These provocative, inventive, and at times outrageous essays on literary theory, philosophy, and cultural criticism describe, in their form and content, the end of criticism, even while performing the endlessness of that endgame. In a sense, the book deconstructs all forms of critique and criticism, including deconstruction, and including its own self. That the book is so painfully aware of the futility of its own enterprise, even while pursuing it relentlessly and with such critical rigor, is what makes this a book of masocriticism as well as about masocriticism.
Paul Mann left Poole Grammar School to serve by mistake with 42 Commando. After the Marines he worked in Toronto as an assistant accountant in a bank and left to join the British India Steam Navigation Company where he sailed in many different ships. Once in an oil tanker which circumnavigated the world, and towards the end of his spell at sea, in the Sir Galahad** a Landing Ship Logistic, where life was idyllic. The ship visited exotic ports: the British Virgin Islands, Borneo; and a Bangkok before the tourists arrived. While based in the Far East the ship anchored off tropical beaches while the troops played war games in the jungle.
In educational cruise ships Paul grew to loathe cocktail parties and ritual dining and it had him escaping to collect tickets on a chain ferry that clanked a three minute transit from Sandbanks to Shell Bay in Dorset. There he was the usherette who never got to see the show for Shell Bay was the gateway to a notorious nudist beach.
Paul now lives in Sussex.
His writing has won prizes and has appeared in numerous publications including the Royal Marines Historical Society’s Sheet Anchor, Southern Arts, the Manchester Evening News, Nautical Magazine, Gay Mens Press, Third House, The Marine Society’s The Seafarer…
**The Sir Galahad was sunk as a war grave in the Falkland Islands
Librarian note: There is more than one author in the GoodReads database with this name This profile may contain books from multiple authors of this name
" Why not decline, not so politely, to participate in the tiny spectacle of aging intellectuals dressing in black to prowl festering galleries and clubs where, sometime before dawn, they will encounter the contemptuous gaze of their own children, and almost manage to elide that event when they finally produce their bilious reports, their chunks of cultural criticism? No excuse, no justification: all one can put forward is an unendurable habit of attention, a meager fascination, no more or less commanding than that hypnosis one enters in the face of television; a rut that has always led downward and in the end always found itself stuck on the surface; a kind of drivenness, if not a drive; a *critique*, if you can forgive such a word, that has never located any cultural object whose poverty failed to reflect its own; a rage to find some point at which criticism would come to an end, and that only intensified as that end-point receded and shrunk to the size of an ideal. "
Mann makes the argument that ALL criticism is itself an act of masochism. (So this review would be included. As would all of yours.) But in spite of that, he does it very well. The whole book is absurdly funny, yet intellectually profound.
Somewhat meta, and always very dense, it's a book of most interest to professors or graduate students in Philosophy or Literature. But some of the essays have general appeal as well.