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Evil Essay Stockholm Syndrome (I've Decided it's a Thing)
This spring, Mark O'Connell wrote in The Millions about "Long Novel Stockholm Syndrome." He's decided it's a thing:
I kept at it, doughtily ploughing my way through this seemingly inexhaustible stuff, holding out for another interlude of clemency from an author I knew was capable of entertaining and provoking me. At some point towards the end of the book it occurred to me that what I was experiencing could be looked at as a kind of literary variant of the Stockholm syndrome phenomenon, whereby hostages experience a perverse devotion to their captors, interpreting any abstention from violence and cruelty, however brief or arbitrary, as acts of kindness and even love. Psychologically, this is understood as a defense mechanism in which the victim fabricates a “good” side of the aggressor in order to avoid confronting the overwhelming terror of his or her situation. Perhaps I’m stretching the bonds of credulity by implicitly comparing William Gaddis to a FARC guerilla commander, but I’m convinced there’s something that happens when we get into a captive situation with a long and difficult book that is roughly analogous to the Stockholm syndrome scenario. For a start, the book’s very length lays out (for a certain kind of reader, at least) its own special form of imperative—part challenge, part command. The thousand-pager is something you measure yourself against, something you psyche yourself up for and tell yourself you’re going to endure and/or conquer. And this does, I think, amount to a kind of captivity: once you’ve got to Everest base camp, you really don’t want to pack up your stuff and turn back. I think it’s this principle that explains, for example, the fact that I’ve read Gravity’s Rainbow but gave up halfway through The Crying of Lot 49, when the latter could be used as a handy little bookmark for the former. When you combine this (admittedly self-imposed) captivity with a novel’s formidable reputation for greatness, you’ve got a perfect set of conditions for the literary Stockholm syndrome to kick in.
And as I was staring at my evil essay today, thinking hey, this kinda looks finishable, i think i can finish this, I love you, finishable essay, I realized that yes, it is a thing. This essay is evil, and if I had any sense, I'd stab it in the neck with a ballpoint and dash for freedom.
And now, some urban hipster folk with acoustic guitars who sound kinda like Neil Young will make the whole thing that much more depressing*:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wSxpC5PSrRQ
*Neil Young should be the unit of measurement for depressing.
"Man, how depressing was that?"
"14.5 Neil Youngs. That's off the depressing charts."
We should have a petition.
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(Last summer, SecretAthiest and I had a weekly beer date to unwind after I finished with a sex workers' group and she finished with a kids' community garden. She commuted from out of town, so it was a nice treat, even though we were both usually too exhausted to do more than drink ourselves stupid and complain about the seeming hopelessness of trying to 'do class struggle' in the gentrifying urban core. One night, a pack of Very Cool Kids encroached on our typically-deserted space to listen to the guitarist that always seemed to be there. Sensing a more engaged audience than us and his mother, who also always seemed to be there, Guitarist asked for requests.
"Play 'The Needle and the Damage Done,'" suggested a pile of plaid scarves with thick-rimmed glasses and legs. The other Very Cool Kids murmured their assent.
"Yes," agreed his friend, who I could tell was way into Good Indie Music because he had on an old man cardigan with elbow patches and seemed to speak only in italics. "That'd be interesting."
So we jump-kicked them all on their noses and left. Except without the jump-kicks because I only have ninja fighting skills in my dreams. Anyway, I hate Neil Young.)
You could launch a Landing poll: "Which Canadian musician should set the metric standard measurement for depressing? A) Neil Young. B) Leonard Cohen. C) Celine Dion, just for existing."
I vote for Sarah McLaughlin for winner of the "depressing beyond belief" category. Her Christmas album made me want to jump off a bridge. At least Leonard Cohen admits his style is depression-inspired but at least he jokes about his multiple medications.
- Donna Clare
Oooh. Yes. Surfacing was The Thing among young women in my early teen years*. Talk about a mope-fest. At least Celine Dion is peppy enough for a disco remix (and KD Lang has a cover of "Hallelujah" that makes Cohen-induced depression worthwhile).
*On a Dion-related note, so was Titanic. It was a depressing year.