in which one reads morrissey's autobiography

[stevenwriteyournovel-blog]

Nerve deserts me in 1986 as I spot the American writer and social reformer James Baldwin sitting alone in the lobby of a grandiose Barcelona hotel. He is weathered and intense, absorbed in his own thoughts, with a face there could never be enough time to describe. I drink him in, but can do no more. I pin so much prestige to James Baldwin that to risk approach places my life on the line; I'd hang myself at any glimmer of rejection. History books overlook James Baldwin because he presented an unvarnished view of the American essence - as blunt and rousing as print would allow. His public speeches were intoxicating, his motivational palette of words so full of fireworks that you smile as you listen - not because of humor, but because he was so good at voicing the general truth, with which most struggled. His liking for male flesh gave the world a perfect excuse to brush him aside as a social danger, and he was erased away as someone who used his blackness as an excuse for everything. In fact, his purity scared them off, and his honesty ignited irrational fear in an America where men were draped with medals for killing other men yet imprisoned for loving one another. Pitifully, on this Barcelona day, I do not have the steel to approach James Baldwin, because I know very well that I will jabber rubbish, and that his large, soulful eyes will lower at someone ruefully new to the game. Shortly thereafter, he is dead.

morrissey's autobiography, p. 196, penguin classics edition. possibly the sweetest passage so far - grumpy little steve was just too starstruck to talk to james baldwin. how adorable.

i remain confused and frustrated by his apparent vendetta against paragraph breaks.

[stevenwriteyournovel-blog]

morrissey spends approximately one page (p. 166-167) discussing being contacted by ann west and winifred johnson (the mothers of moors murder victims lesley ann downey and keith bennett, respectively). he is nothing but respectful when discussing ann west's campaign to keep myra hindley imprisoned and winifred johnson's fight to make the police re-open the search for keith's body, suggesting that he is actually capable of human compassion.

the last few sentences (morrissey doesn't do paragraph breaks) read:

Of course, had Keith been a child of privileged or moneyed background the search would never have been called off. But he was a poor, gawky boy from Manchester's forgotten side streets, and minus the blonde fantasy-fetish of a cutesy Madeleine McCann.

which, aside from the arguably tasteless pitting one helpless child victim against another, is certainly a legitimate point, and one i can't really argue with.

i don't really have a joke here, or anything snarky to say about his perfectly respectful and compassionate handling of such a gruesome subject matter, but i do wonder how both of these women would feel, were they still alive, about his recent comments equating people who eat meat with paedophiles. this is not me trying for some kind of "got you there, morrissey!" snarky jab, this is just a sigh. a despairing, frustrated sigh.

[stevenwriteyournovel-blog]

Also present at the first few Smiths gigs was local newshound Anthony Wilson, to whom I had given a copy of the New York Dolls' first album in 1975. 'I've never heard of them,' he said, so keenly lay his finger on the pulse.

page 150 (penguin classics edition, obvs). i read this a few hours ago and i am still laughing. SIQ BURN, BRO.

[stevenwriteyournovel-blog]

"[...]what had girls to offer? Nothing but a mangled jungle of tangled hair presented as the jackpot payoff. Honeypots sprawled like open graves, their owners doing nothing at all other than letting you. The call of duty is all yours - to turn on and get off; to hit the spot and know the ropes; to please and be pleased; as the owners of such Bermuda Triangles do... nothing."

page 76 of the penguin classics edition (tangent: don't even get me started on the fact that he made penguin publish it as a classic f i h8 u morrissey)

like i realise this is about when he was a teenager and i sympathise with the confused indifference to girls as a budding tragic homosexual but oh my god morrissey you are writing this as a man in his mid-50s would it kill you to just... not...?????

[stevenwriteyournovel-blog]

ok but seriously like

this book

???????

i am just about a third of the way through it and first of all it could not be more apparent that no one dared edit it and also that morrissey is a total dick

lrn2paragraphbreaks lrn2chapters lrn2LYPHE TBQH why do you hate everyone who is trying to read your book, morrissey

and second of all oh my god i mean clearly this is morrissey and anything critical you could possibly say about his book will rightly be met with "well, yeah, duh?" but jfc must he make it so apparent that he is desperately in love with him self and just really loves to hear himself speak - or, in this case, to see his own words on a page

so much of this is like the ramblings of a grandad tbqh? like "yes, when i was your age, dear timothy, i used to enjoy watching the television programmes of my day, of course it was all in black and white then..." and then what feels like fifty pages (but is actually more like, idk, three or four, i lost count tbh) of him just banging on and on and on about the tv he used to watch as a kid????? FOR WHY? one would think he was trying to, idk, ~set the scene~ or something (i am currently also reading les miserables, you see) except... there is no scene to be set? just endless ramblings interrupted by other ramblings? dear lord

[stevenwriteyournovel-blog]

before i start this thing for real, some bulletpoints previously spewed out elsewhere

morrissey literally referring to his teenage self as "17, clumsy and shy" when writing about the time he fanboyed russell mael at cbgbs is so important, so objectively crap but SO IMPORTANT i need a salad bowl to cry into tbh

before i was 150 pages in it had already established itself as the gayest goddamn thing i've ever read - and let me tell you, i've read some gay ass shit in my time, including just about everything quentin crisp ever wrote.

i wonder how angie marr feels about being held up as, apparently, the one and only example of the girlfriend (now wife, obvs) of a dude in a band who is super awesome UNLIKE ALL THOSE OTHER WOMEN WHO RUIN EVERYTHING WITH THEIR WOMANNESS UGH WOMEN AMIRITE e w w girls have cooties pass it on >:(

[stevenwriteyournovel-blog]

hello i am currently reading morrissey's autobiography

my friend kylie told me to set up a tumblr to chronicle my reactions as i undertake this strange and slightly terrifying journey, and in the interest of sparing the more delicate among my facebook friends (such as my own mother), i decided to take her up on it

pls feel free to follow, enjoy, send me anonymous hateful asks, etc