Savage Theories

by Pola Oloixarac

  As Pabst himself explained it, in the playful style of early Wittgenstein:

  Regarding Solitude as Inalienable Resource for the Administration of Nourishment to the Ego

  1. Embarrassment on behalf of others causes an infection in one’s own eye: momentary euphoria.

  1.1 It is an interactive process: the individual actively participates in making the infection worse.

  2.1 The (psycho)logical portrait of bare (human) facts is thought (of embarrassment on behalf of others) itself.

  2.1.1 René Descartes seated by the fire in his meditation room: immovable pieces of furniture are immovable persons. Little René has a wig on, caresses his curls. He is at the center of the world: without leaving his armchair he commences the activities, his je and his pe . . .

  2.1.2 In these moments of pleasure, little René seems to forget that his curls are clearly inferior to those of Leibniz.

  2.2 The act of partitioning the set of all desirable things logically requires the ability to make oneself despicable.

  At the end of the post there was an image of the folk singer Soledad, twirling her poncho. As for the victims of Pabst’s ire, some were accustomed to it; they soon stopped attempting to defend themselves, and always came back for more. (As Pabst was the first to admit, the medium made it hard to actually see them bowing down like servants before their master, acknowledging the Reign of Pabst once and for all, but each typo, each spineless rebuttal, each grammar or spelling mistake in their responses served as a distant column of smoke—proof positive that their home village had been torched.)

  Kamtchowsky liked Pabst’s blog; also, he was thin, and towered over her by almost a foot. It wasn’t the 1990s but their very childhoods that were back in style. Now that Kamtchowsky and Pabst had the criteria necessary to appreciate their youth aesthetically, they no longer skittered about like tiny fawns terrified of the rest of the herd.

  Strictly speaking, there is nothing exactly ugly about any of Pablo’s facial features. Considered as an ensemble, however, they give the sensation that a mistake has been made, that he is some stumpy species of mammal that should never have made it past the starting gate in the race against extinction. The revulsion he inspired can perhaps be explained by its subordinacy to the syntactic consensus regarding what it means to belong to a given species.

  Splayed out on his bed, with Kamtchowsky’s dark foot in his hand, Pabst reflected on all this:

  –In the 1970s, on the other hand, it was impossible to sound cheesy. You could announce that your object in life was to be a tormented poet, and no one would laugh at you. Now it’s different. Our age group is more highly evolved, aesthetically speaking, by which I mean that our mental posture is spontaneously critical of the events that occur, not merely dragged along by preordained actions. I have no idea how many neurons must be called into play to configure that sort of perceptual arc, but surely it is a substantially more complex operation than simply “believing oneself to be a constituent force” of something. Furthermore, one must take into account the fact that the conditions that make someone “interesting” at any given moment correspond to a specific, legible modality. Your environment can always be used to justify being a jackass, but not all justifications are valid. That is to say, adherence to an ethical structure that makes it harder to descend into imbecility can immobilize you—the effects of said adherence produce a kind of paralysis—but at least the inherent dignity of reflection and self-awareness are kept intact. Of course here I’m referring to the middle class, specifically to the middle class youths most likely to engage in healthy introspection.

  Kamtchowsky mentioned that the generational difference was perhaps a function of the distance between suffixes and prefixes. As seen morphologically in things like “consciousness-in-itself ” and “consciousness-for-itself,” the Suffix Generation focuses on that which results, that which extends a posteriori (syntax never lies) from consciousness; the following generation, on the other hand, discusses the issue of consciousness in terms of the biases inherent in its gaze, and thus opts for the prefix, for the preceding and therefore intrinsic characteristics of this selfsame ability to reason (e.g. self-consciousness). Pabst agreed enthusiastically; the significance and preponderance of huge posteriors amongst the Suffix Generation was beyond question. Classics like Los caballeros de la cama redonda (1973), Expertos en pinchazos (1979), El rey de los exhortos (1979), A los cirujanos se les va la mano (1980), Te rompo el rating (1981),i and certain blameworthy camera angles in the films of Enrique Carreras showed all too clearly the growing prevalence of carnal suffixes on Argentine soil. Likewise, the advertisements for Hitachi televisions—specifically those with the slogan “Hitachi, How Good You Look” superimposed on Adriana Brodsky’s derriere—express concisely the protean quality of information tucked into privileged areas so as to convey certainties.

