as a realist, not as a pornographer
December 18, 2024 12:29 AM Subscribe
I’m at an age when writers are supposed to say finally what mattered most to them—for me it would be thousands of sex partners. from A Sex Memoir by Edmund White [The Paris Review] CW: text is NSFW
In case that sounds dismissive, it really isn’t. The piece is full of clever turns of phrase, well- and quickly-drawn portraits, and vividly set scenes. But… it’s a series of snapshots, without connecting tissue. The work it’s from, I hope, has more reflection and direction, something that might take on Delany’s absolutely brilliant The Motion of Light in Water, which, of course deals with more than sex vignettes, or else maybe it could be released as a one-a-day tear off calendar. That would be something!
I briefly thought every entry was going to end “and then he died of AIDS,” but, thankfully, no.
posted by GenjiandProust at 4:53 AM on December 18 [8 favorites]
I briefly thought every entry was going to end “and then he died of AIDS,” but, thankfully, no.
posted by GenjiandProust at 4:53 AM on December 18 [8 favorites]
I’m at an age when writers are supposed to say finally what mattered most to them
Shouldn't they be doing that all along? I mean, to the extent that creatives are supposed to do anything at all?
posted by BWA at 4:56 AM on December 18 [4 favorites]
Shouldn't they be doing that all along? I mean, to the extent that creatives are supposed to do anything at all?
posted by BWA at 4:56 AM on December 18 [4 favorites]
A whole football? Good thing they weren't basketball fans.Wot?
posted by Czjewel at 4:57 AM on December 18 [2 favorites]
posted by Czjewel at 4:57 AM on December 18 [2 favorites]
C. S. Lewis wrote:
We are animals, of course, and an animal's nature will have its way. But to whatever extent we aspire (or ought to aspire) to be more than animals, it seems to me that it entails humanizing one's sexual partners to a degree greater than that permitted when one can't even remember them all.
posted by Lemkin at 6:32 AM on December 18 [7 favorites]
The biological purpose of sex is children, just as the biological purpose of eating is to repair the body. Now if we eat whenever we feel inclined and just as much as we want, it is quite true that most of us will eat too much: but not terrifically too much. One man may eat enough for two, but he does not eat enough for ten. The appetite goes a little beyond its biological purpose, but not enormously. But if a healthy young man indulged his sexual appetite whenever he felt inclined, and if each act produced a baby, then in ten years he might easily populate a small village. This appetite is in ludicrous and preposterous excess of its function.He did so in the service of justifying the Christian standard of chastity - a project with which we may have limited sympathy - but he has the facts straight here, I believe.
We are animals, of course, and an animal's nature will have its way. But to whatever extent we aspire (or ought to aspire) to be more than animals, it seems to me that it entails humanizing one's sexual partners to a degree greater than that permitted when one can't even remember them all.
posted by Lemkin at 6:32 AM on December 18 [7 favorites]
This is so arrogant that I thought it might be a short story from the perspective of a narrator we’re invited to hate. That’s not to say that it isn’t well written—it is. It’s a snapshot of so many lives from a perspective that, for some of them, no one else would ever have written down, if anyone else ever had it in the first place. (Who was that politician?)
posted by Countess Elena at 7:22 AM on December 18 [2 favorites]
posted by Countess Elena at 7:22 AM on December 18 [2 favorites]
To drag poor old C. S. Lewis--whose views can't exactly be considered objective given the facts of his strange attenuated romantic life--into a discussion on White is a little like throwing a musty old afghan over a Caravaggio.
posted by mittens at 7:41 AM on December 18 [3 favorites]
posted by mittens at 7:41 AM on December 18 [3 favorites]
And, not to derail, but C.S.'s views were...convenient, considering he spent his youth boning his dead friend's mother on the DL.
posted by the sobsister at 7:57 AM on December 18 [1 favorite]
posted by the sobsister at 7:57 AM on December 18 [1 favorite]
poor old C. S. Lewis--whose views can't exactly be considered objective given the facts of his strange attenuated romantic life
For that matter, he considered a man’s sexual attraction to another man “perverted” - as was typical of someone in his time, place, and milieu.
