What's a Warholic? One
addicted to the works of Andy Warhol? No, it's the name of Alexander Theroux's
latest protagonist, Laura of that name. Theroux, Paul's older brother (by 2
years), is an interesting fellow and one of our best writers. The novels of his that
I've read, Three Wogs and Darconville's Cat, linger yet in
my mind as being prolix, fantastic, bitter, and hilarious. His latest, Laura
Warholic, The Sexual Intellectual, has been described (in the Barnes &
Noble Review) as "the Moby-Dick of misanthropy," a
logical culmination of his fulminations. Actually, A.T.'s less Melvillian,
more Dickensian: acerbic and driven by a hatred of A) stupidity and B) mediocrity.
Dickensian, or maybe Flaubertian. Certainly, there's no confusing his voice
with another's (this is from Laura Warholic):
"Mr.
Fattomale, whose odd haircut resembled bad topiary, snorted down his nose.
He was tall and his cheeks were runneled like a gnocchi board,
while one
tooth jutted from his lower jaw. His complexion resembled a draftsman's architectural
symbol for rubble."
And
I've virtually committed to memory Alexander's writer's call to arms:
"I've always admired
stylists. I put the writers of bumphable, ready-to-wear prose, calculated to
sell, guaranteed not to shock, in the same category as artists who can't draw.
There is a lack of bravery and a lot of fraud in them. I have tried never to
write a book that didn't attempt something new in the way of narrative
technique. Writing is an assault on cliché. I find little to admire in writers
who make no attempt at originality. . . . It's death commercially, of
course, but I knew from the beginning that I was too opinionated, literate, and
unconventional to enjoy a widespread reputation. It doesn't bother me in the
least. I've always been too busy to make money. I'm among the freest people I
know."
"Bumphable": I love it.
Keep on swingin,' Mr. T.
