Defiled Curator

There exists a handful of well-known authors I have avoided for several years, for multiple reasons. Some have to do with the authors themselves and their public, recorded behavior; others, their reputation; still others, their fanbase. This isn’t something I’ve ever proudly stated to anyone; I usually keep my opinions to myself, for the sake of avoiding confrontation.

The list, in all honestly, is probably much longer than this. I find annoyances in the strangest of places, and I’m certain I’ve been irritated by others. These three, though, are the ones that continually come to mind.

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Norman Mailer

No matter how many times I see his name and/or work heralded as powerful twentieth century literature, the only reaction I can muster up is Yeah, so what? Piece of shit stabbed his wife after a dinner party. Fuck him. I’ve tried to conduct rational discussions with myself, but they never go very far. Come on, Jessica. You adore Bukowski and you giggle at even the most grotesque of Miller’s antics [note: I finished his dollar-per-page pornographic tome Opus Pistorum/Under the Roofs of Paris just yesterday and read the whole thing chuckling, without so much as the slightest frisson of outrage.], yet you won’t give Mailer a shot?

No, my defiant Self shoots back. I said it, and I mean it. Fuck that guy.

Michel Houellebecq

Misogynist, misanthrope, right-wing asshole, racist… The list goes on. In The Rough Guide to Cult Fiction, the contributing editors make sure to mention not only his relations with other writers (being thrown off the board of left-leaning literary journal Perpendiculaire) but his treatment of critics as well:

When a female reviewer from The Times visited him, he collapsed face-down in his dinner and told her he’d only answer questions if she slept with him.

Oh, to hell with this guy, my inner voice pipes up. Worthless, self-aggrandizing, needlessly hostile pompous jackass.

Chuck Palahniuk

Like everyone else of a certain age in the United States, I saw the Fight Club movie. It was okay, and in some places rather witty. It was certainly worth buying the DVD as a gift to my boyfriend and sitting through it with him.

However, shortly thereafter (about three seconds after the film hit US theaters), his fanboys began crawling out of the woodwork of their parents’ faux-paneled basements and spreading their “philosophy” across the internet. Usually these guys could (and still can) be classified by both their external appearance and attitude towards the opposite sex, as they all seem to be created from the same cheap, plastic mold:

Caucasian, loud Hawaiian-style shirt (or stretched and/or stained anime t-shirt), cargo shorts, athletic socks, sandals, fedora, repeated insistance of being a “non-conformist, non-consumer individual,” repugnant and factually incorrect assumptions about women (and treatment of women as some sort of vaginal hive-mind), blah blah blah. They’re a dime a dozen on the internet, where relative anonymity allows them to construct new personas based around the dual Bibles of Fight Club and the Ladder Theory.

Sometimes I picture them all sitting around one giant “take back our masculinity” drum circle, sponsored by Frito Lay and PepsiCo.

I need to point out here that these morons in no way comprise the bulk of Palahniuk’s fanbase; they just happen to be, unfortunately, an incredibly vocal and off-putting minority.

I’ll admit, I read his short story “Guts” several years ago, and I wasn’t blown away. The above-mentioned fanboys, predictably, wanked all over it for a while (appropriate, considering the piece’s subject material), but for me all I saw was yet another sex/death motif ruined by the desire to shock, offend and disgust. There may have been a point to it, but it was drowned out by the gratuitous lengths the author went to play gross-out with his audience.

Yawn. I don’t have time to read every contemporary author, and honestly, I really can’t ignore his internet fanbase long enough to focus on the work itself. I can’t even place it into context anymore, seeing as how every time I hear the phrase “fight club” I think of pissed-off neckbeards ranting about how “nice” they are and how every woman is a worthless whore.

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Over the last year or two, however, I have found myself drifting away from my hallowed (and comfortable) niches of horror and snarky pop-lit, eager to catch up on genres and topics I’ve missed out on. I’ve developed a desire for challenge, for exposure to ideas, for expansion. I’ve read books to gain a better understanding of cultural and marketing trends, to confirm my suspicions that certain popular works are actually worthless (I’m resisting the urge to name names here; I’ve done it enough in other essays and reviews) and to gain a better understanding of topics and authors that appear in my coursework again and again. So far, I’ve felt a great sense of accomplishment.

A few months ago, a self-published book called A Pedophile’s Guide to Love and Pleasure: A Child-Lover’s Code of Conduct was released for Kindle. I’ll spare the long-winded details, as this essay is already growing quite lengthy. Most people are already aware of the author, Phillip R. Greaves, his work and the shitstorm of controversy that sprung up once the public was made aware his book was for sale. For those who aren’t, here’s a concise rundown from the Associated Press and HuffPo.

When I found out about this work, I immediately wanted to snag a copy for the purpose of criticism. I wanted to see for myself what the ebook contained, and I wanted to be able to understand it and take it apart, with possible excerpts, on my website. I didn’t get the chance. Amazon pulled it (and more than likely removed it from customers’ Kindles in exchange for a refund, as is their general policy on works “inappropriately published.”) and an afternoon of trawling file-sharing sites left me empty-handed.

By the way, if anyone has the drop on where this notorious piece of literature can still be found without landing me a visit from the authorities, let me know. I’m still rather interested in a perusal.

During this fruitless search, I was forced to confront myself. Jessica, seriously… You’re actively seeking out a book by a pedophile written (allegedly) for other pedophiles, and yet you won’t read Fight Club? You won’t read The Naked and the Dead? You won’t read Platform?

That little “voice of reason” is often just that — the spark of the subconscious calling you out on your own bullshit.

And so, I was forced to confront my own personal paradox — I cannot follow the trajectory of my education straight into critical theory while holding these immature and misguided beliefs about certain authors and their works. I can’t refuse to read things because I think the authors themselves are douchebags, and I certainly can’t shove aside a whole body of work just because a fraction of the people who enjoy them are stupid. It’s unfair to the texts themselves, and it’s absolutely unprofessional of me to continue this way.

I’ve stopped with my protesting and elitism, my arrogance and ignorance. If I want to gain knowledge about a subject, I have only the option of immersing myself in it… and I have, beginning with Houllebecq’s Whatever (originally titled Extension du domaine de la lutte). I’ll leave the analysis for another post, as there’s much to say and this entry is already reaching critical mass.

Next up, Fight Club.