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The Full Count In That Old Seventh Round? Then there is the obliga–
tion to make a book appear interesting and unusual, a condition achieved
by asterisks, dots and dashes, capricious use of bold type, and a judicious
measure of pages in which all the paragraphs contain only one sentence.
True,
The Memoirs of a Shy Pornographer
has not half so many type–
setting thrills as Patchen's
Journal of Albion Moonlight.
The marginal
notes and bewitching drawings have been discarded, the pages aren't
broken up quite so daringly; but this new book can still be identified
as the real article. One has only to glance at it to see that Patchen
remains the supreme hack of the "shock" writers. There is no scarcity
of those spine-tingling reflections we associate with his name. (What does
it mean to live! ... What does it mean to die! ... Who made the
world this way!)
The Memoirs of a Shy Pornographer
concerns itself with Albert
Budd, the author of an apparently innocent novel which, by a little doc–
toring from two fantastic literary agents, becomes a notorious piece of
under-the-counter pornography. The agents employed a simple and
humorous device. Whenever a word such as "kiss" appeared it was
replaced by four asterisks, on the reasonable assumption that the reader
will think an omitted word a bad one. Albert then sets out on his ad–
ventures: he becomes a private detective, goes to some barbaric parties,
falls in love with a crippled girl named Priscilla, and ends up in heaven.
On the title page the author describes the book as an amusement and
it does contain a certain number of quite funny situations and lines.
The straight dialogue is often excellent, particularly when it is based on
Patchen's good knowledge of American slang. However, the author is
anything but master of the pun, as "Oh, you phallus are all alike" will
bear witness. When he assails mystery stories, the great love affair, and
other obvious aspects of contemporary foolishness, his comic skill is
considerable. On the other hand, such gifts as he has are too often
sacrificed for dull, surrealist whimsy in which the images and situations
have so little relevance to life they might be exchanged for a thousand
others. In addition, Patchen suffers profoundly from a Messianic com–
plex-that inevitable occupational disease of the self-conscious literary
rebels. Sanctified, boyish evangelists are not likely to become good
satirists; instead, they make first-rate sentimentalists.
The author and his publisher seem to be under the impression that
The Memoirs of a Shy Pornographer
is bold, challenging and icono–
clastic. Out of the twenty-three questions designed to lure the prospective
buyer, a few quotes will suffice. We are asked: Do you really want the
truth? Are yJJu satisfied with the state of (a) World Society (b) your
soul (c) American writing? Have you ever wondered what it would be
like to be really alive? After this audacious beginning we are disap–
pointed to find that what we have is only the iconoclasm of the Great
