Art: A Sex Book by John Waters and Bruce Hainley
I bought a few copies of this when we had one of several book signings with John Waters at the old Borders Books & Music 043 in Towson. I gave three of them as gifts over the years and still have two signed copies. Probably have a box full of other stuff signed by John as well–DVDs, VHS tapes, other books.
It’s funny to think of an edgy and completely trashy Baltimore film-maker forging a side identity as a collector and modern art sophisticate well-regarded in New York and Paris. But nothing is surprising in John Waters’ career. A few years ago when we were home in the USA it was great fun to browse his substantial and surprising personal collection donated to the Baltimore Museum of Art. Shortly thereafter the museum dedicated a new public restroom in his honor.
After having Art: A Sex Book for more than two decades I finally got around to reading it. I’d looked at the art before but had never tackled the text. The conversations between Waters and his co-exhibitor Bruce Hainley are astute and clever and often as filthy as anything overheard in a high school cafeteria. I laughed out loud several times.
At the end of the book are 20-some artist responses to a list of provocative questions. These range from the silly to the sublime.
The Enchanter by Vladimir Nabokov
When I was first in grad school in Philadelphia in the early 90s we had a list of novels we were required to read outside of our coursework to ensure we had sufficiently deep knowledge of literature and its icons. On the list were two or three Nabokovs. I read at the time either Pale Fire or Ada, or Ardor–can’t remember which. All I recall from the book is a childhood with lots of butterflies and glimmering grass and trees and lazy summer days. And a sexy sibling or cousin? But the prose was dope. And, of course, I read Lolita.
When I found a stack of Nabokov on my bookshelf I took down The Enchanter knowing nothing about it. A quick read of the prologue and I discovered it was not really a novel at all but rather a novella and that the book was mostly prologue and afterward. The prologue discussed the history of the story and the afterward, by Vladimir’s son and translator, was about the challenges of translating some surreal and salacious images from Russian to English.
The Enchanter turns out to be Nabokov’s first examination and expression of the idea which later became Lolita. His son in the afterward explains the experience of reading The Enchanter as being trapped inside the mind of a sick criminal for 70-odd pages. The entire story is about a man who lusts after a 12-year-old girl and who marries her repulsive mother simply in order to rape the child. So, basically the same idea as Lolita, but without the polish. Humbert Humbert is a disgusting pervert but he’s got style and pinache, and discusses his quarry like a sophisticate who knows cheeses and fine wines. Lolita, despite its criminal main character and dark situation, has a sense of humor. The Enchanter has Nabokov’s delicious prose and characterization but I found the experience of reading it less than enchanting–mostly interesting as a curious sort of literary archaeology rather than as an actual good story. BUT the narrator gets his comeuppance in a satisfying way.
The Thanatos Syndrome by Walker Percy
Way back in the late 1980s I took a course called Psychology and Literature. It was taught by the miraculously brilliant and completely weird Dr. Benjamin McKulik (who I discussed on Gayle Danley’s Classy Podcast a few years back). One of the novels we read in that course was The Second Coming by Walker Percy. I recall being fascinated by a female character in that book who had schizophrenic episodes and who spoke in punning sentences full of double-entendres and layered with multiple potential meanings. I have no recollection of buying Percy’s The Thanatos Syndrome but figure at some point I saw it cheap in a used bookshop and bought it on the strength of the other.
There’s a lot to detest in this book. The narrator’s terrible Louisianna genteel racism and anti-semitism, his painfully neanderthal politics, the absolutely retrograde and bafflingly naive conservative sexuality (doggy-style sex is apparently evidence of a psychological problem and/or brain syndrome, and so is oral sex?). Vivid descriptions of pedophilia uncovered by the hero make stretches of the book truly troubling to get through. But I found myself pulled along nonetheless by the narrative, which is like a Robert Ludlum or Tom Clancy thriller written by a much more literary prose stylist.
The plot is completely ridiculous but at the same time believable–a bunch of hacks funded by the Federal government decide to dump chemicals in the water supply which revert people to “lower” primate behaviors because they hope the local crime rate will go down and math scores will go up due to savant capacities developed by those who drink from the tainted taps. Success! Just like flouride in the water saves teeth, their chemical brew from a local nuclear reactor coolant tower works as intended. A psychiatrist recently released from prison for hawking prescription drugs to truck drivers has about five interactions with people in his town and immediately suspects something is up from their speech patterns and changes in their sexual behavior. His wife suddenly becomes good at bridge and wants doggy-style and oral sex for the first time ever, so there must be a neurological syndrome in town! What is the cause? Well, our intrepid doctor finds out with the help of a weird cast of Southern Gothic characters including a kissing cousin, a mentally ill Catholic priest and wanna-be Nazi who lives in a fire spotting tower, and an uncle who wins duck-call competitions.
Nearly a decade ago the first season of True Detective aired on HBO. I thought it was an absolute hoot and a great example of prestige TV with compelling acting in a gritty setting and a peculiar Lovecraftian underbelly. There are several interesting plot and setting overlaps between that season’s arc and this weird AF novel. I wonder if the show’s writers knew Walker Percy’s last book?
Mysterium Coniunctionis 