10/02 – 16/02 – An American Dream, Norman Mailer

merzouga, morocco, march 2024

10/02 – 16/02 – An American Dream, Norman Mailer

This is bold—and to be honest, it’s refreshing to read something like this right now, because practically no-one writes like this right now. And I mean that in every sense. Sure, the content is graphic, —some of it obscene—and almost all the protagonist does is soliloquize in an overly long monologue that verges on facetious at times—but damn it feels good to read someone so unashamed. Like yes, he will murder his wife and shag the maid in the first chapter… And why not? Mailer quite clearly had that uniquely 20th century relationship with women where they represented both an near-ontological proof for utter evil and the only credible way to heaven. And it plays itself out incredibly in his strange and dark impressionism; in his ability to comfortably explore depravity. I’d recommend this simply as a means of being better in touch with our own dark sides.

And his faithful trawl through our darkness yields more than its fair share of reward. Mailer’s use of hypothetical, in particular. Take that brilliant conversation between Barney Shelly and Rojack—where Shelly details his view on the prospects for satanism after watching Rojack on television. In an almost socratic manner Shelly repeats what is surely Mailer’s own argument: If Satan is real, and really is in an eternal war with God, surely he must have a chance at victory? If that were not the case, then surely Satan would have been defeated? And if that is the case, is the Church not Satans’ agent? Do they not, by assuring us of the God’s inevitable victory, lure us into that false state of confidence that make space in our hearts for Satan and his ill-doings?

I for one, could not find issue with his reasoning.

27/01 – 01/02 – Pale Fire, Nabakov

20/01 – 26/01 – Pale Fire, Nabakov

It’s genius, like all Nabakov—and perhaps just a touch too genius; just a touch too smart and funny and wild and wholely him. And so I can’t really speak to it. This slides off me like soapy water: like the pulling-back of some veneer that leaves us actually wholly naked and yet somehow invulnerable? Like that there might actually be a pristine layer underneath all of this after all, but it’s just that we cannot imagine it.

I can’t imagine Nabakov finding anyone’s conversations interesting. He’d pretty much always know where we were going next. The turn of phrase we’d seek to rely on; the latent insecurity that reveals itself despite attempted deception. Like playing chess against a child. A stupid one. Perhaps he’d find some merriment in it. Like the older brother leading the gang of young children down the country path, he’d pretend not to be enjoying our company. I could see that for him.

And in any case, what is it even all about anyway? Does he like Russia? Does he hate the States? Is he parodying the European nobility? Or chastising himself for being their literary amuse-bouche? Nabakov’s relationship with the postmodern is typically antithetical—Nabokovian, even—but I don’t mind that. After all, it suits him well.