{"id":129327,"date":"2018-09-17T09:00:22","date_gmt":"2018-09-17T13:00:22","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=129327"},"modified":"2018-09-17T16:00:23","modified_gmt":"2018-09-17T20:00:23","slug":"to-die-in-effect-for-love-on-gary-indianas-horse-crazy","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/09\/17\/to-die-in-effect-for-love-on-gary-indianas-horse-crazy\/","title":{"rendered":"To Die, in Effect, for Love: On Gary Indiana\u2019s Horse Crazy<\/i>"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sex, hypocrisy, solitude, loss, the punitive affinities that swallow the self\u2014these are Gary Indiana\u2019s themes, jingling through his books like money in Balzac. But rumbling beneath the malice is a melancholy yearning, a mind groping vulnerably for a human link.<\/p>\n

\u201cAffection is the mortal illness of lonely people,\u201d declares the narrator of Horse Crazy<\/em>,\u00a0whose own loneliness will froth into a mania by the novel\u2019s end. A writer in his thirties, he\u2019s just been named the art critic for a magazine he dislikes. \u201cA new year had begun with ominously good fortune,\u201d pushing him deeper into the New York culture industry, a feudal world ruled by bloated personae and venal logic. The post is prestigious; he greets it with dread. Chained to his column, he will now be a minor celebrity and a downtown figure<\/em>, \u201can object of envy, malice, and all the other base emotions that drive the majority of people at all times in every conceivable place and circumstance.\u201d Risible, then, that he wants to be loved.<\/p>\n

And Horse Crazy <\/em>is, by the laxest possible definition, a book about love\u2014about a psyche smashed by what it can\u2019t help but want. The narrator\u2014I\u2019ll call him \u201cthe critic\u201d\u2014is infatuated with a younger man, a twenty-seven-year-old artist named Gregory Burgess. But their courtship is pricked by a wincing imbalance. The critic is \u201cestablished,\u201d and Gregory is not. Gregory is a former heroin addict who makes rent by waiting tables at a pass\u00e9 restaurant, an arrangement he sees as a kind of cosmic abuse. Philippe, his boss, is an erratic French freak who deals cocaine, terrorizes his staff, keeps a gun behind the counter, and has lascivious designs on Gregory (the burden, of course, of his sexual appeal).\u00a0<\/p>\n

Gregory resents the job. He also resents the critic. His column, fame, and chicly accomplished milieu make him the whimpering target of Gregory\u2019s punishments: the lying, cheating, screamed recriminations, and preposterous threats for which he is instantly forgiven, liberated from morality by his lovely face. And Gregory is <\/em>lovely. He glitters with a mind-shattering sexiness, which he cannily exploits as he sails through the world.<\/p>\n

His lies swirl into delusion. His compulsive manipulations grow more reckless and cruel. He might be using the critic to boost himself a bit higher in the art-world pecking order\u2014or maybe just likes his sexual power. Either way, he\u2019s mean, demanding, stroppy, petty: a bundle of malevolent reflexes and bullying tics. \u201cI had always wanted someone to take control of my body and soul, rule my life, fill my consciousness to the exclusion of everyone else,\u201d the critic admits. \u201cAnd at last someone had, a full-blown psychopath.\u201d So we\u2019re shoved into the cage of the critic\u2019s sexual need.<\/p>\n

But Gregory has renounced sex. The restaurant drains his vitality, so he can\u2019t possibly \u201cgive you what you want.\u201d Not to mention that his ex-girlfriend Gloria was apparently a vindictive nymphomaniac, an addled banshee whose savage appetite demoted him to the status of mere object\u2014a theme he\u2019s started to probe in his art. Gregory spends his days ripping pages from porn magazines, extracting pictures of limbs and genitals for his \u201ctechnically sophisticated\u201d collages, which mount a critique, he says, of sex. Or rather, the gleaming fantasy<\/em> of sex\u2014sex made vulgar and slick by commodity culture. \u201cSomething of the zeal with which reformed sinners make themselves odious sparkled across Gregory\u2019s photographs.\u201d So his celibacy is enshrined as a virtue in a world devoured by AIDS<\/small>.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

When Horse Crazy <\/em>was first published in 1989, William Burroughs invoked Genet\u2014\u201cfascinating to every man, no matter what his sexual tastes\u201d\u2014Peter Wollen reached for Breton\u2014\u201ca Nadja <\/em>for New York\u201d\u2014but only the radical feminist Andrea Dworkin, perhaps chastened by decades of militancy, thought to allude to Dante: \u201cThere\u2019s a circle of hell called the Lower East Side of New York where boys and girls love too much and die too soon. Horse Crazy<\/em> is one writer\u2019s guided tour.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was also Indiana\u2019s first novel. For three years, he\u2019d been the art critic for the Village Voice<\/em>\u2014a job that placed him in the blast radius of the Lower East Side art scene, the garish bloom of galleries and \u201cspaces\u201d whose existence hinged on the very financial interests then dismantling the neighborhood. Trapped within this microcosm, Indiana sought to censure and expose it, cackling at its follies and chastising its buffoons. He was a canary, a Cassandra\u2014the grimacing superego of a lurid age.<\/p>\n

