Dan Brown. Really? Photo: Getty
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Could you go out with a Dan Brown fan?

 How online dating has turned singles into perfectionists.

Renowned online dater Eleanor Margolis staggered through the plentiful profiles in OkCupid’s grand gallery. To her delight, a message soon appeared in her inbox, as suddenly as a seven-figure advance on an atrocious novel that 3.5 billion people will nonetheless probably read.

This is the story of internet dating and the (not so stealthy) Dan Brown fan. On the likes of OkCupid, a new message is always a bit thrilling. I’d put it on about the same level as spotting Trevor McDonald at McDonald’s, or finding a quid on the pavement. With every new message, there’s always the hope that it will be the most promising you’ve ever received – or the least, and therefore entertaining in its own way.

This one seemed fairly promising. She’d clearly bothered to read my profile, and had even taken the time to send me a well-written and mildly funny message, rather than the standard “Hey, how’re you”. Her profile was appealing, her self-description witty and succinct; her taste in music and films matched mine (though find me one lesbian in her twenties who isn’t into Kelis and Woody Allen).

Then it came to books. Donna Tartt: nice; Jeanette Winterson: again, an obvious lesbian choice, but nice; Kurt Vonnegut: nice; and Dan Brown: oh. Not, “And, I have to admit, I don’t mind a bit of Dan Brown”; no, this woman had casually placed the man who wrote the following sentence – Overhanging her precarious body was a jaundiced face whose skin resembled a sheet of parchment paper punctured by two emotionless eyes – next to the man who wrote Slaughterhouse-Five. Instantly, I knew I could never let her touch me.

Online dating is turning singles like me into utter bastards. Had I met this Dan Brown fan in a bar, maybe we would’ve got talking (like I’ve ever just “got talking” to anyone in a bar, but still). Maybe we would’ve dated – we have plenty in common, after all. It could have been weeks or months before the Dan Brown thing reared its renowned head.

But when someone’s entire personality is laid out in front of you like one of those laminated menus with pictures of the food, it’s tempting to whip out a pair of tweezers and prepare yourself for a sneer.

This precious attitude towards meeting a partner is dooming snobs of my type to a life of forlorn onanism. I don’t doubt for a second that women have made snap judgements about me based on my dating profile. I can hardly hold it against them.

The internet has turned singles into perfectionists, in a world where perfectionism can only lead to loneliness. Then again, I’ve avoided dating someone who takes Dan Brown seriously. And for that, I’ll always be thankful.

Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose "Lez Miserable" column appears weekly on the New Statesman website.

This article first appeared in the 08 May 2014 issue of the New Statesman, India's worst nightmare?

Photo: Prime Images
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The Sad Part Was: this story collection puts the real Bangkok on display

Thai author Prabda Yoon descends into the voices and minds of a small cast of characters.

In Bangkok’s budding literary scene, Prabda Yoon sits at the centre. Born in 1973, he’s the scion of a well-known family (his father Suthichai Sae-Yoon is the co-founder of the Nation newspaper) and is known in Thailand as not only an enfant terrible of letters but as an illustrator, screen-writer and director (his first film, Motel Mist, was shown at European festivals in 2016).

His reputation rests mainly on a collection of short stories published in 2000 entitled in Thai Kwam Na Ja Pen, roughly translated as Probability, and it is from this early collection that most of the stories now collected in The Sad Part Was are derived. Translated with cool elegance by Mui Poopoksakul, they are among the first modern Thai stories to be published in the UK.

As Poopoksakul points out in her afterword, she and Yoon are the products of similar backgrounds and epochs: upper-middle class children of Bangkok who came to consciousness in the late Eighties and Nineties. Often foreign-educated, fluent in English and conversant in global pop culture and media – Yoon did a stint at Parsons in New York after prep school at the Cambridge School of Weston – this new generation of Thai writers and artists were born into a society changing so fast that they had to virtually invent a new language to transcribe it.

In The Sad Part Was, the result is stories that one could glibly label as “post-modern” but which, in reality, perfectly match the qualities of the megacity where they are set. Bangkok is infamously mired in lurid contradiction, but it’s also a city of subtle and distorted moods that journalism and film have hitherto mostly failed to capture. The whimsical and playful surfaces of these stories have to be read against the high-octane anxieties and surreal dislocations of what was, until recently, one of the fastest-growing cities in the world.

Yoon uses the short form of the ten-page story to descend into the voices and minds of a small cast of characters: a schoolgirl and a beautiful female teacher who form a platonic lesbian infatuation while riding a daily bus in “Miss Space”; a couple making love during a thunderstorm whose activities are interrupted by the dismantling of two giant letters, which fall onto their roof in “Something in the Air”; a young man who meets a mysterious older man in Lumpini Park called Ei Ploang, who forces him to consider the intertwined nature of good and evil. In “Snow for Mother”, a mother waits for her little boy to grow up so that she can take him to Alaska to experience the real snow, which he never knew as a little boy in the tropics.

In “The Sharp Sleeper”, a man named Natee obsesses over losing his shirt buttons and is led into a strange reverie on the nature of dreams and the competing qualities of red and yellow pyjama shirts (Thailand’s political culture is riven by two parties popularly known as Red and Yellow Shirts). The commentary slips into effortless sarcasm:

Natee has proudly worn the red pyjama shirt several times since then, and his dream personality hasn’t altered at all. On the contrary, the shirt has encouraged him to become a man of conviction in his waking life. As to what those convictions were supposed to be, Natee wasn’t quite sure. But it was safe to say that a night shirt so principled wouldn’t drop a button so easily.

Since these stories were written, Bangkok’s political schizophrenia has lost its former air of apathy and innocence, but Yoon’s tone is quietly prescient about the eruption of violent irrationality a few years later. It’s a reminder how precious the subtlety of fiction is when set against the shrill certitudes of activism and reportage.

My favorite story here is “Something in the Air”. Its dialogues are written with hilariously archaic, bureaucratic formality, while delving into the disorientation of sexual and romantic hopes in the present century. After the couple’s love-making is interrupted, the young man suggests insolently to the woman that they resume in the open air, exposed to the furious elements. She agrees. They then notice that a dead body is lying on the roof nearby, crushed by the giant letters.

While waiting for the police to arrive, the woman sits quietly and describes her future, a happily married future in which her current lover will play no part whatsoever. He listens in melancholy astonishment until the couple are called to give their testimonies about the dead man. The officers then suspect that the couple themselves have done something scandalous – and so, stung by shame, the woman considers breaking off the relationship and setting in motion her own prophesy.

The Sad Part Was is unique in the contemporary literature of Bangkok – it doesn’t feature bar girls, white men, gangsters or scenes redolent of The Hangover Part II. Instead it reveals, sotto voce, the Thai voices that are swept up in their own city’s wild confusion and energy, and it does so obliquely, by a technique of partial revelation always susceptible to tenderness.

Lawrence Osborne is a British novelist living in Bangkok. His next book, “Beautiful Animals”, will be published by Hogarth in August

The Sad Part Was
Prabda Yoon
Tilted Axis Press, 192pp, £8.99

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder