Reviewed: Give Me Everything You Have by James Lasdun

Obsession in the age of the internet.

Give Me Everything You Have: on Being Stalked
James Lasdun
Jonathan Cape, 224pp, £14.99

In James Lasdun’s marvellously creepy novel The Horned Man, we meet Lawrence Miller, a middle-aged Englishman who, like his creator, lives in the US and teaches at a college in the New York area. Such colleges, in Lasdun’s black satire, are forcing houses of guilty hypocrisy about sex. Miller serves on a sexual harassment committee and proves himself more than willing to censure fellow teachers who “cross the line” with their students. Yet as the novel progresses, it becomes clear that Miller’s conscious virtue is only one half of a split personality, whose other half is, by a strict Freudian logic, all the more depraved for being so totally repressed. This other half, the reader gradually figures out, is a wife-beating, stranger-stalking, paranoiac murderer, whose deeds even Miller struggles to explain: how can the same mind contain such enlightenment and such evil?

The Horned Man is, in its nightmarish way, a convincing study in male sexual guilt. The more you try to hide the horn, Lasdun suggests, the more grotesquely tumescent it will become. Indeed, that kind of guilt – the unease of a highly civilised mind as it ironically parries its own drives – is a keynote of Lasdun’s work. You can see it again in the stories of It’s Beginning to Hurt, above all in short sketches such as “The Woman at the Window”. In this tale, an Englishman in New York is hailed on the street by a woman who claims to be locked in her apartment. Warily, the man agrees to break down the woman’s door and, once he does so, he is tempted to turn rescue into seduction; but, somewhat abashedly, he tames himself and walks away. The second half of the story contains the pay-off: the woman, Lasdun shows, pulls this same trick regularly in order to attract strange men. Like a Manhattan Lorelei, she is trying to suck men into the whirlpool of desire, where they will be consumed.

Only a reader somewhat familiar with Lasdun’s earlier work – in addition to fiction, he is also an accomplished poet and screenwriter – will fully appreciate the horror of the story he has to tell in his new memoir, Give Me Everything You Have. For the events of Lasdun’s life starting in 2007 have exactly the lurid, parable-like quality of The Horned Man. A few years earlier, he writes, he had taught a fiction workshop for graduate students, in which the stand-out writer was an Iranian-American woman in her thirties, whom Lasdun calls Nasreen. The class ended, time passed, and then Nasreen got back in touch with him, asking his help in finding an agent.

Impressed by her novel-in-progress, an autobiographical work about the 1979 revolution in Iran, Lasdun helped her and began a friendly, at times mildly flirtatious email correspondence. But, he makes sure to point out, he never allowed it to become openly sexual. He is a devoted husband and father with no interest in straying and when Nasreen makes inappropriate suggestions – for instance, “proposing to smuggle herself into my roomette” during a train journey Lasdun was planning to take – he realises: “Something more explicitly discouraging than a mere tactful silence was going to be required of me.”

Lasdun, in other words, has all the conscious, cautious rectitude of Lawrence Miller dealing with his female students. You can imagine his sense of dread and recognition, then, when Nasreen begins to invent for him an alter ego, compounded of her own fantasies, obsessions and hatred, that is as wicked as Miller’s. In emails sent at the rate of dozens a day, she elaborates a bizarre fantasy in which Lasdun commits all the sins he has taken care to avoid. Nasreen accuses Lasdun of sleeping with another student in their workshop, leading him to discriminate against her. Then she insists that he stole ideas from her novel and sold them to other writers. Then she claims that the story “The Woman at the Window” – which, Lasdun explains, was inspired by something that really happened to him in his early days in New York City – is based on her.

As her fantasies grow more florid, Nasreen’s emails – which Lasdun reproduces in the book – become violently profane: “I think this is called verbal terrorism,” she acknowledges in a rare moment of lucidity. They also, with a dismal inevitability, become anti- Semitic. The agent and editor to whom Lasdun referred her were both Jewish, as is Lasdun; to Nasreen, this makes them natural players in a Jewish conspiracy to defraud her. “I think the Holocaust was fucking funny,” she writes, and, “How fucking crazy Jews are these days,” and, “Do you have to be the stereotype of a Jew, James?” Eventually, Lasdun writes, she makes her way to “one of those words that scorch everything they come near. The word is ‘rape’.” “I say if I can’t write my book and get emotionally and verbally raped by James Lasdun, a Jew disguising himself as an English-American, well then, the Holocaust Industry Books should all be banned as should the films,” Nasreen rants.

Poison pen letters are nothing new. What makes Give Me Everything You Have a cautionary tale for the 21st century is the way that email and the internet make it possible to give such slanders instant, worldwide circulation. When Nasreen begins to repeat her accusations in the form of reviews of Lasdun’s books on Amazon, he has a sense that his very being in the world is under siege:

An ordinary negative review is depressing, but it doesn’t flood you with this sense of personal emergency, as if not only your book but your life, or at least that large aura of meaning that accumulates around your life and gives it value, is in imminent and dire peril. Call that aura your “character”, call it your “good name”, your “reputation”, your “honour”. Whatever it was, as I read the review on my screen I seemed to be seeing, as if through a powerful medical instrument, the first stages of some irreversible damage spreading into this nebulous yet indispensable entity.

Seen in a different light, or by a different victim, being stalked in this way might appear as just a piece of very bad luck. Yet it is striking how little credence Lasdun gives to the possibility, which will announce itself to any reader, that Nasreen is simply insane – a paranoid schizophrenic whose fantasies randomly focused on a man who happened to cross her path. If Lasdun had seen it that way, he might well have suffered less; but he would not have been able to write a book such as Give Me Everything You Have. For a writer, an experience only becomes an inspiration if it finds a ready welcome in his mind – if it fits into certain patterns of expectation and desire and dread that are already present.

It is this willingness to appropriate his worst experience that shows Lasdun’s true courage as a writer and that enables him to turn his book into something more than just another memoir. As he meditates on his relationship with Nasreen, Lasdun is drawn to works of literature that feature themes of sexual guilt and secret complicity. His refusal to respond to Nasreen’s sexual overtures seems to have ignited her mania; this makes Lasdun think of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, in which Gawain’s rebuff of a seductive queen goes along with a partial ­acquiescence in lust. As he crosses the US on a train, he thinks of Patricia Highsmith’s Strangers on a Train, another story of stalking, in which an upright man becomes the secret accomplice of a killer.

In each case, it is the impossibility of true innocence that obsesses Lasdun. In a refinement of scruple that can only be called morbid, he wonders if his refusal to feel any compassion for his stalker is the reason why he deserved to be stalked: “Perhaps if I could summon such feelings, the great sense of injustice lodged inside her, whatever its source, would stand a chance of being salved.” Finally, thankfully, Lasdun refuses this kind of guilt: “I feel . . . confronted by something unassuageable and beyond all understanding: a malice that has no real cause or motive but simply is.”

The element of Nasreen’s malice that proves most troubling for Lasdun – and therefore most stimulating – is her anti-Semitism. The son of Jews who joined the Church of England, Lasdun describes himself as having only a tenuous and conflicted sense of his Jewishness. However, like many Jews before him, he finds that his subjective experience of being Jewish makes absolutely no dif­ference to the way he is perceived by an anti-Semite.

What is particularly disturbing is the way Nasreen’s hate messages draw on anti-Semitic tropes that became prevalent during the George W Bush years. Nasreen instinctively understands that “neocon”, for instance, is an anti-Semitic code word. In her messages, Lasdun is seen as part of a Jewish conspiracy that begins by stealing her work and ends by starting the Iraq war, invading Gaza and inventing the “Holocaust industry”.

Lasdun sees himself as a singularly inappropriate target for such abuse – “I am not a supporter of Israel’s military policy, let alone any kind of Zionist,” he writes. But the last section of the book finds him travelling to Jerusalem, needing to find out more about the Jewish identity and the Jewish state for which he is, willy-nilly, held responsible. He begins to awaken to the prevalence of the kind of anti-Semitism Nasreen spouts: “There is something uncannily adaptive about anti-Semitism: the way it can hide, unsuspected, in the most progressive minds.”

In this way, Give Me Everything You Have joins a short list of insightful books about Jewish experience and anxiety in the post-9/11 world, along with Howard Jacobson’s The Finkler Question and Philip Roth’s The Plot Against America. At the time of writing, Lasdun concludes, Nasreen’s campaign of terror has grown more intermittent but it continues. In producing this book, however, he has at least regained control over his public image and become once again the authority on his own life. The most important lesson here is that everyone needs this kind of control – and that, in the age of the internet, it is shockingly easy to lose.

Adam Kirsch is a poet and critic. His most recent book is “Why Trilling Matters” (Yale University Press, £20)

 

Under siege: James Lasdun. Photograph: Dorothy Hong/Guardian News & Media Ltd

This article first appeared in the 25 February 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The cheap food delusion

Photo: Getty
Show Hide image

Sean Spicer's Emmys love-in shows how little those with power fear Donald Trump

There's tolerance for Trump and his minions from those who have little to lose from his presidency.

He actually did it. Sean Spicer managed to fritter away any residual fondness anyone had for him (see here, as predicted), by not having the dignity to slip away quietly from public life and instead trying to write off his tenure under Trump as some big joke.

At yesterday’s Emmys, as a chaser to host Stephen Colbert’s jokes about Donald Trump, Sean Spicer rolled onto the stage on his SNL parody podium and declared, “This will be the largest audience to witness an Emmys, period.” Get it? Because the former communications director lied about the Trump inauguration crowd being the largest in history? Hilarious! What is he like? You can’t take him anywhere without him dropping a lie about a grave political matter and insulting the gravity of the moment and the intelligence of the American people and the world. 

Celebs gasped when they saw him come out. The audience rolled in the aisles. I bet the organisers were thrilled. We got a real live enabler, folks!

It is a soul-crushing sign of the times that obvious things need to be constantly re-stated, but re-state them we must, as every day we wake up and another little bit of horror has been prettified with some TV make-up, or flattering glossy magazine profile lighting.

Spicer upheld Trump's lies and dissimulations for months. He repeatedly bullied journalists and promoted White House values of misogyny, racism, and unabashed dishonesty. The fact that he was clearly bad at his job and not slick enough to execute it with polished mendacity doesn't mean he didn't have a choice. Just because he was a joke doesn't mean he's funny.

And yet here we are. The pictures of Spicer's grotesque glee at the Emmy after-party suggested a person who actually can't quite believe it. His face has written upon it the relief and ecstasy of someone who has just realised that not only has he got away with it, he seems to have been rewarded for it.

And it doesn't stop there. The rehabilitation of Sean Spicer doesn't only get to be some high class clown, popping out of the wedding cake on a motorised podium delivering one liners. He also gets invited to Harvard to be a fellow. He gets intellectual gravitas and a social profile.

This isn’t just a moment we roll our eyes at and dismiss as Hollywood japes. Spicer’s celebration gives us a glimpse into post-Trump life. Prepare for not only utter impunity, but a fete.

We don’t even need to look as far as Spicer, Steve Bannon’s normalisation didn’t even wait until he left the White House. We were subjected to so many profiles and breathless fascinations with the dark lord that by the time he left, he was almost banal. Just your run of the mill bar room bore white supremacist who is on talk show Charlie Rose and already hitting the lucrative speaker’s circuit.

You can almost understand and resign yourself to Harvard’s courting of Spicer; it is after all, the seat of the establishment, where this year’s freshman intake is one third legacy, and where Jared Kushner literally paid to play, but Hollywood? The liberal progressive Hollywood that took against Trump from the start? There is something more sinister, more revealing going here. 

The truth is, despite the pearl clutching, there is a great deal of relative tolerance for Trump because power resides in the hands of those who have little to lose from a Trump presidency. There are not enough who are genuinely threatened by him – women, people of colour, immigrants, populating the halls of decision making, to bring the requisite and proportional sense of anger that would have been in the room when the suggestion to “hear me out, Sean Spicer, on SNL’s motorised podium” was made.

Stephen Colbert is woke enough to make a joke at Bill Maher’s use of the N-word, but not so much that he refused to share a stage with Spicer, who worked at the white supremacy head office.

This is the performative half-wokeness of the enablers who smugly have the optics of political correctness down, but never really internalised its values. The awkward knot at the heart of the Trump calamity is that of casual liberal complicity. The elephant in the room is the fact that the country is a most imperfect democracy, where people voted for Trump but the skew of power and capital in society, towards the male and the white and the immune, elevated him to the candidacy in the first place.

Yes he had the money, but throw in some star quality and a bit of novelty, and you’re all set. In a way what really is working against Hillary Clinton’s book tour, where some are constantly asking that she just go away, is that she’s old hat and kind of boring in a world where attention spans are the length of another ridiculous Trump tweet.

Preaching the merits of competence and centrism in a pantsuit? Yawn. You’re competing for attention with a White House that is a revolving door of volatile man-children. Trump just retweeted a video mock up where he knocks you over with a golf ball, Hillary. What have you got to say about that? Bet you haven’t got a nifty Vaclav Havel quote to cover this political badinage.

This is how Trump continues to hold the political culture of the country hostage, by being ultra-present and yet also totally irrelevant to the more prosaic business of nation building. It is a hack that goes to the heart of, as Hillary's new book puts it, What Happened.

The Trump phenomenon is hardwired into the American DNA. Once your name becomes recognisable you’re a Name. Once you’ve done a thing you are a Thing. It doesn’t matter what you’re known for or what you’ve done.

It is the utter complacency of the establishment and its pathetic default setting that is in thrall to any mediocre male who, down to a combination of privilege and happenstance, ended up with some media profile. That is the currency that got Trump into the White House, and it is the currency that will keep him there. As Spicer’s Emmy celebration proves, What Happened is still happening.