When I teach undergrad lit classes, I often start with a little chat about why we read, what poetry and stories do for us, or, in other words, why they are required to take the class. A few times, I’ve brought up the Kafka quote about a book serving as an ax for the frozen sea within us, or the Dickinson one about how she knows something is a poem if she feels like the top of her head has been blown off. Invariably, my students fail to see why either of these is a desirable outcome.
Yet there is certainly an enduring trend in some circles of reviewing and back-cover-blurbing wherein the highest praise for a book is how much injury it has done to the reader-critic. “That book destroyed/killed/frightened/destabilized/wrecked me” seems always to be a compliment. It’s trendy to say that reading oughtn’t be therapy, or comfort, or safety, or anything other than terribly, personally debilitating.
Is this mere trend, a new way to say the same thing, or is it really this way? Are we all so desensitized that we’re happy for any kind of feeling? Or are writers (who tend to be the ones behind this particular brand of criticism) engaged in elaborate sm rituals, in which we get to be sadists when we write and masochists when we read? Is there room for reading good prose or poetry to act as a stopgap, however illusive and broken and temporary, against impending death, and betrayal, and loss?
well there is that masculinist metaphor of the work of art as a giant wang and the reader as a receptacle for it, i.e. a vagina or butthole.
or the abortive metaphor, where the work is an incessant abortion happening, i.e. there is a life (the ambiguity of the work) but it is unstoppably being ended (in ambiguity’s receipt).
or there is that whole idea of language being at once dead and alive, or perpetually inhabiting a space of death or something.
it’s possible that literature is so bound up with death that it is only natural to characterize the reading-act as violent.
well there is that masculinist metaphor of the work of art as a giant wang and the reader as a receptacle for it, i.e. a vagina or butthole.
or the abortive metaphor, where the work is an incessant abortion happening, i.e. there is a life (the ambiguity of the work) but it is unstoppably being ended (in ambiguity’s receipt).
or there is that whole idea of language being at once dead and alive, or perpetually inhabiting a space of death or something.
it’s possible that literature is so bound up with death that it is only natural to characterize the reading-act as violent.
man, this is a pretty stupid comment. i wish i could delete it.
man, this is a pretty stupid comment. i wish i could delete it.
to me it’s impossible to be destroyed by a text if your definition of a good text is that which destroys you
if that which destroys you is your definition of a good text, then a text that does that isn’t destroying you, it’s just giving you exactly what you want out of a text
like if my girlfriend bakes me blueberry muffins in the morning and serves them to me on a silver platter, i don’t go yo girl your muffins destroyed me! i just eat em and be like, thanks
so that’s why i’m suspicious when readers say a text destroyed them, i think it too often means the text simply reflected back to them their own private favorite nutty little flavor
i personally do think texts should destroy their readers, that’s why i’m only really destroyed when i read things that i don’t like, and really don’t want to like, but have to like because of how dreadfully powerful it is
this happens most often when i read something “canonical” because to me it’s lame to like old shit — like fucking alexander pope destroys me — because in my head it’s disgusting that i would even spend a minute reading pope, yet here i am reading this dusty ass bullshit and it’s amazing, fuck! i hate myself, etc
writing that makes me hate myself destroys me — do my favorite books do that?
no worries man, mine’s stupid too
to me it’s impossible to be destroyed by a text if your definition of a good text is that which destroys you
if that which destroys you is your definition of a good text, then a text that does that isn’t destroying you, it’s just giving you exactly what you want out of a text
like if my girlfriend bakes me blueberry muffins in the morning and serves them to me on a silver platter, i don’t go yo girl your muffins destroyed me! i just eat em and be like, thanks
so that’s why i’m suspicious when readers say a text destroyed them, i think it too often means the text simply reflected back to them their own private favorite nutty little flavor
i personally do think texts should destroy their readers, that’s why i’m only really destroyed when i read things that i don’t like, and really don’t want to like, but have to like because of how dreadfully powerful it is
this happens most often when i read something “canonical” because to me it’s lame to like old shit — like fucking alexander pope destroys me — because in my head it’s disgusting that i would even spend a minute reading pope, yet here i am reading this dusty ass bullshit and it’s amazing, fuck! i hate myself, etc
writing that makes me hate myself destroys me — do my favorite books do that?
