REVIEW: SOAP SCUM

Thingol's Commentary #3: Soap Scum

Last month, in my review of Ogden Nesmer’s The Bath Procession, I took issue with the novel’s short length as compared to the scope of its themes and artistic style. Since then, the prolific Ogden Nesmer has become something of a recluse in his ordinary circles, hiding behind the difficult nature of our time zones from an interview with me. Yes. Well. Rest now, Ogden. All is okay. Because Jesse Larkins’s debut story collection (published by Anxiety Press) has since come across my desk, and it has captured my attention.

In fairness to Ogden Nesmer—as I find myself compelled to draw this comparison—the fact that Jesse Larkins’s Soap Scum is so characterised by its coherent scope, ambition, and design, as the one, single “object of art” which Nesmer aspired to, bears a caveat in its format as a story collection. This is not to take anything away from Larkins’s craftmanship—as, more importantly, a thing is what it is—and Soap Scum is excellent—but merely to make it clear that the persistent quality of Larkins’s unique style would be very challenging to sustain over the course of a novel, and it remains to be seen whether he is up to that challenge.

Once upon a time, I received feedback from an editor of the now defunded Meanjin magazine, who explained he had rejected a submission of mine due to the fact he did not believe it “could really be called a short story.” At the time, I did not understand how any self-respecting fiction editor could invalidate a story on the basis of its experimentation. But I think the same impression is likely to form in readers approaching Soap Scum for the first time.

The stories are unorthodox and wildly self-assured, appearing almost tedious upon a first impression. They are primarily characterised by frequent line breaks: basically, each break per sentence, per issue of dialogue, notation, or any sort of story beat, whether integral or extemporaneous. (Though this might be the least of what you remember about the stories by the time you have finished). Yes. I expect I am not the only one who experienced a momentary incredulity. I admit I flicked through the pages at a glance. “Surely it does not go on this way for the whole book?” It does. With remarkable endurance. Only you needn’t worry. As with any concept applied properly. You will adapt to its pace.

Example below:

There’s a bird outside my window.

I feel like I’m in a Disney movie.

Maybe if I’m friendly it’ll come inside and dress me.

The mice would say hi

We could have a montage where I try on clothes.

I’m tired

The bird woke me up.

There’s a scratch on the glass of the window now.

Was it pecking at it?

It stares at me.

It’s a pigeon.

…

It has the character, actually, of something other than what it is. You might figure the above excerpt for the norm if you are perusing the domain of “alt-lit-Substack” or the deflated, auto-fictional entries found in Hobart Pulp’s “MORE ARCHIVED:” section. But Larkins’s stylistic endeavours are more inventive than that. As each story progresses, they prove themselves to be carefully crafted, and their deceptively degenerate subject matter is often laden with sensitivity and meaning. Larkins adheres, for the most part, to a personal set of aesthetic rules which give the stories structural integrity. And they are free, then, to transgress our sensibilities with more authority than your average piece of “spoken” auto-fiction—and to greater extents than you would be willing to believe. You could even say, if you’re unable to help yourself, that these stories are more accurately a collection of free verse, narrative poems. Something like—and yet more than—Charles Bukowski’s The Man with the Beautiful Eyes, or something like—and yet less than—Allen Ginsberg’s Howl. Well. Whatever your preference. They are strong, startling pieces of literature that are capable of standing on their own, but they are all made stronger by the shared nature of the collection.

There is a certain rhythm to each story that is fairly consistent across the collection’s contents. So that, if you wanted to be uncharitable, you could say that “each story is the same as the next.” Only that, wherever that’s true, it does not prevent the story’s success, which I find is to Larkins’s credit. Fans of Quentin Tarantino are likely to feel this way, as well. The question becomes: how will he (Larkins/Tarantino) do what he does best this time? And: what will he change enough to make it work again? That is the experience of Soap Scum. Whether we begin by way of tragedy or get there by the end. Whether anal sex is the first or final taboo. Whether the shadow of sexual abuse must be decoded from an outset of metaphor or is revealed only after a young man has taken too much. These stories contain each of what they contain in different ways.

“The” narrator and protagonist of Soap Scum is not one man, woman, or character. (We are introduced to a different set of characters in every story). But, for the reasons described above, it can certainly feel that way. And it actually serves a pragmatic purpose for my analysis here. “He” often appears young, brazen, selfish, and dangerously superficial. But, the more as the story gets going, after we have been confronted by the rabid self-interest of this millennial/zoomer’s stream of consciousness (his tone and outlook “Cyber-punked” for the displeasure of your nerves) we come to understand that he is, in many ways, a prisoner of his own malformities. And so are all of Soap Scum’s characters the product of a world which is ruthlessly transactional, deranged, and digital in its infrastructure. They remain our chief concern throughout all of the stories. Themselves as the physical products of such a culture. The humans and young people who are brought about by this parallel dimension we all exist in. (Refreshingly, and very rarely, do we actually engage with the “online world,” and its creatively done when necessary). These people are flippant and cruel. They extract what they can from one another. They metaphorically “block” and “re-add” each other at a whim. They keep account of each other’s misdeeds and shortcomings for their own purposes, or forget them in an instant, where it would otherwise stall their immediate gratification. I know many young people like this—some of whom, sadly, are no longer so young. Ivy Wolk describes something like it. Jesse Larkins is unrelenting in his depiction of these microcosms; and, with each note of frivolity and excess his characters appear to revel in, the narrative will always trend towards sadness, and an awareness of what they have become.