But an ad hominem doesn’t become less fallacious by stacking it higher.
posted by Lemkin at 7:58 AM on December 18 [2 favorites]
For that matter, he considered a man’s sexual attraction to another man “perverted” - as was typical of someone in his time, place, and milieu.
But an ad hominem doesn’t become less fallacious by stacking it higher.
posted by Lemkin at 7:58 AM on December 18 [2 favorites]
Amazing piece. I think there’s a memorable film in there somewhere.
posted by Phanx at 8:43 AM on December 18 [2 favorites]
posted by Phanx at 8:43 AM on December 18 [2 favorites]
But to whatever extent we aspire (or ought to aspire) to be more than animals, it seems to me that it entails humanizing one's sexual partners to a degree greater than that permitted when one can't even remember them all.
Do you remember everyone you ever had a good (or boring) conversation with? Why should sex be any different?
posted by Gerald Bostock at 12:02 PM on December 18
Do you remember everyone you ever had a good (or boring) conversation with? Why should sex be any different?
posted by Gerald Bostock at 12:02 PM on December 18
I briefly thought every entry was going to end “and then he died of AIDS,” but, thankfully, no.
It's worth mentioning in this context that White has been living with HIV for 40 years--he was diagnosed in 1984.
Also, regarding Delany--they certainly know each other. Whether they have known each other (if you know what I mean) is a topic for speculation that goes beyond the merely prurient--imagine White in Times Square Red, Times Square Blue? A rawdog intertextuality.
posted by what does it eat, light? at 1:30 PM on December 18 [2 favorites]
It's worth mentioning in this context that White has been living with HIV for 40 years--he was diagnosed in 1984.
Also, regarding Delany--they certainly know each other. Whether they have known each other (if you know what I mean) is a topic for speculation that goes beyond the merely prurient--imagine White in Times Square Red, Times Square Blue? A rawdog intertextuality.
posted by what does it eat, light? at 1:30 PM on December 18 [2 favorites]
Do you remember everyone you ever had a good (or boring) conversation with? Why should sex be any different?
I'm not sure the lovers are humanized or particularized here even to the level of a conversation partner, though. Maybe not even to the level of a meal in a "3,000 Great Hamburgers I've Eaten" foodie book (and the food critic wouldn't consistently need to get stoned to get through the meals, either). The overall vibe feels a bit more like "Highlights From the 3,000 Pieces of Tinfoil I Collected to Make This Enormous Ball." I hope he's telling the truth that the encounters were fun at the time, because the way they're discussed here just feels anxious and exhausting, like he's calling on these memories to convince us of something he doesn't really believe himself.
I normally enjoy a good libertine yarn, but White's is not the tone or approach I'd wish to use in an end-of-life reflection on what "finally... mattered most to me."
posted by Bardolph at 1:52 PM on December 18 [2 favorites]
I'm not sure the lovers are humanized or particularized here even to the level of a conversation partner, though. Maybe not even to the level of a meal in a "3,000 Great Hamburgers I've Eaten" foodie book (and the food critic wouldn't consistently need to get stoned to get through the meals, either). The overall vibe feels a bit more like "Highlights From the 3,000 Pieces of Tinfoil I Collected to Make This Enormous Ball." I hope he's telling the truth that the encounters were fun at the time, because the way they're discussed here just feels anxious and exhausting, like he's calling on these memories to convince us of something he doesn't really believe himself.
I normally enjoy a good libertine yarn, but White's is not the tone or approach I'd wish to use in an end-of-life reflection on what "finally... mattered most to me."
posted by Bardolph at 1:52 PM on December 18 [2 favorites]
It's worth mentioning in this context that White has been living with HIV for 40 years--he was diagnosed in 1984.
I didn't know this. I should probably be more acquainted with White than I am. I should also read Times Square Red, Times Square Blue, but my visual issues make reading long text difficult and tiring, and I sort of doubt that it's not the sort of book that gets an audio edition.
it seems to me that it entails humanizing one's sexual partners to a degree greater than that permitted when one can't even remember them all.