  This gluteal liberation, undergirded by the rebirth of Argentine democracy, found an ideal habitat in a particular kind of sex comedy: those with military settings. Examples of this include Los colimbas se divierten (1986), Rambito y Rambón, primera misión (1986), and Los colimbas al ataque (1987).ii The adult nature of these films contrasted sharply with the anodyne clothing and de-eroticized vocabulary of the gang of adolescents in the television series Pelito (1982–1986). The series’ innocent family-based plot lines involving divorce, daddies who smoke, and what to do with the poor little black classmate (most notably the character of Cirilo Tamayo in Señorita Maestra, 1983) portrayed a love between boys and girls that was as stereotypical as the anal fetishism of the military comedies, though at least the girls of Pelito were safe from lordosis—as were those of Cantaniño cuenta un cuento (1979). Nonetheless, neither the prominence of anti-slut moralism nor the phenological custom of crossing oneself at each sighting of a noteworthy ass can successfully explicate what Pabst and Kamtchowsky took to be a more widespread sociological phenomenon.

  Moving smoothly to block Kamtchowsky’s first objection before she’d even made it, Pabst admitted that for his digression to be sustainable, he would have to establish a correlation between the Prefix Generation and the current-day obsession with tits—as things stood, it was still far too early to tell. All the same, the theory didn’t need to be all-encompassing in order to be accepted (here in this bed full of crumbs, books thick with underlined passages, computer cables, and packets of Sweet Mints) as an irreducibly wise hermeneutic manifesto.

  Pabst and Kamtchowsky were profoundly politically incorrect in their praise of McDonald’s. They loved that it regularly hired senior citizens—the only local business to do so—especially old women who had nothing to do with their lives. Its absurd molesto-clown mascot notwithstanding, McDonald’s was the only truly democratic space they knew of. Everyone stood in line as equals, and no one got more than they’d hoped for; the thirty-year-old employees with Down syndrome smiled widely even though they weren’t allowed to work the cash register. At times the place was a Limbo full of slum-dwellers, but most often they did their begging outside, leaving the middle and lower classes to cohabit in peace.

  Pabst and Kamtchowsky went out fairly often. In those days Buenos Aires was a cultural amusement park bursting with protoentertainment options. Kamtchowsky’s relative celebrity—a documentary she’d made about herself had caused quite a stir in certain circles—brought constant invitations to the city’s rash of exhibitions, multimedia happenings, screenings of youth-oriented films, and performance art pieces of varying degrees of topicality, forcefulness, interest, and mediocrity. As neither Pabst nor Kamtchowsky was at all attractive, they could wade into conversations about the relative sex appeal of other entelechies with precisely the amount of earned resentment necessary to make their opinions colorful and fun. Their disdain for themselves and their families was an inalienable good whose elasticity in the field of autobiographical analysis gave cover to their commentaries on everyone else; for example, as Jews, they smelled par
ticularly Jewish precisely because of their anti-Semitism.

  The social balance at these events was less delicate than at the private parties they often attended, where, according to the revisionist vice then in fashion, the menu was precisely that of the childhood parties their parents had thrown for them: Cheetos, popsicles, hot dogs. Every party had the equivalent of a clown, usually some geezerly egotist making a fool of himself. Those who’d emerged victorious from the womb during the Years of Lead meandered around like little animals hypnotized by their own hypersensitivity.

