident." This duality, he says, "gives me the material for my stories, and I never want to lose that."

And lest the book and the film elevate him to a status that disturbs this treasured ambivalence, Laferriere says he has decided to move with his wife and two children to Miami, a place "where no writer is famous and I can be what I am." There, in the comforting bliss of solitude, he wants to start another novel on "the meeting between an old American woman and a very young, handsome Caribbean boy."

His second book, "Eroshima," soon to be released in its English-language edition, is about "black and yellow, about the relationship between a black man and a sophisticated Asian lady." The idea for the book came to him when, in a moment of introspection, he was haunted by the "ghastly image of a couple making love ... just when the American-made atom bomb dropped over Hiroshima."

Laferriere explains this apparent obsession with colors and sexuality to his upbringing: "I was always brought up by women. I like women. I am fascinated by the contradictions of male-female relationships, especially between different colors."

Born in Port-au-Prince, Laferriere worked as a journalist during "Baby Doc" Duvalier's regime and when a colleague was found murdered by the roadside, he went into exile in Canada. "I would have left anyway," he says, but "besides the threat to my life, I have never wanted to die in the country I was born. I have never wanted to stay in one place."