New York in the eighties<\/em>. The phrase brims with myths\u2014about art and finance, AIDS<\/small> and real estate, right-wing Schadenfreude\u00a0and a jagged avant-garde. In Horse Crazy<\/em>,\u00a0the critic\u2019s ravings and sorrows are flecked with little musings, swiveling panoramas of a desolate decade. Bohemia is dying, rents are rising, and even the luftmenschen of downtown are gripped by a generalized neurosis and a twitching self-interest\u2014a feeling enforced by a lethal disease. Horse Crazy <\/em>traces the imprint of AIDS<\/small> on the consciousness: its terror and humiliations, how it hardens the heart.<\/p>\n

And mangles language. Indiana is among the best living prose stylists in English, lushly sensitive to phrasing, timing, patterns, sounds. Paul, a former lover, falls sick, \u201cand so this body whose secret parts were my main pleasure in life for longer than anyone else\u2019s transforms itself into a fount of contagion.\u201d And Indiana summons the vocabulary of the disease with acrid brilliance: the word pneumocystis<\/em>\u00a0is dumped into an otherwise elegant paragraph, and the \u201cfatal sarcomas, pneumonias, and neuropathies\u201d that feast on his friends comprise a kind of brittle clinical slang.<\/p>\n

AIDS<\/small>, in Horse Crazy<\/em>, is an assault on intimacy, a kind of hyperbole for how hard it is to connect. But it\u2019s also history\u2014history coming into crashing contact with human life, human weakness. AIDS<\/small> draws and patrols the line between people; it crumbles the body and poisons love. And the disease becomes a cynical alibi for Gregory\u2019s refusal of the critic: \u201cThe only safe sex, he says, is if one person jerks off at one end of a room and someone else jerks off at the other, both trying to hit the same spot in the middle of the floor.\u201d This has a chilling, malicious logic. Whole stretches of the novel consist of crazed thoughts and desperate calculations, as Indiana\u2019s characters stare down the barrel of the epidemic. So the psyche lunges for totems and explanations, the kind of magical thinking that needs reasons, signs, clich\u00e9s:<\/p>\n

It wouldn\u2019t be strange to get it and then to decide as Perkins did that this one particular person gave it to you, one out of ten or fifty or a hundred, maybe because that person made you feel something special, had done wonderful things in bed or gotten you to trust him physically and mentally as no one else ever had \u2026 You would naturally connect your most vivid memory of pleasure to infection and death because the others weren\u2019t remotely worth getting sick from, just pale skimpy traces of sex crossed with thin trickles of \u201cbodily fluids,\u201d if the two things had to be linked, better for a cherished memory of sex to connect with transmission of the microbe.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

To open your life is to threaten it\u2014to die, in effect, for love:<\/p>\n

In any case, if you had sex now it was a matter of deciding, even if you took elaborate precautions, whether the degree of risk involved (and who could calculate that?) was \u201cworth it,\u201d whether your need for that kind of experience with another person outweighed, in a sense, your desire for survival.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\u201cWho,\u201d Roland Barthes asks in 1977, \u201cwill write the history of tears?\u201d Indiana has written the history of blood, skin, sputum, semen\u2014and of art, lust, money, and fear. We are living now in a fearful time. And Gary Indiana is still writing books.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tobi Haslett\u2019s writing has appeared in <\/em>n+1, <\/em>The New Yorker, <\/em>Artforum, and elsewhere.<\/em><\/p>\n

Excerpted from the new edition of\u00a0<\/em>Horse Crazy<\/a>,\u00a0by Gary Indiana, published by Seven Stories Press this month.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  Sex, hypocrisy, solitude, loss, the punitive affinities that swallow the self\u2014these are Gary Indiana\u2019s themes, jingling through his books like money in Balzac. But rumbling beneath the malice is a melancholy yearning, a mind groping vulnerably for a human link. \u201cAffection is the mortal illness of lonely people,\u201d declares the narrator of Horse Crazy,\u00a0whose […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1594,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[3784,35,17542,37317,1757,2427,527,3741],"class_list":["post-129327","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-aids","tag-art","tag-gary-indiana","tag-horse-crazy","tag-lower-east-side","tag-seventies","tag-village-voice","tag-william-burroughs"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nTo Die, in Effect, for Love: On Gary Indiana\u2019s \u2018Horse Crazy\u2019<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"In \u2018Horse Crazy,\u2019 AIDS draws and patrols the line between people; it crumbles the body and poisons 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