Catharsis, or whatever

Archived from Jun 29, 2023:

I pick my hangnails. I have, basically constantly, for as long as I remember. For years I had acrylics, too thick to be able to pull my hangnails; if I ever needed to clean up my cuticles, I had to resort to using small clippers. The day I took my nails off under lockdown, I started picking my hangnails again, immediately. I haven’t stopped since, and honestly, I don’t know how to. I’m sure other people have seen me fidget, unable to sit still, and I’m sure they could easily tell me all the other tics that I have. I’d rather not think too hard about it. I operate with a constant, low level anxiety that sometimes swells into irritation, anger or sheer, debilitating exhaustion. I find it hard to not constantly think about environmental collapse, the inaction of our governments, the cruelty of our economic system. Despite all this, or maybe because of, I also almost strictly consume what a lot of people would describe as “weird”, “grim” or “intense” media. I like stories that unsettle, that bring about intense emotion and deal with heavy things. I like music that rattles my brain to the point I can’t think about the things I so easily fixate on. I like visual aesthetics that defy functionality and lean into the absurd.

I can’t say I’m totally sure why.

I’ve been thinking about my penchant for the strange because I recently read Life Ceremony and Cursed Bunny, back to back. I enjoyed them both immensely, in their own ways, and I have no idea who I would recommend these books to. There’s some strange dichotomy in knowing that these both were published to critical renown and having almost nowhere to turn to suggest them, let alone talk about them. To be both fair, and clear, my friend William recommended these books to me and I’m grateful, but he’s also one of the few people in my life I would suggest them to. So, where does one turn? Or, perhaps, more interestingly, where do I not turn, and why?

I think there’s two reasons for my hesitation of suggesting books like these, maybe three. Let’s find out together.

First, I don’t like eliciting the emotion of worry, particularly from those I love. You could even say I worry about it. I know how I am; I’m observant, pessimistic, I’m grim. Some people get used to it, some people don’t, but I’m no stranger to the furrowed brow, the look of concern over the fact that what I’m saying is too extreme, too dark, too…uncouth. I’m already like that to begin with. I already know I upset some people, to a certain degree. So, surely, it’s reasonable I become a little uncertain of where to turn with very strange books. Literally, these books have cannibalism, abuse, body horror and strange social rituals. Thematically, they deal with consequence, the idea of observation for the sake of performance and the desperate need to become the other for the sake of acceptance. I’m sure people would disagree with me. Regardless, they resonated with me and I enjoyed them. I also feel a wild sense of discomfort when I think about suggesting them to most people. This is something more akin to guilt than anything.

Cognitively, I know these books were well liked enough to be published in the first place, never mind translated, so surely plenty of people like them. But, particularly with books like these, I am horrified at the idea of someone reading it and reflecting back on the fact that it was me that suggested it, which, I acknowledge, is a wildly selfish way of interpreting art. I don’t want people to worry. I worry that people will take surface level ideas and start wondering why I like them. I worry I’ll upset someone. Even more so, I worry I’ll upset someone I love.

I like leaning into the grim, the grotesque, the warped. There’s a catharsis, for lack of a better word. The world is so full of chaos, despair and disorder that I think I like those things presented in an orderly fashion whenever possible. Even if there’s not an overt plot in these books, there’s a sense of theme, of reason, of conclusion. A series of things we are so frequently denied when we experience the worst of the worst, of the worst. It doesn’t make those things true, it doesn’t truly instill order, it doesn’t rectify trauma, loss or grief, but it illuminates a path forward, like a gentle light held by a kindred heart.

Second, I feel like a lot of people don’t want hard, weird media. I can’t say I blame them, given the state of things. Even if I weren’t worried about people being worried about me (comments on a postcard, thanks), I don’t know how many people I would suggest genuinely weird stuff to. Recently, I lent my dad a somewhat odd book. By my standards, it’s basically normal. I love that he asked, and I love that he read it, but I don’t think he loved it. And that’s ok! Everyone has their own version of what make their life richer, and that wasn’t his. The funny thing to me is that it’s mostly a one way street; when my dad suggests a book, I almost always enjoy it. Maybe the excess of oddity I consume has made way for me to find joy in something more normal, or maybe the extremes of my books have stunted my ability to see the oddity in something somewhat more mainstream. It becomes very hard to say, given the time it takes to reread books. Or perhaps, it even just means that some books are just easier to enjoy, without judgement. Simply well told stories, but unfortunately, that’s not what I’m grappling with right now.

Third, while I was already writing this, I spoke with someone who expressed verging on vitriol for the entire concept fiction; assuring me it was a lie, as though I didn’t know it was, indeed, fiction. Even when I turn to someone I think might enjoy it, I’m met with the assurance that my way to cope with the world can quickly and efficiently be dispatched as wrong, and little else. As twisted, as worthless, because it’s not real, so what’s the point? As though I didn’t already know that. Believe me, I already feel assured that the things I like are strange and discomfiting. They’re intense, loud, demanding and not for everyone. There’s something self-reflexive there, but I don’t want to get into it right now. But there is something kind of heartbreaking about loving a thing and being unsure where to turn, where to share, where to feel safe and assured.

I swear, this is about books.

So where do I go? So where is one expected to turn, except to more fiction? More order? More assurance?

Other than the few people I would genuinely suggest these works to without fear of judgement, I suppose the answer is action. Action towards all the things that will slowly, and hopefully surely, alleviate the stressors of the world. Maybe, if those good things take root, I won’t need the grim so desperately anymore.

Thank you as always for joining me, friends. I apologise for a looser week, I hope you don’t mind, but these books really stuck with me. What’s your favourite book? Are favourites hard for you to choose? I know I find them impossible. Feel free to leave a recommendation, I clearly enjoy them.

Also, a requisite “thanks, William!!”