Volk's last stand: a critique of Wetlands

By: Mary Volk

Posted: 4/16/09

Two men can articulate my feelings about graduation better than anyone else. David Bowie and Wallace Stevens achieve a level of complexity in their emoting that puts stale feelings like nostalgia to shame. If I have to suffer one more analysis of the "big picture," I'll die. I would also like to put a moratorium on the phrases "when all is said and done" and "long run."

The genius of Bowie and Stevens is that they are too interesting to focus on the general or to try to apply meaning to giant swaths of time. They also refuse to define themselves by groups to which they belong. I'm exhausted by women who talk endlessly about being women and people committing acts designed to make statements. I don't have time for them. If you want to make a statement, then state something. Do it clearly and in as few words as possible, because "important statements" about "serious issues" are yawningly tedious.

Charlotte Roche's newly translated to English novel Wetlands comes to mind, as it is setting feminist hearts aflutter all over the United States. It is about a girl who refuses to obey generally accepted rules of feminine hygiene. She likes to put bio-garbage found in public restrooms into her orifices and eschews even the most basic feminine upkeep.

If a man had written this book, he would be accused of sophomoric gross-out humor. But it's a girl, so it means something serious and important.

I am ashamed to be female when my brethren deign to call this junk "art." Boys and girls are not the same. Shaving your legs is not oppressive. All it means is that you will have smooth legs. Mascara never killed anyone. Assuming that generally accepted gender habits say something serious about society is stupid.

Even if one is oppressed, there is nothing less attractive than looking for fellow beleaguered parties with whom you can commiserate.

The best kinds of underdogs don't want to be underdogs at all. No one who genuinely wants something wastes time complaining about not having it. If Roche wanted to be free from the confines of femininity, then she would stop perpetuating those confines by grossing everyone out at the concept of losing them. She wants to be a victim. The best underdogs really do not. There is nothing funnier or more charming than an underdog who hates everyone in his own position. That is the spirit of improvement, which is a refreshing contrast to the spirit of wallowing.

Bowie and Stevens never let themselves get bogged down in the ridiculous sincerity and self-importance that destroy nuance and frivolity. I was actually quite frightened to come to college, because I worried that everyone would care about "big issues" and earnestly debate the state of the world without even noticing the states of their surroundings. My nightmare did not come to pass, but I always enter meetings with twenty-somethings with caution. Some of them are so busy trying to change the world that they quit living in it. I hate that.

Back to my favorite men. They are not haunted by vagueness or a damaging affection for clichés. Each artist grounds his brilliance in specificity and immediacy. In "Five Years," Bowie writes, "A soldier with a broken arm, fixed his stare to the wheels of a Cadillac/ A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest, and a queer threw up at the sight of that."

Look at that. In one group of words, he does a lot of things. It's the end of the world, we've got five years, that's all, and look at what he sees. He's not seeing world peace, harmony, or an end to starvation; Bowie is too smart to see millions of people at once. Bowie sees a soldier, a cop, and a queer. They fill up his mind. When you pay enough attention to detail, individuals can do that; trying to discuss groups or trends is proof of lost humanity.

Stevens glorifies the individual in tone and treatment. In "A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts," he writes, "And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light/ In which everything is meant for you/ And nothing need be explained." There's a cat waiting in the grass to eat that rabbit, but the world is still meant for him because he thinks it is. Instead of worrying about all the cats crouched and ready to eat all the rabbits in the world. Stevens lets the prey have his moment. He doesn't worry about what it means to be a rabbit, and he definitely doesn't worry about how mean those bloodthirsty cats are. It doesn't matter.

I would rather listen to Bowie sing the goblin king song from Labyrinth on endless loop than read statements made on behalf of groups. The groups can keep their goddamn ideologies.

I will continue to shave my legs and think nothing of the act, and I will listen to David Bowie while I do it. My first day on campus, a wise (if insensitive) tour guide said to me while I was crying into my cell phone, "get off the phone and make some friends."

That was truly excellent advice. Stop crying, don't try to comprehend the big picture, and witness your own surroundings.

When Bowie stops to witness, he writes that his brain hurts like a warehouse. It hurts like that because he takes things in instead of spewing things out all the time.

Happy graduation, everyone. I love you all. And ladies: if you find expected presentability to be oppressive, be sure to check out Wetlands. I certainly won't be engaging in that particular activity.