Celebrating Mediocrity: The Fall of Meaningful Art
I am, without a doubt, the most judgemental person I know. Admittedly, it is not the best trait to have, and where I try and cover up by saying my taste is simply refined, what I mean is I am insanely picky. I am, however, curious. I refuse to judge something without trying it, at the very least, which is, superficially, a positive trait.
However, I am here, instead. Having just listened to Ice Spice’s new song (the fart one. You know the one), having given up within the first twenty pages of Haunting Adeline, and writing this in a rage-induced haze when I should be preparing for my chemistry mid-terms.
Having grown up surrounded by books, by literature and media and being a deep appreciator of all art-forms has, while not inculcated in me the most cultured or intellectual perspective, inculcated in me a perspective that aims to find meaning behind work.
Of course, some work is meant to be meaningless. Songs written less for the lyrics, more for the beat. Limericks and silly, light-hearted books. Not all art has to be revolutionary or politically motivated or a constant struggle against some form of oppression or ‘the system’. Some art simply has to be, and that’s okay!
I am an avid appreciator of ‘having to be’ art. I use light, unserious fiction as an escape, I listen to silly songs meant to be goofed around to, I watch my little sister and my friends make cute art that holds no depth, with its only purpose being to be looked at and to exist. However, I do not understand this current trend of overhyping mediocrity at its finest.
Let me begin my tirade by making this very clear: I don’t hate any of these creative personalities mentioned. They are, however, perfect examples for the point I am trying to prove and thus important in my rant. (except haunting adeline. I cannot. I need to be monetarily compensated for my exposure to whatever that was)
The rise of social media and, specifically, TikTok has seen an increase in the number of artists on all platforms. While I am not chronically online, nor am I ‘up to date’ with the kids, I am constantly filled in by those around me, and specifically so by my little sister, who prefaces almost all her new song choices by giving me an unasked for background on the artist. Most of them are TikTokers or Youtubers, and while I do see the appeal in writing a few, mediocre lyrics (at best) and then adding a catchy, social-media baited beat and blowing up, I don’t see the appeal from the consumer’s perspective because.
Really?
Am I just geriatric? Is my skin about to wither and are my teeth about to fall off? Is ageing the reason for my bad posture and irritability? Or am I simply so disconnected from social media that being exposed to it in such sudden bouts is jarring?
To appreciate a catchy beat is one thing. to make someone an overnight star when their skill is undeserving of it, when they don’t hone the craft as they should, don’t honour it nor value it as they should, is another. To watch people produce songs, over and over again, that sound like they were written via alphabet soup, slapping on the same, almost nursery-rhyme sort of rhyme-scheme onto it with no lyrical creativity whatsoever, and adding on a catchy beat and watching people froth at the mouth over it is…odd.
There are artists like Hozier, who sound and write like they spend their days carving out a hole in their chest to claw out whatever’s inside onto a paper and then, subsequently, to have the same emotion be echoed by their instrument. And while appreciation of superficial music isn’t wrong, holding the two to the same esteem
And as the rise in ‘TikTok music’, meant for consumption without having to put any actual, genuine thought into both production and consumption, continues, a simultaneous drop in genuine, meaningful music is seen alongside it. A lack of music meant to invoke thought, because for some reason thinking and, god forbid, thinking hard are fates every person seems to want to escape these days, wanting things as easy as humanely possible.
(NOTE: I sound like a 70 year old. I am not 70. I am in fact very youthful. Please do not shame me for my ‘boomer’ ideology, I can assure you I am far from that, though im not young enough to know ‘fanum tax’ without my little sister’s aid, either. I honestly still don’t get it, but, irrelevant)
And, in addition to this, a turn of events that has caused me multiple grievances: the fall of mentally stimulating literature. Where we once had books like Lolita (I am obsessed, visibly), Crime and Punishment, 1984, The Handmaid’s Tale, and even sweeter, lighter fiction, such as Pride and Prejudice (:D), Oliver Twist, Heidi (a childhood favourite), Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, and even modern, romance fiction that I enjoyed, more so as a guilty pleasure, such as The Song of Achilles (a book I found via social media!), The Fault in Our Stars, and so many more, they were all. Well.
Consensual.
Literature, I believe, has been consumed for mental stimulation, as well as for escapism. There are dualities to it. people who may read solely ‘light’ books are no lesser than those who read books for intellectual discussion. Enjoying a romance novel makes you no lesser than those who enjoy, I don’t know, war and peace. The purpose for reading varies, for many, and as was the case for music, enjoyment of a silly, escapist story isn’t a bad thing.
However, the rapid decrease in genuinely intellectually stimulating literature, a saturation of the market with books written by and for women who wish to consume nothing but literary porn is…shocking. Of course, amid these authors, a hidden gem or two may be found, but those are rare and your chance of happening upon them is purely dependent on your luck.
The decline in intellectual literature, a stop in books condemning social issues, a pause in the dystopian novels, the carefully crafted mysteries, the sappy and yet poetic romance novels, in the poetry, written in flowery language and concealing a meaning behind its elegant scrawl, or written plainly and meant to pierce the heart immediately. The marvels of literature, the power of words, of the ability to influence, has been stripped down to fit a mainstream market, a market that runs on consumption by women with. Really odd affinities.
While I’ve been more or less bland about my distaste so as to not get tracked down and murdered on the street about pop culture and stars, knowing the sheer insanity and determination fans have when it comes to their favourite celebrities (I recommend channeling this dedication into learning a new skill), I’m going to be positively hateful about Haunting Adeline.
