Mama Let's Research

Why critique something if you don't truly care about it or the world in which it exists?

This past January, I made exactly three New Year’s resolutions:

1. Floss daily

2. Wear less black

3. Stop talking out of my ass

The first was because I’m deathly afraid of going to the dentist, and also it feels like something an adult woman should be doing if she has any hope of ever getting her shit together. The second was simply a creative challenge. It’s always my first instinct to pair more visually compelling clothes (aka trousers that are not black, grey, or denim) with black basics—I tend to feel like I’ve done something really spectacular, sartorially speaking, when I put together an outfit that doesn’t involve a black shirt (or a black turtleneck sweater in colder climes). Both of these goals have been fairly easy to accomplish, possibly by design: I now floss almost every night, and my wardrobe has become nominally more colorful.

The third is trickier, because it requires a significant shift in how I move through the world.

I am a bullshitter. I’m very good at it, which is something that used to be a point of private, twisted pride. In college, I took immense pleasure in talking to (male) film majors at parties and asserting my knowledge just as they were gearing up to deliver a condescending monologue on some kind of “obscure” movie like, say, Possession, which I have never seen. I am very good at talking about movies I have never seen, and books I have never read, and schools of philosophical thought I’ve only glanced at. “Oh, so you know it,” the film major would say flatly, disappointed that he and I were apparently on equal intellectual footing after all. “Sure,” I would respond, because I know it, yes, technically. “Doesn’t everyone?”

I’m aware that this makes me sound like a serious jackass. In my defense, those guys were also jackasses, because it was so rare that they actually wanted to have a conversation about the film (or whatever) in question. They wanted to establish their authority over me by referencing something lofty and esoteric, hopeful that I might respond, “I’ve never heard of that…” and give them the opportunity to reassert their conviction that they were smarter than me (and, by proxy, all women—or so I would assume). I’d seen it happen to my friends so many times before and I never wanted to give these men that same satisfaction.

That’s about as far as I can go with that line of self-defense, though. Basically, I’m good at remembering dates and names which, in some contexts, is enough to impress people or convey a certain level of expertise. My internet addiction has provided me with an enormous cache of movie stills, book quotes, historical facts, etc. to pull from even if I have not engaged directly with the various source materials. And I do, in fact, know a decent amount about some subjects on a much deeper level. But not all of them.

I find it very difficult to admit when I don’t know something. To me, it feels like revealing a weakness. I wish that were not so. I wish I found it easier to accept my own ignorance and ask questions in earnest, free of self-consciousness, rather than compulsively ducking behind the cover of my own bullshit.

The truth is that I have always hated not being in on the joke. It has long been an imperative that I understand every reference ever made; I constantly feel like I need to be catching up to everyone else’s level of literacy. But even more than that I like seeing the connections between pieces of media, moments in history, spheres of creative thought. This is mostly because I am fascinated with the endlessly unspooling web of influence that exists throughout human history, our fundamental inability to create anything in a vacuum. I embrace the impossibility of true originality with open arms. We are never solely unto ourselves. I will always take comfort in and draw inspiration from that fact.

My favorite kind of thinkers are ones who are aware of those connections and adept at identifying them, reference upon reference. I’m currently reading Catherine Lacey’s (brilliant, devastating) novel Biography of X, which is dense with allusions to other texts, some of them cited and some of them folded unassumingly into the prose so that they don’t even register as references unless the reader is already familiar with them. The nonfiction writers whom I admire most—Susan Sontag, James Baldwin, Maggie Nelson, Hilton Als, Olivia Laing, Eve Babitz¹—also fall into this camp because you can tell how well-read they are based on the quality of their writing. Their remarkable depth of thought is characterized by a human sensitivity as well as a level of hyperliteracy that I could only dream of.

But why dream of it? Why not simply get reading? These great writers, despite the appearance of effortlessness, all had to put in the work. There’s no way around that fact.

For a while last year I kept coming across exchanges like these online, and each time I was both delighted and oddly moved by their simplicity:

I suppose the persona of the “writer” (black beret, clove cigarettes, leatherbound notebook) has always been alluring for a certain set of society. But it’s weird to see the current aspirational, “how to get the latest look” -esque tutorial language applied to something like that, as if it’s another hot girl trend. The way to be a writer is to write. And also read. It’s really not anything more complicated than that.

