I had so much fun reading this I hope my review will make you, in turn, want to read it straightaway. I know Delany has a formidable reputation as a theorist. Yes, this is pretty evident in Phallos, which Darieck Scott argues engages “with the difficult, complex notion of jouissance in Lacanian psychoanalytic theory.” After all, this is a nearly 200-page book, where the title novella is only about 120 pages. The rest consists of an Afterword and three major critical essays that offer fascinating insight into the technical and philosophical underpinnings of the main text.
Delany is something of an enigma for SF readers. Well-known for such seminal works as Babel-17 (1966) and Dhalgren (1975), he has not dabbled in the genre for decades. Instead, his main focus now seems to be on pornotopias such as The Mad Man (1994), Through the Valley of the Nest of Spiders (2011) and Shoat Rumblin: His Sensations and Ideas (2020), his latest novel, which had to be self-published. ‘Pornotopia’ refers to the idea in critical theory of “an imagined space determined by fantasies and dominated by human sexual activity, expressed in and encompassing pornography and erotica” [Wikipedia]. (By the way, there is a fascinating shoutout to the main characters in that book at the beginning of Phallos.)
In my favourite essay in this book, ‘Ars Vitae’, Steven Shaviro comments that the subject is nothing less than “the Art of Life. It provides us with a vision, not just of what it means to live, but also of what it might mean … to ‘live well’ and to ‘live better’.” He adds that Delany’s “vision of the good life quite unequivocally involves a wide range and great frequency of sexual encounters and pleasures, with a large number of partners. There are good ethico-political reasons for this, as well as hedonistic ones.” According to Shaviro, this allows Delany to present “even the most ‘extreme’ sexual practices as forms of civility and community, no less than as forms of ecstasy.”
This is an intriguing glimpse into the latter part of Delany’s career, where a book like Phallos is no less an extraordinary utopian vision than Triton (1976): “Delany, for the last thirty-five years or more, has already been looking forward to a possible new articulation of desire – and civility and compassion, and excess and extremity …” However, Shaviro is well aware that the utopia depicted in Phallos requires “radical changes in our social, political, economic, and environmental conditions.”
This is a lot of theoretical baggage for a slight sword-and-sandals novella to carry, but rest assured that you do not have to read the critical essays. It is a separate section at the end that can simply be elided from your reading experience. Doing so will in no way detract from Delany’s extraordinary achievement here, which is to deconstruct typical fantasy tropes (and celebrate them at the same time.)
So, the basic idea behind Phallos is “an unreliable narrator giving us a dubious, second-hand account of a book that is itself fictional.” Having said that, I was amazed to learn from Kenneth R. James’s essay that it is, indeed, based on a true historical incident, namely “the emperor Hadrian’s establishment of a cult devoted to his deceased male lover, Antinous.”
Neoptolomus’s quest, both for the jewelled phallos belonging to the image of the nameless god of an obscure mystery cult and for an understanding of its significance, mirrors the search by the outer tale’s three contemporary scholars – Randy, Binky, and Phyllis – for the identity of the novel’s elusive author. (Both these quests resonate in turn with the outermost narrative, an authorial foreword synopsising the story of Adrian Rome, whose quest to find a copy of the novel eventually leads him to Randy’s own synopsis – which thus stands revealed as an excerpt or extract, the only non-synoptic part of Adrian’s tale we’re given.) In turn, the exegetical debates of the three scholars over the book’s authorship and dates of composition, the credibility of the historical apparatus accompanying it, and, increasingly, the reliability of Randy’s editorial criteria, mirror the debates over the story of Hadrian and Antinous.
Poor Randy. Binky and Phyllis seem to take no small degree of satisfaction in pointing out the subconscious biases and innate prejudices in Randy’s synopsis of the missing/mythical text. His reasoning is that he cannot be as explicit as the source material because he is posting on a university website. However, Binky and Phyllis are onto him … Instead, Randy’s attempted editing of the sexual content, describing one scene, for example, as “five pages devoted to the sensations accruing between the moment one decides to release one’s bladder and the moment urine actually erupts from the foreskin-hooded head”, has the opposite effect of magnifying the lurid qualities of the source material. This is definitely not the prim and proper academic gaze that Randy is hoping to adopt, as he becomes increasingly enamoured of the polymorphous goings-on he is editing…
“Haven’t you learned yet that quests such as yours can never be fulfilled?” a character asks. Elsewhere: “So, you are another searcher after the secrets of the nameless god’s stolen cock.” As a fantasy trope, the ‘quest’ is not only a sure-fire way to get from Point A to Point B, but a guaranteed recipe in terms of character and structure. Instead, Delany turns the concept on its head, as there is “no grounding of desire (or anything else) … no metaphysical conclusion, no unimpeachable certainty, no Final Theory of Everything.”
Hence Shaviro emphasises that Phallos is indeed about “the phallus of Freudian/Lacanian theory, the signifier of desire, and of erotic (and masculine) potency, but which (as a mere signifier) is always absent, or continually other than itself.” Thus, as Neoptolomus continues on his quest to find the nameless god’s missing bejewelled cock, the nature of that journey, and the potent symbolism inherent in that sacred object, begin to blur and transform.
What does this mean in terms of the reader’s experience? There is an incredible sense of nostalgia to Phallos, which reminded me strongly of the Nevèrÿon sequence, Delany’s other great deconstruction of sword-and-sorcery tropes. In particular, I was reminded of the ending of ‘The Tale of Plagues and Carnivals’ (1985), which incidentally is often cited as “the first novel-length treatment of AIDS to appear from a major US publisher” [Wikipedia]. There is an extraordinary scene at the end of that where a character realises how porous the border is between the mythical world of Nevèrÿon and the real world, and how it is almost impossible to tell where the one begins or the other ends…
If there is a strong callout to Nevèrÿon here, then long-time Delany fans will also recognise the quasi god/beast from The Mad Man, and such cool nods as the ‘Sisters of Bellona’, who serve to preserve the cult of the nameless god. Indeed, Phallos is probably the ideal introduction to Delany for new readers, and a wonderful summation and retrospective for long-time ones.
I started this review by stating how much fun this is to read. And it is. Delany is a wonderfully tactile and descriptive writer. He brings entire worlds to life with such effortless economy, and his characters are flawed and believable. Binky and Phyllis’s exasperation at the increasingly obsessive edits of Randy is hilarious. Besides representing Delany at his most playful, it is also a commentary on the hermetic world of academia, and readers and writing in general. Just as the original text-within-a-text is transformed into a Lacanian ‘absent centre’, so too does Delany make us marvel at the power and multitudes contained within the pages of a single book:
Binky phoned last night, however: He cannot wait. He asked if I might get him a Xerox copy of the entire text, which he promises to take better care of than he has his dog-eared, decade-old, second-hand mass-market.
(Will mass-market paperbacks endure, I wonder, twenty, even fifteen, more years?)