{"id":85432,"date":"2015-05-05T13:29:57","date_gmt":"2015-05-05T17:29:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=85432"},"modified":"2015-05-05T14:42:26","modified_gmt":"2015-05-05T18:42:26","slug":"7-a-specifically-male-pathology","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/05\/05\/7-a-specifically-male-pathology\/","title":{"rendered":"7: A Specifically Male Pathology"},"content":{"rendered":"

From \u201cSerious Trouble\u201d to \u201cWayposts, No Garlic,\u201d pp. 141\u2013165<\/em><\/p>\n

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

And so our narrator has entered the desert in search of Denoon\u2019s Xanadu, the village of Tsau. Last time Tim Horvath left us<\/a>, after an excellent discussion of boredom, at \u201cSerious Trouble.\u201d Our narrator explains the nature of that trouble: it \u201cbegan on the fourth or fifth day out. It happened because I was doing a thing I had been warned not to do in the desert: I was reviewing my life.\u201d<\/p>\n

Isn\u2019t it always this way? The real difficulty begins when we peer into the labyrinth of ourselves. \u201cThe trees were clotted with mud nests, weaverbird nests, sometimes six in a tree,\u201d she explains of the desolate scene: <\/p>\n

\n

But there was no birdlife. The nests were dead. Not only were there no birds but there was none of the mild almost subliminal background shuffling caused by animals like springhares and lizards you become used to sensing. I kept yawning, for no reason.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

The longueurs of our narrator\u2019s trek across the desert\u2014before the wondrous realities of Tsau appear\u2014allow any sense of illusion to fall by the wayside. In the Kalahari, where \u201cyou are on display for miles in every direction,\u201d we see her clearly, and she, even writing in retrospect, seems to see herself clearly, too\u2014even restively. \u201cI wanted to know why my life path had led me into such a frightening place,\u201d she writes, \u201cif I was as intelligent as I was supposed to be. It was because of a fixation on another human, a male.\u201d We already know, of course, that things with Denoon won\u2019t work out. Her tone, here and elsewhere, has made that clear. This is a remembering, a grasping to understand the great mystery of failed love. But our narrator isn\u2019t one to allow herself to wallow, at least not without dissecting it:<\/p>\n

\n

It was about now that I noticed with disgust a trace of elation in my reaction to what things had come to. Apparently I was furtively pleased that the level of difficulty had gone up. I reject this tendency in humanity. I had always seen it as a specifically male pathology, yet here it was, even if dilutely.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Rush uses the slow pace of the desert to the story\u2019s advantage: we\u2019re treated to a set of previews in which we glimpse our narrator and Denoon\u2019s intellectual rapport. Thus we see her in dire straits, walking to Tsau, and in rare form, especially in her conversations with Denoon about his childhood, where she examines, always with the wry voice of an anthropologist, her conceptions (and misconceptions) of the female and male psyche. And what to make of perhaps the most telling part of this installment: the story of Nelson as a boy and the bottle pyramid he created, destroyed by his alcoholic father?<\/p>\n

For pages, our narrator recounts how Denoon\u2019s father, an alcoholic, tosses his empty booze bottles out the window where they land beyond a hedge in a gully. They collect there, giving proof, shameful proof, of the quantity of alcohol his father consumed. His parents were inside people, Denoon says, and so this bottle dump became the epic secret playground and raw material for him. He builds a pyramid of bottles and inside it wires up a light. Denoon\u2019s father discovers the contraption, this monument to ingenuity, takes it as criticism of his drinking, and clumsily tries to destroy it with a wrench and then a pickaxe. But he\u2019s drunk; he makes a mess of it. Ultimately Denoon retrieves the pickaxe from a dark gulley for his father so his father doesn\u2019t hurt himself trying to retrieve the wrench amid the broken glass of the still beaming prism.<\/p>\n

\n

Why is it, I asked him more than once, that when I hear this story I feel worse than you do? He once went so far as to say that it might have been worse: his father might have made him demolish the structure himself. So it goes among the males.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

So much of Mating<\/em> is about the inexplicable differences between the sexes. In a sense, this becomes the long awaited thesis of our anthropologist\u2014 Denoon and herself, their relationship, the symbiotic needs of males and females. This chapter, and indeed the whole book, are littered with these sharp, focusing lines. \u201cSo it goes among the males.\u201d We\u2019re never permitted the certainty that comes with a real conclusion, though; in our narrator\u2019s head, we must circle back, always reexamining our premises.<\/p>\n

\n

All I could think the first time I heard this story was if you marry you will regret it, if you fail to marry you will regret it. This was one of the few things I was able to bring to Denoon\u2019s already topheavy intellectual armamentarium. He had somehow missed reading the great Either\/Or <\/em>of Kierkegaard \u2026 And what I was thinking, of course, was if you have a father you will regret it, If you have no father you will regret it: I was thinking of myself.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

This is a kind of origin story, and its telling is plainly a major moment in their courtship: this is one of those stories that causes our narrator to fall in love with Denoon, a moment of real intimacy in which he reveals a fairly gaping wound in his psyche. And yet we also see in this flashback the gentle miscomprehension, the dissonance, between Denoon\u2019s world and our narrator\u2019s. By nature and profession they are both searchers, explainers, and yet the worlds they perceive are divergent. Their conclusions can never be identical. Love, our narrator seems to say, can also be a Xanadu\u2014a pleasure we lust after only to see it revealed as a desert mirage.<\/p>\n

And it\u2019s here, at the gates of Tsau, that I leave you. The mythical experiment and the savior-complex male we\u2019ve glimpsed only from afar, will now come center stage.<\/p>\n

Geoff Bendeck<\/a>\u2019s essays have been published by the <\/em>New York Times, <\/em>LA Review of Books, <\/em>Electric Literature, <\/em>Men\u2019s Journal, and <\/em>The Rumpus, among others. <\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

From \u201cSerious Trouble\u201d to \u201cWayposts, No Garlic,\u201d pp. 141\u2013165 And so our narrator has entered the desert in search of Denoon\u2019s Xanadu, the village of Tsau. Last time Tim Horvath left us, after an excellent discussion of boredom, at \u201cSerious Trouble.\u201d Our narrator explains the nature of that trouble: it \u201cbegan on the fourth or […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":608,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[17319],"tags":[8758,14631,17649,2111,6260,17321,17320,813,17439,17322,13153,123],"class_list":["post-85432","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-mating-book-club","tag-book-club","tag-boredom","tag-intellectual-love","tag-love","tag-mating","tag-mating-book-club","tag-nelson-denoon","tag-norman-rush","tag-perspective","tag-reading-group","tag-silence","tag-travel"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n\u201cMating\u201d Book Club, Part 7: Getting Real in the Desert<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Geoff Bendeck on the latest installment, in which we 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