Koestenbaum

November 19, 2022

I have fallen in love with Wayne Koestenbaum and I am sick of writing and thinking about him. Humiliation has infected me, recalibrated all the schemas. I walk around and everything is tainted by the Humiliation Optic: Humiliation I-Spy: the bulldog made to wear the sweater is humiliated, its walker who purchased such a garment is humiliated, and the designer of the garment, and on and on until arrival upon the most humiliated party: myself, for the judgment, for the train of thought, for documenting the humiliation encounter here. This is ugly business. My new penchant for humiliation identification—it’s a vindictive hobby, I toggle glee and bitterness in the exercise. Mood is generally worse? More self-conscious (possible?)? More conscious, conscientious (good?)? Koestenbaum is a tormentor, a jester with a thesaurus. The Humiliation Optic is a kind of prison. World has new dimension? New possibilities? Outlook expanded, Koestenbaum a seer? A powerful book. The cover, even: foreboding. Should I have known? Discussion of non-consensual reading experience in seminar. I signed on the dotted line when I cracked the spine. But I was not prepared for such a thorough hacking. Immense skill: did he know what was doing? Is humiliation a grail, Koestenbaum a servant? This is exhausting. This is looking directly into a very bright light. C+.

(18 November 2022)

P.S.

I like what’s going on formally here. I opened up the Koestenbaum playbook and tried some things. It’s an exercise in style. A declaration. Nothing more, really. I feel that way about a decent segment of Koestenbaum’s work, so I suppose it’s in line. I want to write more on non-consensual reading experiences…