To be subject to that book is worse than torture. Everything I knew about that book had been, initially, against my will. However, I refuse to judge without trying. I am currently working on this flaw of mine, rest assured. I will now be judging indiscriminately and based on sheer vibes alone. Blessedly, my remaining brain cells that managed to escape the massacre inflicted upon me by this book, forced to me close it before I further damaged by rapidly decreasing IQ.
Instead, I took a walk, touched grass, and read the goodreads reviews. And yes, I read the five-star ones. No, I did not read the assault scenes. I value my sanity. I gave up when he started chopping people up and acting like he was a moral messiah for saving people from assault whilst simultaneously being willing to assault.
As someone who comes from a developing country, I have seen first-hand what harmful effects media can have when propagating ideas. To market this book as ‘dark romance’, when the romance in itself is assault, would send a rather iffy message about what girls like today, don’t you think? And yes, I understand the appeal of obsession to the point of insanity, I get it, you’ve never been loved wholly and want someone to desire you. but, in this form?
It’s just a book, yes, but think of the influence this book has. Think of those who see this book marketed as a dark ‘romance’, on an app with children, who stumble across posts about this book, and think ‘oh, so people like this’
‘but aru, it’s just fiction, we all want a man who will kill foor us in fiction, why don’t you have anything to say against that?’ because chances are, 9/10 times, a man wont kill you. be realistic, who is that dedicated in this day and age? Chances of him assaulting a woman? Hm.
BUT. To counter my own point, the main target audience for this book is women. So. WHY. WHY WOULD YOU. WHY.
Maybe I am at fault here. Perhaps I am the moron staring blearily at my screen at 3 AM, my organic chemistry textbook hidden underneath my computer screen as I type, unable to see whats right in front of me. Maybe im trying to make sense of a picture whilst missing multiple puzzle pieces.
Explain it to me, what about a rapist is attractive. What leads you to consume, mindlessly, this superficial media, to saturate your market with a fantasy, a fetish, for being loved and devoured and obsessed over, what leads to you craving a misogynistic undertone in your romance. What about assault gives you the butterflies? What about systematic oppression has you curling your hair around your finger?
Oddly enough, despite the numerous warnings about the sheer deviancy of the book, I found myself completely enthralled by it. I mean this in the most normal, morally-sound, anti-paedophilia manner. The fact that i have to add these assurances before jumping into my tirade is part of the reason i wrote this tirade, so.
Somehow, without a single sexually explicit paragraph (in the modern sense, of course), and without gratuitous usage (or, in some cases, any usage at all) of vocabulary that would aim to objectify and demean, the picture painted of Humbert, a pervert and scum of society, hidden behind the charming mask of a handsome, intellectual man, and Lolita, rash and abrasive and altogether a panicked child, painted from his perspective as not only an equal, as a lover, but also as a wanting party, was an absolute delight to read.
AND. I would end there. I would express my utter admiration of this book and go, BUT, it seems, my admiration for this book has been taken to mean, time and time again, as approval for Humbert's actions (insanity bc. why), so i will be expressing my rage here.
Breaking it down, Lolita is more than just a book. It's been written on paedophilia, on grooming and child sexual abuse and a wide array of horrifying topics, the sort polite society would wrinkle their noses at. And while a number of books discussing these topics do exist, none of them exist, as beautifully, from the abuser's perspective. Lolita is more than just a book, it is the psychological study of an offender.
Humbert is, without a doubt, an abhorrent, abhorrent man. and Lolita is, without a doubt, simply a child, awkward in her existence, growing into her body still, fumbling through adolescence and the venom of her mother in whatever way she knows best. She seeks respite in Humbert, a caring, paternal figure, and he simply takes advantage of her.
However, the real kick, the twist, the reason I worship this book on a daily basis mentally, is because of the fact that it expresses its duality gorgeously. There is Lolita, victim. There is Humbert, abuser. These are facts that remain constant throughout the book. But, since this book is from his perspective, there is Humbert, the sad, lonely, intellectual man, handsome and charming and an adolescent fantasy, and there is Lolita, temptress and nymph and magnetic.
While the common thread of criticism seems to be about a lack of condemnation of his actions, the fact that the book is from his perspective explains that well enough. He is, in his eyes, perfectly right in his stance. He is a bewitched sailor at sea, and she the siren.
She is painted as such, too, when seen from his eyes, but when analyzed rationally, for even a minute, her suffering comes into full-view. This is what's simply so addictive about the book, to me. This constant interplay of condemnation and approval.
In the background, Dolores sits, trying her best to escape the constant horrors of her life. In the background, Humbert, literal monster in the body of a man, preys on the little girl. In the foreground, however, his thoughts, his biases, blend into the narration. Beneath the elegantly crafted narrative, the flowery language and shimmering descriptions and multiple self-appraisals and, on the rare, horrifying occasion for the reader, moments of genuine appreciation of the character, for his wit or his wiles, before realizing who he is and what he's done and snapping out of the trance he's managed to put everybody under, lies a maggot-infested corpse, Dolores' innocence decaying at the bare bones of the book.
To expect a man to write a book from his perspective, justifying his crimes, and yet be shocked when he does not condemn himself would be idiocy. but to write a book of this sort, and simultaneously condemn and appraise him, to put him upon a pedestal and crush him beneath the (unfortunately) metaphorical heel would be GENIUS. there, i said it. nabokov is a genius.
BUT. i am not done. i will never be done. i need to personally thank vladimir nabokov (somehow) for having created this magnificent masterpiece, and i need to personally smack everyone whose selective hearing has allowed them to completely disregard his orders for the cover designs. Dolores, his child, being painted on the front cover was not what he wanted.
AND THE MOVIE. The infernal rage that fills me at its existence would be enough to fuel a continent's electricity through sheer combustion heat alone. but. a topic for another day.
