8.11.2005
j.k. huysmans, against nature
i have mixed feelings about j.k. huysmans' "french decadent classic" against nature...
first and foremost, it is one hell of a weird novel. it's not really even a "novel," actually. it is literally an account of the indulgences of a fussy, rich reclusive. its ever-changing series of literary and aesthetic oddities have more in common with a contemporary mix tape than with much of the "realist" literature of his time. huysmans follows his own, boundless appetite from thrill to thrill, with complete indifference to conventional narrative. historically, i've got to admire the punch it must have packed when released. moving casually from the perversions of petronius, to the fantasy world of gustave moreau, to the cultivation of fake-looking breeds of flower (one of the book's finest and oddest moments), huysmans brings forth an epic of (mostly) unapologetic, masturbatory indulgence.
reading it in 2005, however, many problems i've learned to expect with 19th century literature arise. des esseintes-- huysmans' fickle, peculiar anti-hero-- is as unpleasant as he is fascinating. his aristocratic sense of entitlement, occasional tendency to characterize things according to national/ethnic stereotypes and rampant misogyny are all bitter pills of the era he was borne out of. but beyond that, there is an assumed sovereignty that runs throughout the book, and occasionally overwhelms it. des esseintes' idiosyncratic tastes definitely distinguish him from his surroundings, but they often seem constructed to maintain such distinctions. his arrogance as an individual-- rather than his (more interesting) desire, libido or sense of curiosity-- propels his endless discoveries. huysmans writes like he's got something to prove.
des esseintes is also a melancholy figure, and his sadness is, frankly, pretty dull. throughout the novel, he constantly resorts to a vague, spiritual longing far less interesting than, for example, his pre-psychedelic flower garden. huysmans contradicts his own, defiant amorality by insisting on the temporality of des esseintes' various novelties. and an old cliche sets in-- his technicolor porno world needs a god stuck into it, and the sun ain't gonna shine anymore. which would be fine, and even interesting, had the book dealt with such longing as something other than the logical extension of its author's own expansive hatefulness. by book's end, i no longer felt the desire to shower myself with his bling-bling of yester-year, and i didn't feel like following him to church either.
first and foremost, it is one hell of a weird novel. it's not really even a "novel," actually. it is literally an account of the indulgences of a fussy, rich reclusive. its ever-changing series of literary and aesthetic oddities have more in common with a contemporary mix tape than with much of the "realist" literature of his time. huysmans follows his own, boundless appetite from thrill to thrill, with complete indifference to conventional narrative. historically, i've got to admire the punch it must have packed when released. moving casually from the perversions of petronius, to the fantasy world of gustave moreau, to the cultivation of fake-looking breeds of flower (one of the book's finest and oddest moments), huysmans brings forth an epic of (mostly) unapologetic, masturbatory indulgence.
reading it in 2005, however, many problems i've learned to expect with 19th century literature arise. des esseintes-- huysmans' fickle, peculiar anti-hero-- is as unpleasant as he is fascinating. his aristocratic sense of entitlement, occasional tendency to characterize things according to national/ethnic stereotypes and rampant misogyny are all bitter pills of the era he was borne out of. but beyond that, there is an assumed sovereignty that runs throughout the book, and occasionally overwhelms it. des esseintes' idiosyncratic tastes definitely distinguish him from his surroundings, but they often seem constructed to maintain such distinctions. his arrogance as an individual-- rather than his (more interesting) desire, libido or sense of curiosity-- propels his endless discoveries. huysmans writes like he's got something to prove.
des esseintes is also a melancholy figure, and his sadness is, frankly, pretty dull. throughout the novel, he constantly resorts to a vague, spiritual longing far less interesting than, for example, his pre-psychedelic flower garden. huysmans contradicts his own, defiant amorality by insisting on the temporality of des esseintes' various novelties. and an old cliche sets in-- his technicolor porno world needs a god stuck into it, and the sun ain't gonna shine anymore. which would be fine, and even interesting, had the book dealt with such longing as something other than the logical extension of its author's own expansive hatefulness. by book's end, i no longer felt the desire to shower myself with his bling-bling of yester-year, and i didn't feel like following him to church either.