  The financial well-being of the attendees’ psychoanalysts depended on their ability to convince the youths of a modest truth: that once armed with the sinister petulance that comes from “assuming the burden” of belonging to a dysfunctional family, they could kindly forgive themselves for their phobias, mistakes, body odor, and lack of general culture; these were pseudo-illnesses to be exhibited as bizarre curiosities, or, more precisely, as clear proof of one’s distinction amongst equals. Anything placed under the redemptory halo of words like “sickness” or “problem” tended to awaken kindness in others, creating the protocols necessary for communication between flawed egos particularly susceptible to contagious infections such as empathy. The innate idea of a “personality” was easily substituted out for a Science Corner interminably packed full of neurasthenic pets. Treating egoic diseases (the what-how-when, the instructions and antidotes) was as simple as treating a disease that attacked iguanas: the iguana should eat one of these bugs every so often, and make sure it stays out of the cold; the person can’t stand these bugs, and likewise can’t stand the cold. Thus it was that little by little, everything once seen as a moral defect was converted into visible proof of one’s individuality.

  The more nervous Pabst and Kamtchowsky felt at festive occasions, the more carefree they pretended to be as they sipped from the cup of dissipation. Neither Pabst not Little K were sufficiently trained to survive a running Cooper Test throughout possible worlds, lying sportingly so as to avoid the judgment of others, which was of course inadmissible. Their youthful politesse led them to take for granted that following each new interlocutor’s opening comments (usually only half-understood, as the music was invariably loud, and only half-agreed to, as early reviews are generally bad, even when deep down they’re good), one or the other would smile a certain smile, having just been granted the title of “deep thinker” for the duo, a mistake that would inevitably lead to additional future misunderstandings.

  Kamtchowsky preferred not to admit it, but she was obsessed with sodomites. Standing there at the edge of the wall of humanity that lined the dance floor, it was hard for her not to stare at them idiotically as they moved to the music. She didn’t exactly envy their happiness, their fleeting success as a race, their tight little tees; she wondered how it was possible to achieve sufficient dilation for one’s sex life to be centered on anal rending. While it was obvious that as a muscle the anus had its place down there in the shadows, she wasn’t clear how often one could, so to speak, jog eight laps around Palermo.iii

  Pabst kindly offered to ream her in the ass so she could stop obsessing about it once and for all.

  –I don’t want to. I get too much pleasure just thinking about it. I’d rather leave it as my body’s one pristine, unreachable destination.

  Thus, having located a new Neverland within the borders of her backside, they hugged, and slept until dawn.

  5

  Amongst the Gahuka-Gana and Gururumba tribes in Papua New Guinea, young boys dressed as tigers are brought to the river, the air around them thick with the chanting and howling of the warriors. There they are confronted by a group of men standing knee-deep in the water; the men are masturbating, and pushing sharp leaf shards farther and farther up their nostrils until they begin to bleed profusely. The initiates imitate the men’s actions until they have induced their own hemorrhaging; they are then taken deep into the woods, where they spend a year living in the warriors’ huts. During this period they have almost no contact with women, and dedicate themselves to learning the arts of nosebleeds, vomiting, and playing the flute.

  Augusto García Roxler’s first steps in the company of men were likewise systematic and shadowed. Certain university legends (pejorative rumors that perished during the voyage from the Department of Medicine to his current kingdom in Philosophy and Letters over on Puan Street) have him fondling his pudenda during written exams: not exactly a hero-on-horseback effigy of Argentine letters. I was able to discover (through covert operations I will not discuss until the time is ripe) that his contact with the fair sex had been held to a minimum. On the other hand, the impression he gave—timid, vulnerable—led several unattractive female members of the administrative staff to trust him enough to take part in his experiments. Emilia “Piggy” Sosa was the first subject to complete his strange set of questionnaires, and to bear stoically the horror that such original, mysterious versions of the Theory produced. Apparently, the flaws in his nude physique made the research easier to conduct; when combined with other factors, the effect was such that his subjects voluntarily, instinctively recognized him as a predator. He was also careful to take precise cranial measurements. By the time I entered the department, however, he had lost his way, and abandoned all of these practices.