But you have to believe that you are capable of doing it first, rather than twisting yourself into mental knots to convince yourself that you are a reader despite not ever reading anything that truly challenges you, that you are a writer despite never writing anything beyond funny quips online. Why should that be so difficult? Where does that mental blockage come from? Laziness? Insecurity? I don’t know!!! Why can’t I sit down to read Colette and Proust instead of jealously swooning over Eve Babitz’s ability to reference them both with such clever, effortless grace?² And yet, if push came to shove, I could probably bullshit my way through a conversation about either author, bluffing a reference or two. I wouldn’t feel great about it, but I could do it. (Though I would ultimately much rather discuss someone like Babitz, whose work I have not only read but adore.)

Babitz in an undated photograph by Laurie Pepper. The collage on the wall is Babitz’s own artwork. (via)

The thing about being a bullshitter is that there is always a fear that someone will call your bluff and humiliate you, more so than if you had simply admitted your ignorance up front. Thankfully, everyone I know is too polite to have ever subjected me to this. Others have been less lucky.

Bookforum recently published a review of Lauren Oyler’s new book of essays entitled No Judgment, which I have not read and probably won’t ever read. (I read Oyler’s novel Fake Accounts, and all that came to mind was that one tweet by Joyce Carol Oates about “wan little husks of autofiction”…) I guess everybody went nuts because the Bookforum piece was an honest-to-god hatchet job, something that has become vanishingly rare in the criticism world as published “reviews” read more and more like official press releases.³ Ann Manov not only takes umbrage with the style and quality of Oyler’s writing; she also goes into extreme detail about the shallowness of Oyler’s research, reverse-engineering her sources and walking us through the exact paths that Oyler took to arrive at her conclusions:

Oyler claims she is well read, even a “snob,” but great swaths of No Judgment rely on the thinnest of online research. “Vulnerability has come to be seen as a first principle of living,” Oyler concludes from a single search for the term on the New Yorker’s website…When a Google search reveals to Oyler that the terms [vulnerability and vulva] are not related, she undertakes “research”—these are her words—into “historicizing” vulnerability and subsequently “discovers” that professor-cum-corporate-consultant Brené Brown’s 2010 TED Talk on the subject is “accepted as the source of the concept’s contemporary popularity.” Typically, “historicizing” a concept entails finding a “source” more than fourteen years old; Oyler’s argument here is as impressive as “historicizing” contemporary discourse on “threats to democracy” with a Vox explainer from 2016. Even were she not quite to begin with Saint Paul’s “strength in weakness,” Oyler might at least have discussed Freud’s concept of “original helplessness”; instead, she drops the Freud quote that comes up when you Google “Freud vulnerability” but fails even to mention the relevant theory.

In some ways, this essay is my worst fear: someone evidently more well-read than myself meticulously breaking down every single element of my bullshit, and in front of an audience no less! And yet it’s a great review because of its unforgiving tone and its specificity and because Manov immediately follows the snark with a whole outline of concepts (with sources) that Oyler could have used to bolster her arguments:

In the ’60s, D. W. Winnicott developed his theory of the “vulnerable self,” a “true self” around which people erected the defensive “false self.” In the ’70s, John Bowlby developed attachment theory, which urged “avoidants” to become as comfortable with vulnerability as “secures” and has since metastasized into an unbelievably widespread pop psychology. In the ’80s, transpersonal psychologists like John Wenwood preached that vulnerability was “the essence of human nature and of consciousness” and that “getting in touch with our more basic human tenderness and vulnerability can be a source of real power.” In the ’90s, Carol Gilligan’s “feminist care ethics,” with its embrace of vulnerability and interdependence, came to the fore—certainly influencing Brown as she completed her social work PhD.

