ikstim

because it sounds like some vague literary term, or a pernicious disease

Archive for the ‘fuck!’ Category

Flaubert, I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down

leave a comment »

So aside from the fact that I want to ride Gustave Flaubert’s epic mustache like a cowboy wants to ride a wild stallion, I also really like his book Madame Bovary.

Gustave FlaubertFirst published as a complete novel in 1857, Madame Bovary and her author Monsieur Flaubert there on the left were attacked for obscenity by the public, its trial and subsequent acquittal lent a fair hand in making the novel famous. It is now considered one of the most influencial books ever written and several top 100 lists, and in fact even a few top ten, stick it right up there in the number one or two spot. It most frequently stands beside Anna Karanina.

Madame Bovary is not a love story. It’s a story of realism and while you expect it would be a sweeping tale of romance wrapped up in juicy extra-marital affairs what the novel really represents is a perversion of values and how they will dehumanize those who hold such values. What we really have here is a morality tale, cloaked in the whispers and false promises of sweet nothings and satisfying trysts. And then she dies.

The main character, Emma Bovary idealizes romance and revels in secret letters, flirtations and clandestine affairs, believing them to be the very true nature of love. Then she finds herself horribly in debt, spurned by her former lovers and offering her own body in payment for bills she cannot possibly settle. Desperately Emma takes her own life, swallowing arsenic and dying slowly and painfully, her various life fluids gushing from her as a symbol of all the secrets that she kept from her naive and passionless husband. Then he dies too. It’s all quite tragic.

Flaubert did not sugar-coat or pander in his work, he started the realism movement, and influences how novels are written today. What readers come to expect from today’s authors, is a direct result of his presenting life as it is, without flourished embellishments or foolish idealism. While he presented ugly truths, he painted them beautifully, as an artist. He is precise, objective and emotionally restrained as a writer, yet he was able to take horrible things and describe them in ways that made them less ugly. Flaubert throughout his work also sought “le juste mot” the right word, rather than wrap it up in an approximate or something that didn’t quite fit, he always went for the unadorned, direct and sometimes brutal “juste mot”.

TLDR?

here:

I Am Only Blogging About Sexual Proclivities From Now On.

with 6 comments

I was looking through my bookcases earlier this week in search of something new and interesting to share with you here on ikstim. I have noticed a trend with the books that I choose in that the authors are all long dead. I think this is largely subconscious on my part as so often in my pants-free googling and what I often end up writing about is the person who wrote the book rather than the book itself. I am like the Perez Hilton of dead writers. Get your dirty literary gossip here!

So in my search when I pulled out James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, the first thing I thought of was not the work, nor even various classics that Joyce has contributed to the vast “literary rainbow of books you should read to make people think you are smart” (patent pending).  I did not even think of my grad student friend Pat, who is slavishly devoted enough to Joyce to write a whole bloody dissertation on him. I thought of instead, James Joyce’s dirty letters to his wife. Of course I did, because I am nothing if not obscenely curious as to how great writers conducted themselves in the bedroom.

There are a few things you should know about James Joyce before I drop the whole “I like my wife to fart while I fuck her” bomb on you.

1.) Joyce wrote some of the most interesting and challenging books, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Ulysses, and  Finnegans Wake. His experimental style has given him a reputation as one of the one of the most influential writers in the 20th Century and he is often cited as a key contributor to the development of the Modernist Novel.

2.) He was a bad-ass. A heavy drinker, and completely impious, he refused to kneel and confess at the wish of his dying mother. He was also shot at one night by his room-mate, who may or may not have been aiming for a kettle that hung above Joyce’s bed. That’s some street cred right there.

3.) His wife, Nora Barnacle, was a terrifically supportive and loyal spouse. In 1941 When Joyce died and it was suggested to her that a Mass be held for his immortal soul she responded, “I couldn’t do that to him.”.