This feels like the tut tutting of an anxious heterosexual. It's worth remembering that, for a great many years, one of the few sexual outlets for gay (and bisexual and...) men was relatively anonymous and temporary encounters. Anything more permanent was increasingly dangerous, unless, of course, you were well-insulated by fame, money, or both (and not even then, sometimes). A culture built up around this, and many men mourn or resist its passing.* This is similar to the way that many older gay men remember their early experiences with much older men not as exploitation but with some fondness (your mileage may vary). There weren't other options, so people made the best of what they had, and many fetishized the experience.This is what humans do.
Younger men, who came of age and identity in, say, the early 2000s on, have had more options. Some lean toward a more heterosexual view of what a relationship and sex should be, some reach back to their historical progenitors. Experiencing your partners as anonymous interchangeable bodies is not, by nature, abusive, as long as one approaches each experience with humanity and some grace. It can be very toxic as well, but it does not have to be.
As an angry introverted man who does not, as a rule like being touched except by very close friends, this is very much not my scene, but I appreciate that, for those who do ache for it, it can be a source and font of grace as pure as anything C.S. Lewis's sad life included. Can it be awful? Yes. Show me some human thing that can't.
*Given the current political climate, of course, this may come back again.
posted by GenjiandProust at 2:53 PM on December 18 [2 favorites]
I didn't know this. I should probably be more acquainted with White than I am. I should also read Times Square Red, Times Square Blue, but my visual issues make reading long text difficult and tiring, and I sort of doubt that it's not the sort of book that gets an audio edition.
it seems to me that it entails humanizing one's sexual partners to a degree greater than that permitted when one can't even remember them all.
This feels like the tut tutting of an anxious heterosexual. It's worth remembering that, for a great many years, one of the few sexual outlets for gay (and bisexual and...) men was relatively anonymous and temporary encounters. Anything more permanent was increasingly dangerous, unless, of course, you were well-insulated by fame, money, or both (and not even then, sometimes). A culture built up around this, and many men mourn or resist its passing.* This is similar to the way that many older gay men remember their early experiences with much older men not as exploitation but with some fondness (your mileage may vary). There weren't other options, so people made the best of what they had, and many fetishized the experience.This is what humans do.
Younger men, who came of age and identity in, say, the early 2000s on, have had more options. Some lean toward a more heterosexual view of what a relationship and sex should be, some reach back to their historical progenitors. Experiencing your partners as anonymous interchangeable bodies is not, by nature, abusive, as long as one approaches each experience with humanity and some grace. It can be very toxic as well, but it does not have to be.
As an angry introverted man who does not, as a rule like being touched except by very close friends, this is very much not my scene, but I appreciate that, for those who do ache for it, it can be a source and font of grace as pure as anything C.S. Lewis's sad life included. Can it be awful? Yes. Show me some human thing that can't.
*Given the current political climate, of course, this may come back again.
posted by GenjiandProust at 2:53 PM on December 18 [2 favorites]
The biological purpose of sex is children, just as the biological purpose of eating is to repair the body.
Someone quipped about Steven Pinker: "The purpose of getting drunk is to have a hangover."
posted by ovvl at 3:18 PM on December 18 [1 favorite]
Someone quipped about Steven Pinker: "The purpose of getting drunk is to have a hangover."
posted by ovvl at 3:18 PM on December 18 [1 favorite]
I'm not sure the lovers are humanized or particularized here even to the level of a conversation partner
Genji's response here is spot-on, I think.
I also don't agree with the substance of the claim. The rapists are certainly particularized. The snobby young Oxford student, too. "Skun." And "Robert" and the "Slav."
That said, it's worth noting that this text is definitely in conversation with an earlier work by the artist and poet Joe Brainard, called I Remember, a book-length non-memoir composed of many many little recollections, each centered around a single tiny moment or collection of moments, each one beginning with "I remember," and each one drained of superfluous affect.
But they add up to an incredibly intense emotional experience: I have loved and lost everything I have lived--these little shards are what I could save, Brainard seems to be saying.
Here's a sample sequence:
I remember that Rock Hudson and Charlie Chaplin and Lyndon Johnson have “giant cocks.”
I remember magazine pictures of very handsome male models with perfect faces and, with an almost physical pang, wondering what it would be to look like that. (Heaven)
I remember those sexy little ads in the back of Esquire magazine of skimpy bathing suits and underwear with enormous baskets.
