Generation X by Douglas Coupland

Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture by Douglas Coupland was first published in 1991.

According to Thomas Reed Whissen’s Classic Cult Fiction no one can set out to write a cult book on purpose, at least not in the same way as you can write a western or a whodunit; cult has to do with reader reaction rather than genre.

But if there ever was a generic cult book Douglas Coupland’s Generation X is a strong contender for the title. It has it all. Already the word “generation” in the title gives away the subculture, spokesman-ambition. And the “X” – symbol of the unknown – catches the spirit of alienation, essential to culthood, perfectly. As if this is not enough, Coupland offers the reader a trip via identification with the narrator, Andy, to the Shangri-la of all cult books: ego-reinforcement and spiritual rebirth. It serves up Mcjob-cynicisms and spiritual sustenance in the same helping and it is all very masculine, white, alienated and intelligent. A counter-culture assault aimed at the kneecaps of mainstream America, Andy thrashes contemporary yuppie culture verbally, while his friend, Dag, who is more physically resolute and subversive, vandalises expensive cars. In between these moments of revolt Andy, Dag and Claire share stories with each other and experience some kind of nostalgic hope.

Do I sound hostile?

I am not, really. It may be that the writing is according to prescription, but I buy it all the same.

The three friends are confused, disoriented. To be more precise, they are lost in the desert of Palm Springs and their disorientation is metaphorical rather than geographical. They are not roaming the desert: they are meditating in it. Very little happens. They relax by the swimming pool, earn their living from unqualified jobs, refuse to take responsibility of their lives, and do their best to keep boredom at bay by going into an ironic self-chosen exile where they can tell stories and anecdotes, decamerone-style, about themselves. But it is not the plague that is being exorcised here, or even the atomic threat (evoked again and again in the book), but rather a sick society that threatens to infect them with a fatal attraction for conventional middle (or should I say middling) class life.

But it is easier to take the rat out of the rat race than to take the rat race out of the rat. Andy, Dag and Claire have chosen their lot as castaways of society. Yet at the same time they want to be part of it. Actually, they want to have the best of both worlds: the adventure of the republic of Bohemia and the security of the kingdom of Boredom. But they cannot, and they are frustrated. This is not as bad as it seems, however: their frustration leads to a delicious sensation of weltschmerz – enjoyable since the pain is able to make up for the lack of meaning and can make them feel somewhat alive.

In real life the options are not that big either. In practice many young people are forced to become castaways, X-ers, outsiders, whatever one wants to call them – they have no choice. The price to pay for a middle class situation in terms of workload and stress increases day by day. Hence, one of the mottoes of Generation X is “reinvent the middle classes”.

Statistics available at the back of the book point to the fact that the polarisation between the rich and the rest (in the US and the rest of the west) is increasing. Rich or poor – soon there will be nothing in between. Given this social context it is small wonder that Andy & CO feel neurotic and alienated.

But to be alienated is not entirely bad. If you are an outsider, you are somebody; you have an identity, since identity to a large extent is a question of defining oneself against a norm. Women, blacks, children, the old and handicapped, the underprivileged are all defined against such norm or “ideal”. But what do you do if you are defined as the norm? Young, white men are per definition without identity – at least if they are well behaved. In my opinion cult books show that these “men without qualities” are special too, and different, albeit neurotic…This explains too the high status cult books enjoy despite their often counter-cultural messages.

When maladjusted young, white man reads about another maladjusted young white man a very special chemical process is started. Boy meets boy = True. Whissen uses words like idealisation, alienation, suffering, ego-reinforcement, behaviour-modification and vulnerability to define this truly platonic love.

Andy is a higher being, despite his alienation. He is supreme because of his intelligence, his radical attitude and, not least, because of his suffering. Identification with Andy leads to a situation where the reader’s ego is stroked and petted. You feel almost as intelligent, radical and brave as he. Yet identification can never be complete and this is of course unsatisfactory. Hence, the ideal cult reader modifies his (it is usually a he) behaviour in order to emulate the idolized and idealized Andy.

Whissen claims that this kind of reading process both depends on the reader’s vulnerability and enhances it. You have to be vulnerable to be receptive to cult books. The problem is that this openness also makes the cult reader an easy prey for ideologies hazardous for one’s mental health. A reader cum disciple is susceptible to simplified solutions and does not take real responsibility for his actions.

I don’t know.

I don’t think it is an ideal to be a superman reader – texts ricocheting from one’s impenetrable breast, texts scrutinized with X-ray vision. Words must be allowed to stab you in the heart, to flash in your eyes, to turn you on – at least for a blissful moment. Anyway, neither Andy, nor any other cult hero I know of would model their lives on a book. If I want to be as smart as X-friend Andy I too have to  realise that I must take the responsibility for my own vulnerable life.

