AUTHENTICITY.

A few years back, I was at a gathering of what Stephen King has referred to, and I paraphrase, as that organization on the first page of the phone book.  I remarked that in a few months, I’d be hitting a landmark in my years of spiritual living, details not particularly relevant here.

When asked how I’d feel about that, I replied, without spending enough time to consider my answer, “Smug.”

It got a laugh, as it was intended to do so, of course, but I immediately regretted saying something like that in a room full of people who only thought they knew me.

I was then described, moments later, as “Authentic.”  This was the first time I had heard this use of this word in this context, which, over the years since, I’ve come to understand actually means to represent honesty, as opposed to being genuinely honest. 

This adjustment has occurred as the culture has come to value intent and intention over actual action, through displays of self regard and performative morality…see, as an example, all those people who told us loudly and aggressively that they were going to vote for Bernie Sanders for months leading up the primary, and of course never showed up.

That experience at that get together of a few years back was brought to mind this morning.

As a result of the current dogpile on her legacy, I’ve been rereading Flannery O’Connor, an author I haven’t read since my second marriage, to a woman far more literate than I at the time, who introduced me to a world beyond genre material for which I remain grateful despite her loathing of me, which should I predecease her, will definitely get my grave pissed on—so the rest of you will just have to get in line.

But I digress.  So what else is new, right?

O’Connor writes beautifully, and craftily, but yes, from any perspective, her racial attitudes, certainly as expressed by her characters at the very least, are at best discomfiting.  She is all too likely to join the list of talent who’ve been canceled, despite the insistence by many that this so-called cancellation culture stuff is just nonsense.

On top of all this, Flannery O’Connor was apparently a miserable human being, and, apropos of nothing other than the potential for metaphor, was afflicted with Lupus.

Yes, her work is, to use another unfortunate word that’s been pummeled into unfortunate overuse, problematic.  That said, I don’t necessarily read to be comforted.  I never needed to be told how antisemitic a character Fagin was.  And all the reinterpretations still don’t mean shit in regard to Shylock.

Others mileage may differ in regard to reading work that might offend, naturally, and the culture is veering into a territory where left and right intend to have a field day in telling you what you can and cannot read.

All this leads me to believe we may be entering an American version of Soviet era Samizdat. 

Look it up—I’ll likely return to this subject in a day or two.

And again, I digress.

Back to authenticity.

So, this morning I’m reading a passage in O’Connor’s WISE BLOOD, a novel I haven’t read in nearly forty years. A character is described as per the following…

“…An honest look that fitted into his face like a set of false teeth.”

I can’t imagine a more lyrical and perfect description of the sort of authenticity I’m talking about here, by a writer who is likely to be removed from acceptability, let alone any canon of any kind.

So, as things progress, once you’ve looked up Samizdat, and considered its implications, as well as considered the potential trajectory of the culture in which we find ourselves, you might want to start accumulating stuff that you might once have thought was always going to be there but might be disappeared right out of your hands before you know it.

Trust me on this.

As ever, I remain,

HOWARD VICTOR CHAYKIN—a Prince—authentically.