An argument I find myself regularly chasing the tail of is the one around the method of determining value. Goodness or badness. Amazingness or suckiness. Tattoo this across my breast or don't wipe my ass with it. I read a book and I hate it and say it's bad, or love it and say it's amazing, and where do I get off. How does my response to a piece of art reflect and honor my belief about what art is, and from whence did I derive that belief and am I interrogating it.
While in the context of art there will always be the matter of taste to contend with, it nevertheless seems crucial that my standards be healthy: without healthy standards for debate and critique and a regularly interrogated system of belief around the nature and determination of value, I will flush myself down the toilet. We all just watched our whole fucking country do precisely that and damn has that spectacle been instructive. I want to be sturdy. I want to be transparent. I want to be accountable, in a way that feels . . . idk I guess I feel kind of zealous about it. And just because the thing I'm talking about right now is whether some comic is dumb or incredible, I still feel this urgency to proceed according to the same ethical principles I'd apply if discussing whether an action is good or bad, whether a person, whether a culture, whether a system for adjudicating value itself.
So. If I wasn't paying attention to any of that stuff I would just say I didn't like this book. It's about a self-absorbed, self-important, spoiled young turd who loafs about all day fantasizing about what a great writer she is while being a bad friend and a bit of a crush creep and judging everyone else for being an idiot and/or a sellout, and then she writes a book and gets a bunch of money and acclaim and it doesn't really mean anything or change anything, she's still just sullen and sour and selfish, the end.
But. That's so fucked, right?? That's so fucked that I would read this and just toss it in a big thoughtless insensitive clump of my own preferences as if I had no idea that its writer exists as a person in the world. Or I don't know maybe it's not fucked as long as I'm doing it responsibly or something but it just feels super fucked to me more and more lately and I have been enjoying the challenge of resisting it. It's the way I reacted to everything forever, but the Trump thing has really whacked me in the nards, you know? I look back on how solipsistic my worldview has been when it came to talking about books and it's so cringey. I was such a dummy. And so arrogant. Blech.
Anyway so but yeah, in order to read this book and not just react to it, the first thing I needed to stop acting like was the book's problem is that I am old. I am long familiar. I persist from an earlier time. I am twenty years older than a twenty-year old. Literally. And heads-up this is a book about people who are . . . like four years older than a twenty-year old. It's pretty much a book about twenty-year olds. And . . . while I kind of remember being those people, also that was a lifetime ago and it turns out it is really a challenge to accept that truly I too was once the center of the universe.
Anyway all of which is to say: I struggled to find my way through this book. It didn't feel like a satire, but neither did it feel like a sincere portrait. It's like . . . it's like a tongue-in-cheek sincere portrait of a character who is kind of a satire, maybe? Caroline is shallow and lazy and vain and self-absorbed but then in a further complicating how-am-I-to-receive-this twist, she doesn't get punished for having any of those qualities. In fact she triumphs. In a way. Because also the book ends with Caroline under a table at her own awards ceremony, no internal battles overcome or really even waged, just melting into the carpet and her dreams the same little peeve she started out as.
I'm reading an interview with Wroten where she talks about coming out as an eighteen-year old and her parents trying to ground her from her girlfriend and her giving them an ultimatum and them putting her shit on the curb. Which is intense. There's a scene in the book where Caroline fights with her dad and her dad acts really one-dimensional which kind of makes Caroline seem like even more of a cartoon but maybe that stuff is actually just cartoonish, you know? Like it's not necessarily that nuanced if your parents are out-of-the-closet bigot, so that was also something I felt like I had a reaction to based on what I think storytelling is supposed to do but that I think is legitimately undermined by this experience that is not mine and that therefore it's not useful or productive of me to say is ineffectual. Like fuck me a little bit there, you know? If I really need to be affected by the cruelty of bigots then that burden of proof certainly doesn't rest on the backs of those who already have been.
Ummmm . . . this is maybe the spaciest review I've ever written. It's not really about the book but the book was just a good catalyst for me right now to try and get some of these ideas down. They're not really clear here but I'm also not going to keep squeezing this lemon right now, I have some other stuff to do. I hope I make a better case for this stuff moving forward and thank you for bearing with me as I rearrange my mind.
Also the art in this book is so pretty!! Wroten is an awesome artist and I like that this book is gay and cool and kind of a brat. More power to all of that forever.