I had three speaking engagements about my book in the past week! The audiences were: (1) lovely elder book club afternoon tea ladies (2) rowdy night crowd in a dim bar, and (3) sleepy community college students at eight in the morning. They were all completely huggable, in their extremely varied ways. The community college students had some kind of test coming up about my book (still trying to wrap my brain around this concept!), and one of them quipped that I might be kind enough to give them the answers. I laughed and asked the instructor, “Now, didn’t you tell them about the fallacy of authorial intent?”
The next day I had a chat with a fellow novelist about my time in academia. He wanted to know how I could stomach it as an artist. I said I loved the teaching. “But the writing you have to do there!” he said, “what about the spiritually bankrupt rape of art that is literary theory?’
Oh yeah, that. I said I viewed it as a game, a challenge to speak their language and pass as one of them. I would try to be the author while also obliterating the author, there was a sort of fun in that. Then I thought about it some more, and wrote him the following after I got home:
I was just thinking of our discussion re: academics on my ride home, whilst listening to angry Germans shout incomprehensibly over industrial guitars. It was not only the game-like qualities of their tortured prose that allowed me to write it, but also the very pain it induced. I did it with the same sort of wincing glee as a flagellant. It’s always good to remind yourself that what you pour your soul into doesn’t actually mean anything. Plus if you want to get the taste of God in your mouth, there’s no more efficient way than totally believing two contradictory things at the same time. Ooooooh tasty paradox–fanning my toes out just thinking about it.
Back when I spent much time in journal archives (JSTOR, we were lovers once, you and I), sometimes I would come upon a very old article. Some 1935 treatise about Baudelaire by some long-dead white dude whose pipe smoke I could smell right through the computer, written with such utter devotion to Literature that it was frankly a little embarrassing. The doggish eagerness with which they used to lick us! Now they cannot study us without also killing us. Aren’t they so much sexier now that they hate us? Don’t you just want to fuck them all?! So adorable.
Eros and Thanatos, how inseparable are you?