no worries man, mine’s stupid too
yours isn’t stupid! mine is stupid.
i dunno, last night i was reading some stuff from the latest unsaid, and i began to feel a great fear and trembling inside of me. i felt like violence was being done to me, like i could no longer resist what i was reading and had to “collaborate,” or inhabit, live inside of, be consumed by. i feel like that’s maybe what it means to “be destroyed” by a work? at least for me?
yours isn’t stupid! mine is stupid.
i dunno, last night i was reading some stuff from the latest unsaid, and i began to feel a great fear and trembling inside of me. i felt like violence was being done to me, like i could no longer resist what i was reading and had to “collaborate,” or inhabit, live inside of, be consumed by. i feel like that’s maybe what it means to “be destroyed” by a work? at least for me?
i’m sorry, *be consumed by it
i’m sorry, *be consumed by it
I want fiction to break me. Break my heart, break my mind, break my spleen. Hurt is the best feeling and good fiction hurts.
I want fiction to break me. Break my heart, break my mind, break my spleen. Hurt is the best feeling and good fiction hurts.
Manifestation of the “death drive”?
Manifestation of the “death drive”?
“Are we all so desensitized that we’re happy for any kind of feeling?”
It’s probably not so much the first part of this question but the second, and it’s not always “negative” reactions. Reading is such an internal activity that when the writer pulls the emotion from your head and into the outside world–crying, laughing, smashing your head into a wall, taking a long shower after, making a sandwich–it makes it more “real” and in turn, devastating or whatever.
“Are we all so desensitized that we’re happy for any kind of feeling?”
It’s probably not so much the first part of this question but the second, and it’s not always “negative” reactions. Reading is such an internal activity that when the writer pulls the emotion from your head and into the outside world–crying, laughing, smashing your head into a wall, taking a long shower after, making a sandwich–it makes it more “real” and in turn, devastating or whatever.
amy,
i don’t think those blurbs really mean much. How many different ways can “this is a good book” be conveyed?
i personally think blurbs are worthless and almost never read them. the blurbs comparing the author to (a) well known writer(s) are like a steak knife jabbing into my soft scrotal sack.
“combine the diabetes of fante, the heroin addiction of burroughs, and the triteness of tao lin together and you have the writings of emerging author ADOLF OLIVER CLOTHES.”
that type of writing seem so lazy to me. you’re a fucking writer and instead of describing the enjoyable attributes of the author you reference other writers as a means of description that is the best you can do? that’s your fucking A game? really?
also i think most writers are mostly concerned with how they say than what they say in a blurb. in their mind it’s about flexing the ego in front of a mirror.
amy,
i don’t think those blurbs really mean much. How many different ways can “this is a good book” be conveyed?
i personally think blurbs are worthless and almost never read them. the blurbs comparing the author to (a) well known writer(s) are like a steak knife jabbing into my soft scrotal sack.
“combine the diabetes of fante, the heroin addiction of burroughs, and the triteness of tao lin together and you have the writings of emerging author ADOLF OLIVER CLOTHES.”
that type of writing seem so lazy to me. you’re a fucking writer and instead of describing the enjoyable attributes of the author you reference other writers as a means of description that is the best you can do? that’s your fucking A game? really?
also i think most writers are mostly concerned with how they say than what they say in a blurb. in their mind it’s about flexing the ego in front of a mirror.
if you were a chick i would totally break you nate.
if you were a chick i would totally break you nate.
