June 29th, 2020 - The Rescue Will Begin in its Own Time
Dear TNY,
Another week in the upheaval that is the United States and you offer up Kafka’s “The Rescue Will Begin in its Own Time” as some sort of existential touchpoint?
Because why? I’ll save you the time. His name. Once again you have upturned the sack of well-known, deceased authors and shaken out another name. Did Kafka want these pieces in the world? Would he be okay with you pimping him out like some kind of high-class hooker for your profit? Do you not consider this to be “pimping” as it were, because somehow your elite status and his reputation render this abuse something other than the disgrace of profiting off of the back of someone else’s renowned abilities when they have no say in the matter? And, I’m going to try to be open minded here and explore through the lens of your superficial understanding of equality, are you really sure that what the US needs right now are the words of another dead white dude from the patriarchy of literature?—Nothing against Kafka or his work. I’ve read some of his business (and enjoyed it; big ups to “Metamorphosis”) and this piece, parts of it, attempt to explore the typical nature of his work, man against bizarre circumstances, which is what I think you are trying to get at, TNY, that we can use these pieces to look at society right now in an erudite fashion, and try to get an oblique, non-standard, oh-my-god-are-we-educated viewpoint on all of this such that we can action the shiny buzzword “Kafkaesque” this week and hashtag your name in the world. Yes, yes. I see all that. You are like a kid trying to hide a cat in his or her bedroom, believing that the parents don’t know where. Story-wise, much like last week, this is not my kind of story. Nor do these feel complete, even for Kafka. If one is to explore the realm of critical thinking through surrealism, to me, seems like the pieces need more substance. Only the farmer piece comes close. Okay, back to the program—Would it not be more prudent, at this time, this hour, this social simmering breaking point, to publish something new and fresh that speaks to the movement with an energy and brightness that represents the zeitgeist? Maybe by an unknown author? Maybe from the fucking streets? Maybe something that shows the dichotomy of living as a human being in this time and place, the struggle of it, and is not the same single-sided bumf you typically lean on? Maybe, say, from the fucking slushpile instead of something that has been gathering dust in your line up or sitting on your shelf waiting for the next revenue drop, like an AED hoping to save the fucking fiction department? Maybe, wouldn’t it be prudent to do your fucking job as the curator of an artform, and grind along with the rest of us?
Nah, fuck Art, right? Let’s sell some copy.
I look forward to next week to see what other writer you chose to publish long after his or her terminus in the hopes the name will bring in some income.
In case you read these, Mr. Remnick, I’m available. Not that I think one person can turn it around and not that I think it’s me. I’m saying we should blow up the whole fucking department, rehire through blind interviews that have nothing to do with resumes, work history, or what school mommy and daddy paid for you to go to. We ask questions like:
What is your biggest regret? If you were to commit suicide, how would you do it? And if you have tried to commit suicide, why? Can you make a case as to why you are a piece of shit? What is your favorite phrase of music? What color is it? What color are you? Why, do you think, sometimes you treat people like shit when you love them so much? If you could say sorry to those people, how would you say it? What is your most intimate moment? Can you make me hate you? Love you? Wish you were a despotic general in pre-war Yugoslavia (time machine is available in this scenario)? What do you think happens to you when you die? What do you think happens to me? Can you tell me some nonsense? Some real sense? Etc.
And, after a group is selected thusly, we all go on a bender together. On a road trip. Through The South. In an old bread delivery truck. Then we cull the group, removing those who couldn’t cut it.
Then we fight each other in a Krav Maga tournament. Cull further.
Then we will watch each other poop. Cull further.
Then we will wash each other’s feet and take and give compliments without interruption or correction. Cull further.
Then we will cry. But we should have been crying the whole time.
Cull further.
And then, when we have real fucking people who aren’t part of your classist lit party, we read the slushpile for six months and build selections from the bottom up.
Wait, who am I kidding? You are part of the problem, buddy. Not the solution.
Later.
Nick
P.S. What ho! I was informed by a friend that Kafka requested all his work be burned after he died. What I don’t want to do is debate about the merits of his work being published previous to your publication, regardless of his wishes. No, no. I just want it recognized that you don’t fucking care about the artist’s wishes at all. You published the shit anyway. Because you’re disgustingly commercial, you fucking pigs. Ta-ta.