Mule

Rumble Fish by S.E. Hinton

S.E. Hinton’s 1975 novel Rumble Fish is generally described as a youth novel. That’s not all it is however.

While involved in another project I actually stumbled on this novel and re-read it a little while ago. Sometimes a novel benefits from being left alone in your book case for a while and this was definitely one of them. For me personally most of the novels I read in my early teens have lost their pertinance and as we all know there come a time when you must put away childish things.

This novel however stands the test of re-reading and actually as your own perspective changes so do the connotations. Since my last reading I have gone though a lot of literature in the alienation genre and I catch the tone here as well. It is in part because the voice of the main character Rusty-James has that same distance and anhedonic quality.

As a matter of fact all the characters are more or less iconic in that respect. The Motorcycle Boy is referes to as The Pied Piper, Robin Hood and Jesse James all rolled into one and he sees these tags given him more as a burdon than an honour. He chastises Rusty-James gently when they speak of it and says it’s great to be a leader if you have somewhere to go.

The novel also gives a very precise voice to Rusty-James. He know himself well enough to know that he is not smart like his brother and father and he doesn’t understand what goes on around him like they do.  He believes that he could have been just like Motorcycle Boy, but everyone around him tells him that would never be the case.  He wouldn’t be in charge of the gang his brother used to run, he doesn’t have the brains.

Rusty-James best friend, Steve, also fills a particular role. He is in a way the voice of reason, as well as the recorder. He starts the story off by running in to Rusty-James on a beach and making him remember the past. I think it is this particular framework setting of the story that  makes me think of alienation.

Rusty-James doesn’t think about the past, perhaps because it is too painful, but running in to Steve means he is forced to remeber and once the floodgate is open the story pours out of him.

The prose is terse and precise and has a lot to recommend it, actually. Writing from the perspective of a young adult is never easy and Hinton manages to work around the difficulties by giving herself some leeway with the distance of recollection.

The novel gets a lot said in a very short space of time, using language sparingly and leaving a lot of imagery behind. Specially for those of us who enjoyed the movie.

Mule

Houellebecq’s elementary particles

Every once in a while you come across one of those novels – you know, you have twenty or thirty pages left and you sit there thinking ”okay, so how are you going to tie all this together and show me something in thirty pages?”. Usually what you get is the most common, garden variety textbook ending. But every once in a while, and this really doesn’t happen very often, you get a book that really delivers.

Houellebecq’s The Elementary Particles ( 1998 ) does.

In the last flickering breath of the book in the form of an epilogue it changes the entire parameters of the novel. It brings home content, action and characters. It redefines and salts the action. It gives your head a nice spin. Throughout the novel I had moments of thinking “this is all good and well, but where is this all going?” and I am weary of that feeling, because quite often the novel just peters out in dull disappointment. Not this time.

Houellebecq writes in a heavily intellectual tradition and comparisons are often drawn to Camus, Beckett, Huxley et al. There are moments when you feel the legacy of the alienation literature, maybe in this novel especially in the description of sex. The sex scenes come across as descriptively explicit, but basically void of any emotion, any quality of excitement. They remain in the mind as descriptions of the hopelessness of physical solace in a world where there can be no real connection between individuals. It seems rare and cold and pointless until you get to that little gem of an epilogue.

The Elementary Particles is a story of two half-brothers Bruno and Michel. Bruno describes his childhood at different boarding schools where he is put through all kinds of abuse from older students and eventually grows up to be a teacher. Michel is raised by his grandmother and is a quiet introvert sort of boy who eventually becomes a molecular biologist. Both of them are failures at the whole human connection thing, but both of them meet what can be described as the love of their respective lives. Their stories do not end well. How could they? This is not that kind of novel – that is not to say that there is any great tragedy either, just life doing what it does. The irony is not lost on the characters either and at one point Michel says: “You can look at life ironically for years, maybe decades; there are people who seem to go through most of their lives seeing the funny side, but in the end, life always breaks you heart. Doesn’t matter how brave you are, or how much you’ve developed a sense of humour, you still end up with your heart broken. That’s when you stop laughing. In the end there is just the cold, the silence and the loneliness. In the end there is only death.”

There’s a heavy strain of mortality salience throughout the entire story, but more than that and the sense that the writer knows clinical depression well, there is the sense of loss and distance that can only come from the awareness that materialism has crept into human relationships in such a way that there can never be any true sense of selfless love unless we first get rid of the materialistic individuality of our culture. Sick. Wrong. Funny at times. And beautifully done.

Read it.

Read it even if you don’t get the point until you’re on the last page. Read it even if you get a bit nauseated at times. Read it even if it makes you laugh and then choke on you laughter. It’s good for you.

Mule