Come to think of it, when I review the positive comments I’ve gotten about my manuscript, the thing that sticks out most is someone telling me that it “devastated him.” The other is watching someone cry as she finished reading it while I was in the same room.
I don’t know if we’re gluttons for punishment. We’re gluttons for a visceral reaction – which I suppose often manifests itself in some form of pain. I think Danny hit the nail on the head.
Come to think of it, when I review the positive comments I’ve gotten about my manuscript, the thing that sticks out most is someone telling me that it “devastated him.” The other is watching someone cry as she finished reading it while I was in the same room.
I don’t know if we’re gluttons for punishment. We’re gluttons for a visceral reaction – which I suppose often manifests itself in some form of pain. I think Danny hit the nail on the head.
i have always had a penchant for “terror” and “atmosphere,” and I’m also prone to saying that really fucking incredibly good work “destroys me”–I also say the same thing when I see a like supremely hot dude and my entire visceral being just wants to somehow inhabit the entire definition of the word “fuck” and just like dissolve into this feeling.
i updated my facebook status along the lines of “dawn raffel totally destroyed me” the other night because I read carrying the body in a single status and that’s what I felt like. upon reading it i went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and couldn’t for the life of me remember what tooth brush was mine.
sex destroys me, good sex, makes me physically unable for moments afterwards to even think or even want to move because my body is exhausted in the best way possible and moving seems like the biggest diegetic violation possible.
the last thirty minutes of philippe grandrieux’s la vie nouvelle totally destroys me because it’s an experiential encounter with cinema that is rarely matched in anything. for me it is the “utmost” reaction to something: feeling destroyed, violated, fucked, killed–because that means the work moved me in a way i wasn’t ready for, in a way that totally makes me feel like an entirely new person, because my last inhabited self is totally gone.
if i just “like something” or “think it’s awesome” it didn’t necessarily make me “feel” anything. i don’t think the feeling of being destroyed is inherently a masochistic (read here as negative based on the context of the o.p.) faction. i want to be destroyed. that is the “utmost” for me. it is neither “negative” or “positive” in the “traditional” context of such adjectives i suppose. i’m a little drunk right now, but i’m pretty sure somewhere within this comment i got to what i meant.
i have always had a penchant for “terror” and “atmosphere,” and I’m also prone to saying that really fucking incredibly good work “destroys me”–I also say the same thing when I see a like supremely hot dude and my entire visceral being just wants to somehow inhabit the entire definition of the word “fuck” and just like dissolve into this feeling.
i updated my facebook status along the lines of “dawn raffel totally destroyed me” the other night because I read carrying the body in a single status and that’s what I felt like. upon reading it i went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and couldn’t for the life of me remember what tooth brush was mine.
sex destroys me, good sex, makes me physically unable for moments afterwards to even think or even want to move because my body is exhausted in the best way possible and moving seems like the biggest diegetic violation possible.
the last thirty minutes of philippe grandrieux’s la vie nouvelle totally destroys me because it’s an experiential encounter with cinema that is rarely matched in anything. for me it is the “utmost” reaction to something: feeling destroyed, violated, fucked, killed–because that means the work moved me in a way i wasn’t ready for, in a way that totally makes me feel like an entirely new person, because my last inhabited self is totally gone.
if i just “like something” or “think it’s awesome” it didn’t necessarily make me “feel” anything. i don’t think the feeling of being destroyed is inherently a masochistic (read here as negative based on the context of the o.p.) faction. i want to be destroyed. that is the “utmost” for me. it is neither “negative” or “positive” in the “traditional” context of such adjectives i suppose. i’m a little drunk right now, but i’m pretty sure somewhere within this comment i got to what i meant.
lol adolf oliver clothes
lol adolf oliver clothes
heh thanks
heh thanks
There is a running joke on a movie site recalling a review in which the writer claims the flick raped his childhood…there is only so much a work of art can plausibly do for a well adjusted reader/viewer/listener.
