portnoy's complaint
I'm reading a dirty book. It doesn't look like a dirty book, but anyone who knows anything about it will know exactly what it is and I wonder if the people in the coffeeshop are looking at this book and looking at me and thinking "that girl is reading a dirty book -- a heterosexual dirty book!" And I wonder what ever happened to that creepy guy who was in here a couple weeks ago with his wandering gaze and his prominently displayed copy of "Your Sexual Self" or whatever it was called. Like a beacon to the world. Do I, with this book, look like someone shining a beacon to the world? I hope not.
It's not *just* a dirty book. Sunday before last it was featured in the New York Times Book Review among the top 25 best books of the past twenty years. Or was it the past twenty-five years? Or maybe it was the past fifty years? Portnoy's Complaint was published in '67 originally... Oh it doesn't matter, my point is that I'm not reading porn-shop-smut, I'm reading a classic of contemporary literature that just happens to be full of sex. That's Philip Roth for you and that's one of the reasons I love him. He's right up there with Henry Miller and Jean Genet. Great men writers writing about dirty sex.
Years ago, in Durham, when I was living with Erin the librarian (great failed romance that it turned out to be) she introduced me to her mentor, some Queen of Cataloguing, some Siren of the Stacks, her librarian hero and friend Diane, who she talked about every single day, "Diane this," and "Diane that," all the time. She introduced me, finally, to Diane, and to prove Diane's prowess as a brilliant librarian, she said, "Tell her what you like to read and she'll make great suggestions, things you've never heard of."
Erin was excited and there sat Diane, a sweet woman, smiling at me with an open face and keen, kind eyes. I'd just finished reading Roth's "Goodbye, Columbus," which I'd originally chosen because I'd just moved from Columbus, without the slightest inclination that it would be full of sex and longing. Damn that Philip Roth. I was looking for something else of his to read, but standing there in the library, the mentor and the protege both looking at me expectantly, I couldn't bring myself to say his name aloud -- as though his name was synonymous with prurience and lusty filth. But he's a superstar of American literature! (But he's *also* a nasty, masturbation-obsessed, cock-obsessed, cunt-obsessed, sex maniac MAN and I'm a nice lesbian living with a nice librarian in a nice little mill house just off Ninth Street in a respectable, if not rich, neighborhood in Durham just down the street from the School of Science and Math, under an ancient canopy of stately southern trees, etc, etc, etc.)
I got flustered and said I didn't need help finding anything to read and Diane smiled and nodded wisely and Erin looked at me like I was crazy and gave me a hard time about it in the car on the way home. Oh well. Now, six years later, I'm sitting in a coffeeshop in Portland, Erin and Diane and Durham long behind me, reading Roth again and wondering what signals this book is sending out to the world -- to anyone who bothers to look. And then I remember that I'm the only one on earth who pays that much attention to anybody in public. So I guess I should relax.
It's not *just* a dirty book. Sunday before last it was featured in the New York Times Book Review among the top 25 best books of the past twenty years. Or was it the past twenty-five years? Or maybe it was the past fifty years? Portnoy's Complaint was published in '67 originally... Oh it doesn't matter, my point is that I'm not reading porn-shop-smut, I'm reading a classic of contemporary literature that just happens to be full of sex. That's Philip Roth for you and that's one of the reasons I love him. He's right up there with Henry Miller and Jean Genet. Great men writers writing about dirty sex.
Years ago, in Durham, when I was living with Erin the librarian (great failed romance that it turned out to be) she introduced me to her mentor, some Queen of Cataloguing, some Siren of the Stacks, her librarian hero and friend Diane, who she talked about every single day, "Diane this," and "Diane that," all the time. She introduced me, finally, to Diane, and to prove Diane's prowess as a brilliant librarian, she said, "Tell her what you like to read and she'll make great suggestions, things you've never heard of."
Erin was excited and there sat Diane, a sweet woman, smiling at me with an open face and keen, kind eyes. I'd just finished reading Roth's "Goodbye, Columbus," which I'd originally chosen because I'd just moved from Columbus, without the slightest inclination that it would be full of sex and longing. Damn that Philip Roth. I was looking for something else of his to read, but standing there in the library, the mentor and the protege both looking at me expectantly, I couldn't bring myself to say his name aloud -- as though his name was synonymous with prurience and lusty filth. But he's a superstar of American literature! (But he's *also* a nasty, masturbation-obsessed, cock-obsessed, cunt-obsessed, sex maniac MAN and I'm a nice lesbian living with a nice librarian in a nice little mill house just off Ninth Street in a respectable, if not rich, neighborhood in Durham just down the street from the School of Science and Math, under an ancient canopy of stately southern trees, etc, etc, etc.)
I got flustered and said I didn't need help finding anything to read and Diane smiled and nodded wisely and Erin looked at me like I was crazy and gave me a hard time about it in the car on the way home. Oh well. Now, six years later, I'm sitting in a coffeeshop in Portland, Erin and Diane and Durham long behind me, reading Roth again and wondering what signals this book is sending out to the world -- to anyone who bothers to look. And then I remember that I'm the only one on earth who pays that much attention to anybody in public. So I guess I should relax.
posted by reasonably prudent poet at 12:16 PM
1 Comments:
That's funny about the attention paying. It's true that a lot of people don't seem to notice much, so I always feel a little caught out when I realize someone is putting two and two together about me.
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