I was happy to write about an upcoming anthology of Shary Flenniken’s fine comic strip for the National Lampoon, Trots and Bonnie, earlier this week.
Self-quarantine and self-isolation are not new to me; I’ve been self-isolating since 1962, but instead of prudent caution I do it more because I hate people. Not that these are mutually exclusive. It could be that stupidity is even more contagious than the coronavirus, and we all must take steps to protect ourselves from infection. (Not to mention panic. Stress and anxiety will probably sicken more people than Covad-19 over the next few months.) But that’s the world we live in; the novelist Bruce Jay Friedman in the foreword to his 1965 anthology Black Humor put it best:
You hear an awful lot about the “fading line between fantasy and reality” in the modern world and I had better put that in fast or else I am not going to get to do any more Forewords. So here it comes. I agree. There is a fading line between fantasy and reality, a very fading line, a goddamned, almost invisible line … Then, too, if you are alive today, and stick your head out of doors now and then, you know that there is a nervousness, a tempo, a near-hysterical new beat in the air, a punishing isolation and loneliness of a strange, frenzied new kind. …
What has happened is that the satirist has had his ground usurped by the newspaper reporter. The journalist, who, in the year 1964, must cover the ecumenical debate on whether Jews, on the one hand, are still to be known as Christ-killers, or, on the other hand are to be let off the hook, is certainly today’s satirist. The novelist-satirist, with no real territory of his own to roam, has had to discover new land, invent a new currency, a new set of filters, has had to sail into darker waters somewhere out beyond satire and I think this is what is meant by black humor.
And that was before we started carrying around our own portable anxiety-delivery systems like the iPhone, Facebook and Twitter. (Today the New York Times even invites you to, as they put it on their home page, “play with a model of coronavirus in the U.S.“)
Friedman’s “new set of filters” is perhaps what is lacking in our satire now — the breadth of stylistic imagination and daring that you simply don’t find on The Daily Show and in The Onion, which can be very funny indeed, but limited by their narrowness of parodic form: the news show or the newspaper. To get into those darker waters beyond satire — and the art of our own age requires no less than that — you need to get beyond television and the internet.
There are still a few practitioners of black humor out there. Gary Shteyngart is one; to get beyond him, however, will require a bit of thought. So if you find yourself behind the closed doors of your apartment over the next few months, you might try to sail those waters. The novels of William Gaddis are a good place to start; maybe Catch-22 deserves another go; Terry Southern never disappoints; there’s Friedman’s own Stern; and, if you want to get all French about it, why not Journey to the End of the Night?
Me? As usual, I’ll be isolating myself at Cafe Katja later this afternoon; you’re welcome to isolate yourself with me. Prost! And wash your hands before you come. I may be misanthropic, but I’m not stupid.