4.) His influence and legacy is impacting how people read and write today. In 1999 Joyce was listed as one of the 100 Most Important People of the 20th Century by Time Magazine, and three of his novels appear on the 100 Best English Language Novels according to Modern Library. Ulysses is ranked number one.

So one would think, with all this other interesting, influential and fascinating information and creativity that surrounds him, that I would be able to write a lengthy and lovely entry or a few dedicated to this. Instead I want to tell you about how much he loved his wife’s farts, and it was a lot. James Joyce, wrote letter upon erotic and detailed letter to his wife about how hot and dirty he thought she was. An example written in 1909:

“My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.”

If those are not the words of a man who desperately loves the shit (that works on both levels – ha!) out of his wife, then I don’t know what is. There are a whole host of these letters that run the gamut from sweet and romantic, to begging for a caning, to odd masturbatory and scatological references. The shocking nature of these letters aside, they are really rather sweet, and I find it endearing that these two found each other and despite the rather icky and windy nature of their couplings were devoted and desirous of each other right up until Joyce’s death.

It is easy to get caught up in the scandalous nature of Joyce’s private life, easier than making your way through Finnegans Wake for sure, but to me it provides another layer to his writing. A glimpse of the faithful relationship he had with his wife, which putting aside the rather unappetizing things which these two consenting adults did together, inspired his work and nourished his life. Nora was his soul-mate, his muse and perhaps what he valued most, a safe-harbour, a place that he could be himself and be farted on lovingly.

Written by Lindsey

June 6, 2010 at 9:13 pm

The Lover

with 3 comments

I picked up Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawerence on a whim. I was at City Lights Book Shop here in London and I was gathering up various titles and leaving an increasing pile of books on the counter awaiting me to take them home. Lady Chatterley was one of the last titles that I picked, and I held the yellowing, tattered paperback in my hand and I looked at the picture on the cover. A woman stands with her naked back exposed and flowers twined in her long hair. I recall thinking vaguely that it was a classic, that it had a bit of a reputation and at the very least, I could read the dirty bits and snicker to myself about the puritanical censorship that prohibited the story from being published openly until 1960.

Then I read it, and it was wonderful. Not in the way that it’s a fantastic story, or that it imparts some lingering effect, in fact in that arena it misses the mark. The characters of the cold husband and the noble, savage lover become allegorical archetypes, and seem to merely illustrate the struggle between the mind and the body. The lesson, after all the “crises” (apparently the acceptable and literary term for orgasm in 1928) is that one cannot not be all mind, nor all body, but that one needs to exist in sensual harmony, is less a revelation then a big, fat “well, duh” moment.

I found myself bored until the seventh chapter, because it was reading much like one would expect: lovely young aristocratic woman, gets married, takes lover, is unsatisfied by lover, suffers ennui, finds herself getting curious (if it was really pornographic, it would become “Lady Chatterley’s Lesbian Lover” right about here, alas.) becomes attracted to the very unknowable groundskeeper and so on. Then it hits you like a sack of potatoes, when D.H. Lawerence writes so poignantly about the nature of the heart, and you just weren’t expecting it because of all that other emotional chow-chow that you had to slog through first.

I am not going to tell you about the sex, although parts were sexy, and I was glad I got to that part at home, and not in the lounge at work. I am not going to get into the narratives of post World War I England’s class systems, or even the major theme of mind over body, you can go to Wikipedia and look that junk up yourself.

Lady Chatterley’s Lover is not D.H. Lawerence’s best work, but it is certainly the most controversial. He himself called it “a very pure and tender novel, but also the most improper novel in the world”. While at times it veered into a sweaty meandering through a garden of phallic symbols and the occasional “fuck” tossed in there for good measure, beneath that lies a deeper truth, the earnestness of the human heart, the true nature of love. For that D.H. Lawerence changed forever how we write and read about love, sex, and men and women, and for that Lady Chatterley’s Lover is wonderful.