Sunday, 07 August 2005

Saturday Morning Hatred I, in which Our Hero Hates that He Hates I've had the most intellectually taxing breaks today--some of which involved reading, some of which involved writing--so tonight I forego my nightly devotions to the Great God of Winding Down to complain about some things I hate: Kotsko-style. (Just like Hamster, only with less little arms and more bite.) I hate that everything that's been written about Jack London is so infuriating. I hate that even the most intelligent and nuanced readings suffer from a basic lack of fact-checking or the self-evident desire to white-wash his Anglo-Saxon supremacism. I hate that these critics can't just accept that London thought one thing one year and another the next and deal with it. I hate that instead of talking about the evolution of his thought, these critics instead talk about its consistency and in so doing deny that he could've thought one thing in 1904 and another in 1912. I hate that these critics seem to abide by a punk ethos that values consistency and not-selling-out-ity over all else even though it's obvious that his opinions on these issues changed because of he "expanded his horizons" or however you'd like to euphemize "sailed around the world, met other people, acknowledged their dignity and changed his views accordingly then died." I hate that I can't take these scholars to task for valuing intellectual consistency over historical contingency. I hate that it's in my best interest to be more polite than some Jungian archetype of Jeeves in my dissertation. I hate that I have to be politic if I ever want to be hired somewhere. And that's enough hatred for me. Almost. I hate how addictive hatred is. I hate that when I wash dishes listening to the old New Pornographers album that Neko Case doesn't sing lead or harmonize on every song. I hate that when I think about hatred I couch everything in terms of hate. I also hate that it's come to my attention that I hate far too many things to fit into a single post and that if I continue to think about them, the process won't be cathartic so much as a doused-in-gamma-radiation-while-sporting-purple-shorts situation, and if I rampage around the apartment again there's a good chance I won't be married come the morrow.

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