This collection of seven longishly-belabored
literary stories disappoints as often as it pleases: after slogging through to the end, I cannot escape the impression of a blandly competent author, seriously out of their depth. In tone and style, the stories in Arlene Heyman's Scary Old Sex have the
feel of superannuated student exercises, assignments turned in for some
late-sixties undergraduate creative writing seminar, aping the modishly arch nihilism
of the day, every detail, no matter how trivial, unfailingly observed, with a cold clinical detachment and precious little sense of direction or purpose, Many of these pieces seem to have been taken out of mothballs, the hopeful typescripts dusted off after
decades, lightly revised to a minimum standard of editorial presentability—whatever
the hell that means in this post-FSOG day and age—and published to great
fanfare, no doubt along with the percussive popping of half-a-dozen self-congratulatory
champagne corks.
The project as a whole has a suspiciously cynical, mercenary
pungence about it. Why should anyone be bothered to give a flightless fuck about
yet another aging star-schtupper cashing in on her youthful relationship with a
famous literary figure? It is no secret that Heyman, as a 19-year-old student at Bennington
College, carried on a two-year affair with her professor, the middle-aged
Bernard Malamud. No secret at all—in fact, much of the publicity for this
collection centers on that relationship, a drably fictionalized version of
which comprises the second story in the book. It might be one thing if Heyman’s
writing was in the least bit inspired—it is not—insightful or profound or even
remotely interesting—most of the time it is none of those things. Apparently
authorial success is a matter of who you know—or, at least, who you once
knew in the Biblical sense—and, having once caught the eye of the Great Man,
every amateurish pecadillo is now effectively washed away in the blood of the
lamb, and the “critics that matter” fall over themselves to hail a major
literary event. (Perhaps I’m growing
cynical or senile in middle age, but I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that
the New York critical establishment is easily titillated.)
Even in the two stories I came close to liking--Night Call and Artifact--there's little or no emotive range in these narratives. Bitterness and ennui are Heyman’s go-to emotions, and she goes to them
with tedious frequency. The female
characters, whether young, old, or middle-aged, seem to have nothing better to
do than break down and cry at the drop of a hat, or complain shrewishly about
the lack of sexual satisfaction in their all-too-ordinary lives. The men are emotionally clueless, shallowly
articulate, and indifferently characterized—current husbands always coming up
short against former dead ones. Children are the ever-present bringers of
chaos, either too good or too stupid to live. Conflict amongst these ‘types’ too
often feels forced and over-effortfully imagined. Everybody has a torturously-detailed backstory
that ultimately adds nothing to the reader’s understanding. Amateurish
head-hopping, inconsistent point-of-view, lack of narrative direction or coherent
structure, downright foolish attempts at getting into the heads of characters
the author clearly knows or cares nothing about—in the end creating a soggy
non-critical mass of who-the-hell-gives-a-healthily-introspective-termite’s-turd.
What disturbs and disappoints me most as someone
who cares deeply about great erotic writing, is Heyman’s stultifyingly
conventional approach to sexual subject matter, especially where ‘old sex’ is
concerned. Where the hype has led readers to expect something revelatory,
daringly paradigm-shifting in the literary exploration of geriatric eroticism,
what we get is the all-too-familiar horror and disgust at the prospect of
physical decay and declining performance, still measuring everything against
the insipidly narrow, bourgeois vision of youthful health and beauty. In this
regard, at least, the title of the collection is apt: as Heyman would have it,
sex is scary—old sex is even scarier.
What a crock of crap!
Books like this suck all the air out of the room
for serious writers who care about quality and sincerely desire to explore new erotic
frontiers. Use sex to sell something second-rate like this, and no one will
give a truly worthy book a second look, no matter how genuinely mature, inspired,
thoughtful, well-crafted, and brilliant that book may be.
Not recommended!!!!!
Wow, Terrance. I know your perceptions too well to be bothered reading this book!
ReplyDeleteThank you for being so candid TAS.
ReplyDeleteSuch a shame that this collection turned out to be a disappointment.
xx