Speaking from a technical point of view. I must admit I was not always certain of Larkins’s intentions where his experimental form is concerned. I have praised it so far. And, on the whole, it deserves to be lauded. But, as a reader, when you are captivated by an inventive style, you naturally set your mind to “cracking the code.” And I began to feel that there was no single theory of style that underpinned Larkins’s decisions. It was disappointing at times. I am reminded of David Foster Wallace’s The Broom of the System, which I happen to think is a fine novel. But it is a box of scattered parts, especially now when we can see the products of Wallace’s evolution… To put it one way, it is clear that Jesse Larkins has created his own style. When you turn the key, the car starts. And it’s easy to see, even throughout the course of these stories, how it is going to evolve into something more… To put it another way, it is a work of juvenilia. Scattered parts. I think Larkins must have written these stories in the order they are presented, as a lot of the inconsistencies fall away as the book progresses. But I’d prefer to have seen him re-write them all. You never like to see evidence of a writer’s eagerness on the page.

For example: I noted that certain line breaks early in the collection utilised punctuation erratically. I had the notion that Larkin’s rule was never to finalise a sentence with a period unless either: (a) the current plot beat had ended, (b) an emotional beat had resolved, (c) a longer string of dialogue had concluded—but within the course of each individual story, these criteria were always violated, making the poetic structure of the stories appear rather unconsidered, or perhaps forgotten amidst the fast pace of the writing… Styles of punctuation and tone appear to come and go at times. A single narrator may switch between “im” and “I’m” with no indication of why. We stray into a “lowercase,” aloof voice at times, but the stories do not commit to that element over the long term. Dusty tacks of traditional form like “I said” and “she said” emerge at random with no benefit to the rhythm or prosody of their line. These are only small details, but they undermine the sense of Soap Scum as both fiction and poetry, which is meant to be its greatest strength.

My personal favourite of the collection, doodle bop 👉👌 (which can be listened to here), takes the most of what Soap Scum does with its characters and themes and presents them with the most complete aspects of Jesse Larkins’s style. I think it might be the most unrelenting of the stories. Or that which is rendered most clearly. Let it say a lot to say that it must have taken courage to write. We meet a young man who is already debased, disintegrated, as he follows his every single whim from one woman to another, to the next drug, various calamities, and so on. He seems acutely aware of how pathetic it is to be “living for the moment,” but he has no desire to ascend beyond the same static memes that have captured entire generations. But he is still a man. A young man. Strong and healthy enough. So that he is naturally equipped with the physical and emotional resilience to carry on this way. As long as he is willing to eat shit every so often, he never has to change… Each line break represents the next thought. His attention is totally fragmented. Whims, desires, impulses come at him in the thousands. Hundreds per each moment. They ding like notifications. We read their basic descriptions. He wants to have sex, eat, smoke, drink, steal, fight, lie. In one sense, you could describe the story as a repetitive list of desires. Occasionally, he appears to redeem himself. He can be insightful, self-deprecating. But even this is performative. He can find the right words for contrition. But they have only enabled him past the point of no return. And it is this same pretence which eventually lures a fragile young girl he has fallen in love with past her own breaking point. We are often senseless to the serious consequences of things. People barely exist at times. And we take the deaths of our friends and family as important “lessons” which reliably fade in poignancy, however much we might still feel “sad” about them. doodle bop 👉👌spells this out Line by Line, in fragments of meme, advertisement, pornography, errant simulacra, and ancient forms of sin that have long since been liberated from the prisons of our better selves.

I was once foolish enough to cite Henry Miller as an influence of mine in front of Jesse Larkins. No. I won’t do that anymore. Because I have found his “zoomer-heir-apparent.” (I don’t actually now how old he is). It’s not just the sexuality, nor either the honesty, but the pace at which the narrator lives their life. I always found Miller somehow more obscene for how physically displaced he so often was, finding his way into back rooms, store rooms, homes of people he disliked, bathroom floor of his ex-wife, streets, dens, cafes, and so on. And there’s something of that physicality to Soap Scum which is what makes it important. I like that it makes a poor first impression. It comes across as something dreadfully “of its time,” if I can refer again to common notions of internet fiction. But it is something much more. “Right-wing non-binary.” We’ve done shameless confession to death. Jesse Larkins gives us the shameful. Yes. Indeed. We should all feel very ashamed.

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Buy Jesse Larkins’s Soap Scum at Amazon. Or find him among the names at Anxiety Press.

You can purchase my new collection Sleep Capricorn while you’re at it.