|
|
 |
|
| May, 2000 |
Index
 |
Writing for Nerve, I sometimes feel like Toshiro Mifune at the end of Throne of Blood, standing on a balcony defenseless as arrow after arrow whistles into my chest. Thanks to the Internet, it is now possible to publish an article and get feedback from readers within minutes. Suddenly your public is right there, and it's pretty scary, like giving your phone number to a hundred thousand strangers. Reader feedback is a self-image roller coaster for every writer, and, given Nerve's content, the letters can get particularly spicy. But just when an unsolicited marriage proposal or no-strings sex offer gets me all a-glow, there's another "you should be ashamed" or "you should be arrested" that puts me in my place. The Naughty Bits pose particular problems, as I am responsible both for the selections that I choose and the introductions I give them, and it's clear that I don't please all the people all the time.
In the last few months, I have run a few columns that have provoked especially strong responses from readers. One included an excerpt from Keith Banner's The Life I Lead, the other from Ryu Murakami's Almost Transparent Blue. Each of the novels presents fictional subject matter of a very controversial nature: in Banner's case, scenes from the life of a pedophile; in Murakami's, scenes from a debauched Tokyo social scene, including an apparent rape.
I decided to run both excerpts because I thought they taught us a lot about human sexuality. In the Murakami excerpt, we see a kind of sexuality far-removed from the stereotypical understanding many of us have of Japan. I ran it as part of our Sex in Japan issue; my intention was to provide a counterpoint to conventional media images of geishas and panty dispensers. Murakami's scene is a bisexual, drug-fueled, multicultural orgy (complete with mucilaginous canapés). It's a far cry from the rarified perversions we tend to attribute to the Japanese, and, as the orgy descends beyond the point of consent, it becomes very difficult to read.
The Keith Banner excerpt was no less controversial. His portrayal of the pedophile is both sympathetic and haunting; the character nauseates you, yet you begin to understand that beneath a sexual compulsion he would never have asked for lies the breathing, emotive heart of a tender human being. He is the monster with a soul, and it is very hard not to pity him.
But pity is not what people want to feel for pedophiles. In most cases, we want them killed, and don't want to have to admit that they are among us, and like us. One reader wrote saying, "Frankly I don't give a toss about anything [pedophiles] think, feel or say. The best piece of literature to come from a pedophile is a suicide note." I see where the sentiment is coming from, but it's much easier to adopt than one where we acknowledge, attempt to understand and, hopefully, do something about the depths of depravity that are a real part of human culture. Until very recently, sexual crimes went unpublicized and typically unpunished; as we expose (and admit to) the fact of sex crimes, then we can begin to work toward not only punishing, but even preventing, them.
The question remains why such material should (or did) appear in my Naughty Bits column, and on Nerve in general. Rufus and Genevieve, the founders of Nerve, have often said that our magazine is dedicated to understanding sex, not idealizing it the way porn and erotica tend to do. Many people come to Nerve in search of arousal; sometimes they find it, but that is not our foremost intention. We have always tried to publish articles and stories that together would address the staggeringly broad spectrum of sex from as many points as possible, to know more about sex among the old and young, gay and straight, "perverse" and "normal," handicapped and hale, good and evil, female, male and everything in between. I hope that what we publish tends to reflect that philosophy. It's not our goal to arouse all readers all the time, but hopefully we can stimulate most of you in other ways and help you feel what we feel at this end of the process: that sex is as diverse and complex as fingerprints, and each person has their own.
Sometimes our impulse to address everything can be particularly challenging. Should we publish articles that depict or analyze sexual violence, or sex with animals or minors? If we want to make any claim to real investigation, then we have to. While sex can be the most joyful and expressive part of our lives, it is not always pretty, not always safe, not always good and well-intentioned and noble. Like language or power or money or any other significant component of the human experience, sex is more often gray than black and white. If we are going to try to understand its role in our existence, we can't ignore any of its shades.
So why in a Naughty Bit and not in a normal article? The title of my column suggests that I am only presenting the purple passages from the history of literature as part of a unserious "romp." In a sense, the title is deceptive; the books that I excerpt week in and week out aren't always so out-and-out sexy, but sex is always in their purview. And so, like Nerve as a whole, The Naughty Bits is not simply (or always) a column of sex in literature as much as a column about sex in literature. I hope my regular readers recognize that. And I hope that when new readers come, looking, perhaps, for a brief and steamy diversion, that they will find it, sometimes, and other times will find something else. Something less or something more, certainly something different. Probably something different from them, something that in its difference tells us a little more about ourselves and everyone else.
— Jack Murnighan
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
 |
Jack Murnighan's stories appeared in the Best American Erotica editions of 1999, 2000 and 2001. His weekly column for Nerve, Jack's Naughty Bits, was collected and released as two books. He was the editor-in-chief of Nerve from 1999 to 2001, before retiring to write full time and take seriously the quest for love. |
Previous Letter
What Are We Thinking?
© 2000 Nerve.com, Inc.
|
|
|
|
