Writers you hate
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IdleRich
IdleRich
I've read it years ago, don't remember that scene but it sounds about right. There is one scene where he kinda spies on these two women making love and he spends ages describing the smell of their cunts and how it's unmistakable and how he's such a connoisseur of vaginal smells and so on and it goes on for ages before he realises that the window is closed and what he's actually smelling is an open dustbin outside the window.
IdleRich
IdleRich
I don't hate any of the writers in this thread (as far as I remember). I really like Cormac McCarthy for instance, also, if what you don't like is his super-macho biblical prose, he's anticipated that by completely changing to a totally different simplistic style. Still as macho as can be though of course. Like all good things he is easy to parody or take the piss out of - the way that everyone they meet in the Border trilogy spouts off unprompted this profound wisdom and meditations on life has to be some kind of joke. But it's still good.
craner
Beast of Burden
Yes, it is basically a monologue about wanking, wanting to wank, feeling bad about wanking and feeling bad about wanting to wank. It is also an exploration of Jewish identity and wanking.
IdleRich
IdleRich
When I was a kid I didn't know anyone who was Jewish (or if I did I didn't know they were Jewish) but I felt that I knew more about Jewish culture than any other except my own, and more random yiddish words than from other languages, all cos of Roth, Bellow (I guess) and other authors I forget.
No wonder Corpsey loves it so much.
Corpsey
bandz ahoy
True, of course.
The neurotic anger, the self-loathing, the mothering, the wanking. But also the rebellious power of being outrageous.
Laughter of shameful self-recognition and laughter as relief in kinship.
Ofc there were limits to how much of myself I could see in an American Jew growing up in the, was it 50s? And he goes to Israel, doesn't he? I can barely remember it now, apart from the wanking and his father complaining about his bowels.
I might read it again, actually. Y'all inspired me.
The neurotic anger, the self-loathing, the mothering, the wanking. But also the rebellious power of being outrageous.
Laughter of shameful self-recognition and laughter as relief in kinship.
Ofc there were limits to how much of myself I could see in an American Jew growing up in the, was it 50s? And he goes to Israel, doesn't he? I can barely remember it now, apart from the wanking and his father complaining about his bowels.
I might read it again, actually. Y'all inspired me.
Corpsey
bandz ahoy
(I'm doing a no nut December, as it happens. In Budapest with a horrible throaty cold, and day seven of no nutting. No touching, even. I don't know if it's not smoking weed for a week or not wanking but my unconscious is beginning to boil and bubble.)
Highly intense dreams and a perpetual semion.
Highly intense dreams and a perpetual semion.
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Corpsey
bandz ahoy
This also raises the interesting point that the limits of one's taste might also be the limits of one's personality. Or the nature of one's taste, at least.
I wonder if you'd say that the best writers are those best able to transcend a broad variety of personal tastes or actually (in practice) quite the opposite?
McCarthy obviously appeals to that same something in me that Yeats does at times. Some part of me that longs to be declaimed to by a grand Man (in the sky). See also Eliot.
Conversely, the postmodern allusive PHD postmodernist writers bring me out in a brain rash. Maybe because I recognise something in myself that either I find distasteful or I associate with competition. There must be times when I don't like a writer because I subconsciously think they're doing what I would do if I wasn't so lazy and weak.
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