There is a running joke on a movie site recalling a review in which the writer claims the flick raped his childhood…there is only so much a work of art can plausibly do for a well adjusted reader/viewer/listener.
Palahniuk said something that resonated with me. I’ll paraphrase but basically he said:
Teach me something, make me laugh, and break my heart.
I think we need to make ourselves vulnerable, open to writing. Think back to a powerful moment in your life – a great literary accomplishment, falling in love, an intense night of sexual escapades, a moment in sports – that home run or touchdown. Think about the horrible moments – maybe you were physically abused, or mentally abused, a great loss, a death, a love that went awry, betrayal. To me, these intense experiences all have one thing in common – the impact, the depth of it. They transcend reality, they take you out of it, above and beyond it.
Great fiction does that, it triggers a response, and instead of just reading it and saying “Oh, that was nice. What a nice little story.” you are shaken, you cry, you laugh out loud, you are moved. It needs to be intense.
I think we also see different writers depending on what we want or need. We read somebody, knowing they will be “safe” and that’s fine. But then we also read somebody else knowing it is risky, it may touch a nerve. So in some ways, that is a bit masochistic. Pleasure vs. pain. Or pleasure AND pain. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Who doesn’t like a little slap on the ass now and then, a little tug on the hair, a nibble, a bite, a twist of the nipple.
I’ve gone too far now, haven’t I?
Palahniuk said something that resonated with me. I’ll paraphrase but basically he said:
Teach me something, make me laugh, and break my heart.
I think we need to make ourselves vulnerable, open to writing. Think back to a powerful moment in your life – a great literary accomplishment, falling in love, an intense night of sexual escapades, a moment in sports – that home run or touchdown. Think about the horrible moments – maybe you were physically abused, or mentally abused, a great loss, a death, a love that went awry, betrayal. To me, these intense experiences all have one thing in common – the impact, the depth of it. They transcend reality, they take you out of it, above and beyond it.
Great fiction does that, it triggers a response, and instead of just reading it and saying “Oh, that was nice. What a nice little story.” you are shaken, you cry, you laugh out loud, you are moved. It needs to be intense.
I think we also see different writers depending on what we want or need. We read somebody, knowing they will be “safe” and that’s fine. But then we also read somebody else knowing it is risky, it may touch a nerve. So in some ways, that is a bit masochistic. Pleasure vs. pain. Or pleasure AND pain. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Who doesn’t like a little slap on the ass now and then, a little tug on the hair, a nibble, a bite, a twist of the nipple.
I’ve gone too far now, haven’t I?
Is it always that we want to be hurt by literature? Maybe we just want to be profoundly affected, in whatever way that may be.
Is it always that we want to be hurt by literature? Maybe we just want to be profoundly affected, in whatever way that may be.
Hi Amy,
I think you’re on to something here. You make a very perceptive point: I had never given much thought to the way we describe our encounters with literature in such violent/negative ways.
Why not a blurb that said: “It was like the first time I saw my wife eating strawberries.” or “This book was like a very nice compliment given to me by someone who rarely compliments anyone.” or “This book was like a gracious invitation to come inside and sit by the fire and warm my cold hands.”
I think I like writing/thinking about kind, gentle, uplifting, non-violent blurbs because they seem so weird. I doubt anyone will ever ask me to blurb for them.
Hi Amy,
I think you’re on to something here. You make a very perceptive point: I had never given much thought to the way we describe our encounters with literature in such violent/negative ways.
Why not a blurb that said: “It was like the first time I saw my wife eating strawberries.” or “This book was like a very nice compliment given to me by someone who rarely compliments anyone.” or “This book was like a gracious invitation to come inside and sit by the fire and warm my cold hands.”
I think I like writing/thinking about kind, gentle, uplifting, non-violent blurbs because they seem so weird. I doubt anyone will ever ask me to blurb for them.
otherwise it feels like oprah? now that is stupid.
otherwise it feels like oprah? now that is stupid.