I remember the first time I met Frank O'Hara. He was walking down Second Avenue. It was a cool early Spring evening but he was wearing only a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And blue jeans. And moccasins. I remember that he seemed very sissy to me. Very theatrical. Decadent. I remember that I liked him instantly.
I remember Frank O'Hara's walk. Light and sassy. With a slight bounce and a slight twist. It was a beautiful walk. Confident. “I don't care.” And sometimes “I know you are looking.”
I remember seeing Frank O'Hara write a poem once. We were watching a western on TV and he got up as tho to fix a drink or answer the telephone but instead he went over to the typewriter, leaned over it a bit, and typed for 4 or 5 minutes standing up. Then he pulled the piece of paper out of the typewriter and handed it to me and then lay back down to watch more TV. (The TV was in the bedroom) I don't remember the poem except that it had some cowboy dialect in it.
I remember not liking myself for not picking up boys I probably could pick up because of the possibility of being rejected.
I remember deciding at a certain point that I would cut through all the bull shit and just go up to boys I liked and say “Do you want to go home with me?” and so I tried it. But it didn't work. Except once, and he was drunk. The next morning he left a card behind with a picture of Jesus on it signed “with love, Jesus” on the back. He said he was a friend of Allen Ginsberg.
I remember tight white pants. Certain ways of standing. Blond heads of hair. And spotted bleached blue jeans.
I remember pretty faces that don't move.
posted by what does it eat, light? at 4:16 PM on December 18
Genji's response here is spot-on, I think.
I also don't agree with the substance of the claim. The rapists are certainly particularized. The snobby young Oxford student, too. "Skun." And "Robert" and the "Slav."
That said, it's worth noting that this text is definitely in conversation with an earlier work by the artist and poet Joe Brainard, called I Remember, a book-length non-memoir composed of many many little recollections, each centered around a single tiny moment or collection of moments, each one beginning with "I remember," and each one drained of superfluous affect.
But they add up to an incredibly intense emotional experience: I have loved and lost everything I have lived--these little shards are what I could save, Brainard seems to be saying.
Here's a sample sequence:
I remember that Rock Hudson and Charlie Chaplin and Lyndon Johnson have “giant cocks.”
I remember magazine pictures of very handsome male models with perfect faces and, with an almost physical pang, wondering what it would be to look like that. (Heaven)
I remember those sexy little ads in the back of Esquire magazine of skimpy bathing suits and underwear with enormous baskets.
I remember the first time I met Frank O'Hara. He was walking down Second Avenue. It was a cool early Spring evening but he was wearing only a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And blue jeans. And moccasins. I remember that he seemed very sissy to me. Very theatrical. Decadent. I remember that I liked him instantly.
I remember Frank O'Hara's walk. Light and sassy. With a slight bounce and a slight twist. It was a beautiful walk. Confident. “I don't care.” And sometimes “I know you are looking.”
I remember seeing Frank O'Hara write a poem once. We were watching a western on TV and he got up as tho to fix a drink or answer the telephone but instead he went over to the typewriter, leaned over it a bit, and typed for 4 or 5 minutes standing up. Then he pulled the piece of paper out of the typewriter and handed it to me and then lay back down to watch more TV. (The TV was in the bedroom) I don't remember the poem except that it had some cowboy dialect in it.
I remember not liking myself for not picking up boys I probably could pick up because of the possibility of being rejected.
I remember deciding at a certain point that I would cut through all the bull shit and just go up to boys I liked and say “Do you want to go home with me?” and so I tried it. But it didn't work. Except once, and he was drunk. The next morning he left a card behind with a picture of Jesus on it signed “with love, Jesus” on the back. He said he was a friend of Allen Ginsberg.
I remember tight white pants. Certain ways of standing. Blond heads of hair. And spotted bleached blue jeans.
I remember pretty faces that don't move.
posted by what does it eat, light? at 4:16 PM on December 18
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MetaFilter will not stand for this!
There are a lot of very good sentences and paragraphs here.
posted by GenjiandProust at 4:37 AM on December 18 [1 favorite]