Wednesday, 7 August 2013
The Decline of Fiction (Part One: Tom Wolfe and Colm Toibin)
Tom Wolfe is a great writer, and that is why a lot of people want to punch him in the face. Forget Jonathan Franzen, who in my opinion from reading Freedom, is blatantly aware of the manosphere and trying to pass himself off as something he's not. Forget femcunts like Margaret Atwood, who write ugly novels with ugly plots made up of ugly people. Tom Wolfe is a great writer, because the cunt has no guilt about who or what he is as a person. White Guilt, any of dat shite? Nah. This suit and tie motherfucker cares more about Faulkner, rather than on that cisgender "I'm a cow!" bullshit. Bonfire of the Vanities is a great book, end of story and that is why people hate it with a passion. Why? It be racist, horribly racist that's why. What is one of the big things you recognize when reading Wolfe's novels? It's actually quite simple. Characterization. Bonfire of the Vanities, great book aside roysh, is host to some of the most unlikeable, corrupt, hilariously satirical people this side of the border. But who is the most corrupt of dem all? The Master of The Universe Wall Street cunt? Nah. The two Irish cops? Nope. It's Reverend Bacon, modeled after king kong arsehole/demon dick in disguise Al Sharpton. What skin color is Bacon? What role does he play in the book's events? What does he do to elevate Lamb's position to that of that great kid with the 3.7 gpa and no criminal record? But he be black, see. You can't have that. Type in Tom Wolfe "racist" intae google. A cunt will have a field day with all of de goofy shite that crops up.
Let's take a look at another one of his books. I Am Charlotte Simmons. Probably the cunt's worst book admittedly, but nevertheless, is still, to my mind, despite its flaws, a book that brilliantly encapsulates the winner takes all modern day sexual market place. This is not a book about the triumph of the will. It's about de zero sum game, about fatty fatty piece of shite toadboy Adam flailing around the place like a concussed panda because he's an insufferable cunt who hangs around with a bunch of wankers. Back on Blood is a coaked up, flawed yes, 700 page slammer of a thing, but it perfectly sums up the decline, the masculine and the virtues of good cunt Nestor being hung out to dry. The books main message: Blood triumps ken. Tribalism and Dunbar's number. Happy go lucky fucktards we are all.
Now, in the greater scheme of things, Wolfe isn't a classic writer. But, what makes him stand out is that there is no sense of guilt or even agenda in his work. All his books are about characters, situations, essentially bell curves siphoned through to one person, one character. That's not a winning formula today of all days. The Irish in particular, are deft cunts in this field. See, it always fucken rains in Limerick and there was one bed for five twats. Let's take that sack of shit Colm Toibin. What do you notice about his books? Are they character driven? Are they like Wolfe, gross satire ken in all its warts? Let Wikipedia show the way:
The plot of The Blackwater Lightship:
"The story is described from the viewpoint of Helen, a successful school principal living with her husband and two children in Ireland. She learns one day, that her brother Declan, who is homosexual, has been a sufferer of AIDS for years, and refused to tell her until then. He asks her to deliver their mother and grandmother the news. This presents a challenge to Helen as she has had minimal contact with either woman due to deeply buried conflicts relating to Helen's past and her father's sudden death when she was a child.
As the three women meet again they are forced to overcome these struggles for Declan's sake. The novel follows the painful journey they must take in order to correct the misunderstanding that exists between them."
Now the plot of the critically acclaimed The Story of the Night:
The Story of the Night is a novel by Irish novelist Colm Tóibín, set in Argentina in the 1980s where the main character, Richard, was born. Son of a British mother and a dead father, he must come to terms with the hidden story of his two countries now at war and his sexuality as he grows up.
Finally The super dooper highly critically acclaimed The Master which won more awards than the fucken Titanic where the writer has a fantasy about being Henry James Mach II:
He's in his fifties and he's very much aware of how he had to refuse the company of his ill sister, whom he adored, at some point, how he chose to stay away from his country and his family, how he felt to turn cold with a writer friend he had been very close to previously and becomes a bachelor with an unresolved sexuality, certainly close to homosexuality, living in a house with servants in the South of England and a daily visit of the stenographer to whom he dictates. Appalled by the Oscar Wilde case, the portrait of Henry is not one of someone who just represses his self and his sexuality but of something more complex and ambiguous, of somebody who copes with life exerting a control on how much he'd reveal, even to himself, and choosing to be a writer in order to achieve precisely that.
Christ on a bike that is really, really fucking gay. Like, I could go to the Dragon in Temple Bar and it wouldn't be as gay as that. Gay as a kite ken, or your mickey in another man's butt or your money back. People love this garbage though. Why? Because it's class related ye bollocks, not story related in any shape or form.
Tom Wolfe mocks everything. He shows the W.A.S.P type Master of the Universe to be just as bad as the black reverand and the gangs. The sexual loser to be an even worse human being than the stereotypical thick as shit dumb jock. The man even shows an acute awareness of human biodiversity, if you want to use such a term. But Colm Toibin? Summarizing:
Once upon a time dere were a bunch of lads and lassies in a field and about 15 percent of the lads liked having sex with other lads but because the other 85 percent of lads are evil, vile human beings they wanted to brutally murder the 15 (not three percent, fifteen) percent of lads who like man butt. Therefore, history is a constant struggle of the evil heterosexual dominating the innocent gay man. The end. Give me money and coconut oil.
David Foster Wallace once said that fiction is what it feels like to be a fucking human being. This is anything but for books these days. This is not about characters, about plots, about situations. This is not about shitty novels that are just badly written. It's about pushing an emotional agenda, that homosexuals are all innocent at the cost of an evil, cold society. It's about victimization. It is emotional porn, lacking the pulchritude, the realism and the sharp funny insights of de Shakespeare or de Lord Byron cunt. A cunt reads this, not learn, not to enjoy himself, not to learn from the great men, but to feel superior. So, cunt a comes along, roysh. He opens the book. He reads about the horrible treatment blacks or gays get and then smugly shuts the book because "unlike all dem evil bums who hate homosexuals, I like them! That gay oppressed lad down the street from me? Tony I think is his name? I really like Tony, so I must be a good person."
Thus, one of the reasons fictions have become shittier is because of this stifling emotional pornography. This is egregious, not just to fiction, but any kind of art form. Science fiction, fantasy, historical, you name it, it be there. In fact it gets worse and worse. If you want to write a highly acclaimed novel that will sell like hotcakes, you have to write it in this format. Of course, you cunts might nonchalantly shrug and tell me to fuck right off, Franco the aspergery fucktard, the sententious titbird en aw and so forth, but this means that emotional porn has a monopoly on the industry. This alters our perceptions of reality, does it not? Fiction is a mirror of reality. And who tends to read this shite more than others? The elites ken.
Shite gets funny. More to come in this hot topic potato in the next while.
You might wonder why this guy. It's simple. I met him in person. He's a bellend.