I tried reading my mum's boot sale copy of Kathy Acker in my teens, and never really got on with it. Never read any Kraus before at all, though I hear good things about I Love Dick. So to be honest I don’t entirely know why I requested this from Netgalley. I suppose on some level that same urge which saw me attempting Blood and Guts in High School - the sense that this transgressive figure really seemed like she should be my thing, and maybe the life would click where the work initially hadn’t? And to some extent I suppose that worked. Reading this, I was reminded repeatedly of Warhol - another prickly figure who made themselves an icon, and whose work I find trying, while being fairly sure it's important if only for what it inspired and enabled. I mean, if nothing else it’s good that in Acker we have a writer who openly admitted to masturbating while she worked, because there are sure as Hell plenty where one merely suspects it. And certain scenes linger in the memory – not least Acker’s funeral, where the same awful charlatan who’d encouraged her to believe she was cancer-free had the effrontery to hand out his business cards to her outraged friends. But the most abiding impression is of a profoundly narcissistic person. Not just the radical, appropriative egocentrism of her writing – I can see how that felt bold and liberating at the time, while also understanding exactly why one wag christened her “the most important bad writer of the ‘80s”. But more than that, in her relations with friends and lovers, her repeated and genuine outrage when people’s lives had the temerity not to revolve around her. Her tendency, during her sofa-surfing periods, to be the absolute house-guest from Hell. The combination of this monstrous self-regard, with periods spent living hand-to-mouth despite a reasonably upscale upbringing, at times suggested nothing so much as Lumpy Space Princess gone punk. The similarity extending even to a succession of Brads because, contrary to her image as some sort of lesbian pirate-biker queen, most of Acker’s significant relationships seem to have been with men – ideally ones who were married or otherwise unavailable, to increase the chance of the whole thing turning into a massive drama and ending badly. And then even when she does inherit enough from a rich relative that it should have solved her problems, Acker still manages to reprise the dangerously careless spending habits of the family she spent so long kicking against.
Kraus and her researchers have definitely done their footwork here, tracking down anyone who seems liable to shed light on Acker, and it’s interesting the variation in their response. The husband who gave Acker the surname expresses surprise that there's still enough interest in her work to merit a biography (and for all the disaster of their relationship, that does seem an especially cruel cut), whereas from the likes of Roz Kaveney and Neil Gaiman there seems to be a certain fondness beneath the exasperation. One particularly interesting detail is that they've combed the likely magazines to have carried the apology Acker was supposedly forced to make for appropriating sections from one of Harold Robbins’ bestsellers – forgetting that, unlike many of the writers she remixed in similar fashion, he was still alive and in copyright. And none of the publications had any sign of it, making Acker’s annoyance at the philistines who failed to appreciate her project even more suspect. That was the incident which pushed her away from London, where she’d been re-enacting the same trajectory more often seen with indie and alternative bands at least back to Blondie; make a cult success of yourself in the States, then become a biggish deal in the UK, then use that capital and momentum to head back to America once the Brits start tiring of you. And there is something in that comparison; one interviewee suggests that Acker was the first to unite those who read with those who listened to music, which is patently absurd, but if she was certainly not the first such figure, she was probably the biggest rock star writer in a couple of pop culture generations.
It’s interesting that, despite having written about it elsewhere, Kraus here largely steers clear of mentioning her own overlap with Acker – moving in the same circles, sharing lovers &c. Perhaps in part a deliberate contrast to the way that Acker’s own books would always foreground the author’s own experience, even down to reworking the literary canon to make it all about her? At times I wondered whether an author with more distance might, notwithstanding a certain platitude I’ve always thought idiotic, have understood less but forgiven more. Really, I think I’m hoping Janet Malcolm will make Kraus on Acker the subject of one of her big, illuminating essays about biographers and their subjects. And I think possibly I would have been happier waiting for that than reading this.