  Personally, I didn’t think much of his theories at the beginning. I smirked each time I heard or read his name, and if I happened to come across a text of his while rummaging through boxes of used books, I pushed it aside without a second thought, much as you’d separate out the uncoordinated children, or those who can’t write a proper sentence. Closing my eyes now, I can see him making his way down the Main Hall, his expression serious yet absentminded, a gray overcoat, papers and books falling out of his pockets, and I see myself languidly chewing bubble gum, or raising one condescending eyebrow, or doing both at once; the wild years of Augustus’s theories were history, and not the kind that leaves disciples, prefaces, and fear scattered in its wake.

  The fact that he was still around was less an honor for us than proof of a doddering ecosystem wherein doddering academics were allowed to coexist peacefully amidst the institutional deterioration, much as they had all their lives; the only thing expected of them was the possibility of (doddering) emeritus-type appearances. Thanks to these individuals, the university had quite a collection of pictures of Dorian Gray—automaton portraits for an antiquated university that never quite managed to be proud of itself. Even before I entered the department, Augustus’s intellectual life had come to an end. The weakening of his higher faculties had given him a certain charm . . . but as for reading his books? No one but me, with my omnivorous appetite and devotion to the task of learning, would ever have bothered with those spurious texts.

  As is well-known, it is difficult to separate sense from sensibilities as regards one’s contemporaries—and even more difficult if the contemporary in question looks like the cousin of some minor sub-species of Tyrannosaurus rex. The one thing I can state with certainty is that when I finally heard his voice for the first time, his phrasing had the cadence of absolute fact. And at that moment, the impossible occurred: the star pupil, the rampaging tigress of the classroom (moi) took an interest in the aged beast, the out-to-pasture professor, Augustus. And ensuite, everything changed: our inverted romance took a decisive turn as the brio of my youth combined with a gift for action that can only be acquired though training in the humanities, and I threw myself into an investigation of the possibilities that inhered in his theory.

  García Roxler himself agreed to send me a copy of his seminal article from Rivista di Filosofia Continentale, which I later returned to its author accompanied by a brief tribute and a lengthy appendix. I then went straight to work, putting off research that was perhaps more urgent. I wrote in tiny, seraphic handwriting, filling loose pages that I carried around with me everywhere; I later translated those outbursts of thought into the docile calligraphy of the compu
ter—so much more legible. I soon became an adherent of the illustrious theory that disdains linear representations of time, leaving past, present, and future all as yet unwritten. I tracked down seemingly untrackable articles published long ago in New Haven, Río Cuarto, Aix-en-Provence, Leipzig; I even managed to locate a handwritten copy of “Do Cave Paintings Dream of Syntactic Structures?” I also bought a fish, (Yorick, a red Betta splendens) because sooner or later I was going to need the company. I simply couldn’t stop.

  The peaks of intensity, the moments in which my intuitions became more or less perceptible to the human eye, generally took place either early in the morning or after dinner; only from the hours of rose to the hours of violet (i.e. 4 to 7 p.m.) did my mind permit itself to rest. Outside of that interval, my constant clacking at the keyboard kept my fingernails worn to the nub. I used wrist braces to avoid carpal tunnel cramps. I read, argued aloud, scrawled premises, undid conclusions; I read Augustus’s books and class notes, returned to my own notes, crossed things out, corrected errors in the margins, and went back to writing again. Augustus had taken the first step in a tactically forbidden direction: his approach to Van Vliet’s Theory of Egoic Transmissions combined metaphysical intuition, anthropological depth, the real-world potential of political philosophy, and language that was seductive, daring, rationalist. I don’t believe I’d come across such a swarm of theoretical activity since my tumultuous affair with Clausewitz’s theories of war and Van Vliet’s own Maanloos Geschriften (Written on Moonless Nights). I simply couldn’t stop.