Of course, this makes it even more humiliating for Oyler—it becomes clear that her superficial research was not due to a lack of resources in the world but simply a lack of effort on the author’s part—but Manov is still giving something to her own readers, synthesizing disparate sources and providing new insights, challenging them on an intellectual level. That’s what makes a good piece of criticism in my mind.⁴

Because a critic is ultimately at her best when she cares enough about her subject to actually say something of substance. That’s not to say that Manov cares about Oyler or her work on a personal level (she obviously doesn’t). However, it’s clear that she does feel strongly about the essay as form, as well as the entire genre of cultural criticism and what it has the power to do as an intellectual and creative endeavor. As far as I can tell, Manov is most frustrated by Oyler’s apathy toward her own project, her unwillingness to put in the effort to say something meaningful and instead choosing to exert the minimal amount of work required to just write anything at all. Manov notes Oyler’s self-identification as a snob, an elitist, and a professional—but above all else A Writer. It’s a title, Manov suspects, that Oyler holds in very high regard and at the fore of her own self-image. And yet: “I don’t really know why I write criticism,” says Oyler. Oh my god, [s]he admit it!

A lot of contemporary cultural criticism is really very boring, especially in comparison to the writers I think of as the masters of the form. Today’s critical essays are frequently undercut by narcissism and ambivalence, if not complete indifference. In contrast, there is so much love and hate, care and effort, in everything the great critics ever touched. The meticulousness of their study—love as attention, attention as love, and love as, more than anything, a desire to understand—is a huge part of why their work continues to holds up and why it can still be read and understood and enjoyed, even if the reader has only a passing knowledge of the subject being discussed. Why critique something if you don't truly care about it or the world in which it exists?

Writer/editor/Joyce scholar Danis Rose’s personal copy of Finnegan’s Wake. For some reason it’s often falsely identified online as having been annotated by Susan Sontag. Whoever it belongs to, I know the Booktok girls want what they have…

Manov writes, “Since Montaigne, the best essays have been, as the French word suggests, trials, attempts. They entail the writer struggling toward greater knowledge through sustained research, painful introspection, and provocative inquiry.” The universe has so much to offer if you give yourself the opportunity to explore it for the sake of genuine curiosity rather than as a means of shoring up your own ego. I’m saying that mostly as a reminder to myself.

There is no “get smart quick” tutorial, no product that can be purchased online to elevate one’s intellect instantaneously, no one single trick to “become” a writer. There is an extremely simple solution to worries about imposter syndrome, or coming across as a poseur, or getting called out on your bullshit. But in spite of its simplicity, it is seen as extremely challenging by plenty of people, myself regrettably included. You have to do the work. I’m also saying this as a reminder to myself.

When I read the writers I mentioned above, I feel like my brain is in good hands. That’s how I would like people to feel when they read my writing. I think the only way to accomplish this is to admit the gaps in my own knowledge and commit to doing my due diligence. Asking questions cedes authority and implies an initial ignorance, yes. But it also conveys a certain bravery born of vulnerability, along with a willingness to overcome that ignorance. Except when shutting down condescending undergrads, bullshitting is not exactly a noble pursuit. It is always nobler to simply say, “I don’t know,” and then take it upon yourself to find the answer.

— ECT

P.S. Writing and reading about internet culture feels myopic and frankly stupid right now, all things considered. If you have the means, please donate to Gaza eSims, which provides Palestinians with limited internet access during Israel’s communications blackout, or directly to Palestinian families trying to escape the genocide. I know it might feel like an exercise in futility, but we owe it to the Palestinian people to not lose hope on their behalf and continue doing whatever we can to help them. Thanks.

1. I would also include Sufjan Stevens and John Darnielle in a lineup of my favorite reference-heavy writers, but they are songwriters, so that’s not really my wheelhouse.

2. On this very website I recently saw some post with a series of very pretty photos, all of which were doubtlessly pinched from Pinterest, and the caption was something like, “Moodboard for reading Proust in the summer.” What!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

3. I realize I’m way late to this discussion, but that’s what happens when you stop using Twitter.

4. Another great review with an abundance of alternative sources is Briallen Hopper’s LARB essay about Spinsters by Kate Bolick. It’s not nearly as biting as Manov’s, but Hopper nonetheless practically buries the piece in examples that both support and contradict Bolick’s thesis. I think she is also operating from a feeling of frustration at what the book could be but isn’t. For Hopper, the potential is so great and so within reach that the half-assed result is even more disappointing.