This book sets you in a deep haze, so you should be ready with a clear mind. You will feel like you’re walking through a fog, unable to discern who is who, what is what. You will question what’s real, if getting at any real Truth is even a worthwhile pursuit.
The nameless protagonist we follow often disappears, both physically and mentally. He leaves without telling anyone where he’s going and loses track of time. He misses and botches interviews with artists for his day job. He detaches himself from the real people in his life, pretty much anyone with a name. He loses himself in anonymous sex, internet lurking, and cruising apps. He feels almost completely disconnected from others and himself. Everything and everyone shifts in and out of the text. Nothing and no one can be pinned down. Everything is smoke.
Despite the shrouded nature of this story, there are moments of crystal-clear clarity, usually involving flirtation with the grotesque. Here you can see the influence of Dennis Cooper, the possibility of beauty in the abject. Our protagonist becomes both fascinated and disgusted with bug chasing and obsesses over the Twitter feed of a past hookup who just wants to have the most degrading sex as often as he can. He also follows the Tumblr page of an artist’s daughter. These sections of the book are just lists of images she posts. Our protagonist’s lurking and the anonymity of all this activity only seems to punctuate his isolation.
Having just finished The Lonely City, I couldn’t help but relate the two. Art and loneliness, how they seem to go hand-in-hand. The particular isolation that comes from being queer, living in a city, and living through others on social media. How the internet allows us to connect, but how we hide.
Our protagonist likes to tell stories. Towards the end, he tells a story to comfort an older man who tries to hook up with him. At this point, you begin to question whether anything he has said is true. A friend’s suicide, which hovers like a ghost throughout the text, may not be real. We don’t know. What we do know is that the protagonist tells his stories to create meaning, whether or not they are just fiction. A very post-modern question arises: where does this meaning originate? Why are we even looking to pin down a “truth” in fiction? Is the fiction just as real? Does it even matter?