your voice in my myth
Emma Forrest’s Your Voice in My Head has been on the shelf for two weeks, along with three Alan Fursts & two Roberto Bolanos. The Fursts & Bolanos are falling one by one. I keep taking Forrest down, hoovering up a couple of pages & then deciding to save her for later–for some moment in which I can do real justice to her rich combination of narcissism & narcissism–but now, somehow, there are only thirty pages left. Furst on the other hand has become so disappointing I want to weep, The Foreign Correspondent a real low; & 2666 isn’t yet frying me the way The Savage Detectives did in 2009. Otherwise my reading is scrappy. Two pages of Jacob’s Room one moment, a desperate attempt to re-read Night Dogs the next; then the LRB. Richard Ford & Jayne Anne Phillips do not presently work their magic, which is to fill me with elation at being a writer. How irresponsible of them. I watched Inarritu’s Babel on Saturday & found it an irritant, essentially an act of sentimental titillation; which makes me wonder about his others (& about Arriaga). I’d been saving that, too, after being at least electrified by Amores Perros.
This is an interesting discussion over at Strange Horizons, though you have to follow the links to get the benefit of it. I’d like to see someone collide Greer Gilman and Emma Forrest, although I suppose it’s culturally unlikely that anyone who could, would. Your Voice in my Head, already laying open–& being laid open by–a myth or two, suggests a contemporary start-point for a program of revision. (Also, I guess, myth aside, self-harm, sex-addiction & narcissism as a kind of shamanic flight-into-flight.)
PS: Somebody arrived here this morning by typing “how do you gape a arsehole” (sic). I report what I see.