A Phone of the Artist as a Young Man by Pierce Day – PART FOUR OF FOUR

ARE YOU UP TO DATE?

If not:

READ PART ONE OF THIS REVIEW HERE

READ PART TWO OF THIS REVIEW HERE

READ PART THREE OF THIS REVIEW HERE

A Phone of the Artist as a Young Man (Screenshot Books, 2024) is available from Metalabel

PART FOUR – AM I BITTER? AM I JEALOUS? AM I OVER THE HILL???

Am I bitter? Am I jealous? Am I over the hill???

No?

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I realised as I returned to A Phone of the Artist as a Young Man that I could write hundreds of words on every sentence in it, thousands of words on every chapter…

I could pick apart each word choice, each reference (cultural/literary/political) and explore its efficiency, its appropriateness and its success as relates to the use Day has ascribed to it.

It doesn’t matter, I don’t think, whether I left this book feeling that it was enjoyable or important or interesting or even, like, good…

Because for something to have this depth of SOMETHING, this depth of potential engagement, it means that there definitively exists some kind of power, some kind of meaningfulness within the text.

This, ultimately, isn’t trash. It’s a long way from trash. It’s something very special.

Sure, A Phone of the Artist as a Young Man is far from flawless, is far from consistent and – on a sheer sociopolitical perspective – is far from the kind of book that – in my opinion – the world needs more of.

These opinions and these ideas and this demographic and this type of character have all been expressed in this way (or proximate ways) and by this kind of person (or proximate ones) hundreds of times over the past hundred years.

And as much as I say that and do fundamentally agree with the argument that the publishing industry therefore should prioritise narratives and creative projects and forms and expressions that are more diverse, it is also easy to see how that idea and this comment from me contributes to the anti-diversity narratives that have wrapped their fingers around the throats of young (and not so young) people whose stories and forms and ideas were historically published and praised and lauded: “If all those other generations of literary lad novelists got to published and be damned, why can’t I?”.

Is it unfair that Pierce Day, that scott manley hadley, that the countless other [lower/upper/middle] middle class literary lad writers I have met in my time as a Creative Writing student and as a former member of the East London hipster literary scene and as someone who continues to read and engage with a huge array of texts online… Is it unfair that none of us/them get to live off our books and get to publish one book a year and receive a salary enough above the living wage to keep us in Le Creuset and acceptable wines? No, it’s not unfair.

But would it be nice if that could happen? Of course it would be.

And is it Pierce Day’s fault that the era of High Modernism is one we no longer live in? No.

But, alas, these are sizeable reasons why this book is literarily unfashionable: both formally and socioculturally, we do not live in a moment calibrated to go crazy for A Phone of the Artist as a Young Man.

(And I’m not arguing we should return to a culture where this type of book would have been slathered all over the Times Literary Supplement or wherever, and if you choose to see my momentary acknowledgement of the ways in which individual white men are susceptible to right wing radicalistion due to (in some parts of the world!) societal recalibrations towards more equitable cultural landscapes as an excusing or forgiveness of that impulse, then I’d like to bluntly clarify I hold no sympathy with that. If an individual is unable to parse the ways in which their personal diminished privilege is not the same as institutionalised prejudice against all members of particular demographics, then that is a personal intellectual and moral failing; quite simply, if literally zero books were published in the future by white men, then I don’t think our culture would suffer at all. That is my ethical, intellectual position, bluntly stated. But that doesn’t mean I will be boycotting new (or old) books by white men and it also doesn’t mean that I – as a masc-presenting, white, able-bodied, middle class[-presenting], university-educated person – will stop writing and creating and trying to live a meaningful life. Institutions and individuals are not the same thing, and the corporate needs and responsibilities of Penguin Random House are not the same as the personal needs and responsibilities of scott manley hadley and TriumphOfTheNow.com. For now. (Happy to take notes in the comments if you’d like to argue that I should be boycotting works by white men, but don’t bother trying to persuade me of anything regressive, thanks.))

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If you read back through the decade-plus of TriumphOfTheNow.com, though, I’m sure I express opinions or make jokes as – or more – off-colour and unwise than any which are included in this book, because this blog is, essentially, at least one non-fiction novel and a half (or more) that I have written and published every single year since I was 24. So I am not critiquing this as if free of sin.

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A Phone of the Artist as a Young Man is a book that is in turns infuriating and frustrating, entertaining and engaging.

Sometimes, yes, it is a little boring and sometimes, yes, it is annoying, even, but it’s also frequently beautiful, and almost constantly hilarious. Sometimes it is moving, and almost always it’s articulate and intelligent and gorgeous.

This is a book with everything.

This is a novel that contains heart and soul and intellect and passion and care and energy and decisiveness and meaning and horror and panic and fear and self-importance and self-disgust and self and other and other and self.

I have to stop writing about this, I really do, because I could go on forever.

I could turn this blog into a series of 1,000 word posts about another couple of excerpts from A Phone of the Artist as a Young Man and probably keep going until my fingers go the way of my hair.

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I have been fascinated by this novel.

I have been awed by it. Overwhelmed by its energy and its enthusiasm and the sheer effort that has clearly gone into it.

This feels like a labour of love, but one that is, perhaps, ultimately about the lovelessness that is the main result when phones become what we interact with, instead of people.

Is it special? Is it interesting? Is it engaging and enrapturing? Yes to all.

Is it excellent? I honestly don’t know if I can make a final decision on that. Did I enjoy reading it? For many chunks of it, no. But for some sections, some chapters, even, and many, many, paragraphs and sentences, I thought it contained some of the most interesting writing about digitised life I’ve read in a long time.

Will I return to it again? Will I think about it more?

Yes.

I think I will be dreaming about A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man for months, if not years, yet.

And, I suppose, if we judge a book by the echoes it leaves in the mind, then maybe that does mean this is a work of significant greatness.

Who am I to judge, though? I’m someone who would have done this if I could, but I couldn’t have done this.

Maybe I’m the perfect person to be reading this. Maybe I’m the worst possible person.

It’s an achievement.

It’s a spectacle.

It’s homage and response and creation and experiment and manifesto all at once.

It’s a mess.

It’s a chorus.

It’s a cacophony.

Will it hold you and trap you the way it holds me?

The only way to find out – if you’re game – is to order a copy for yourself…

A Phone of the Artist as a Young Man (Screenshot Books, 2024) is available from Metalabel

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As a postscript, I will end with an excerpt from an email I sent to the novelist, Pierce Day, which I think may be a tighter and simpler conclusion than that found above:

The complexity, the ambition, the enthusiasm and the energy of your novel means it is absolutely something worth considering in detail (and capable of being analysed at even more length than I have), full of joys and pleasures and frustrations, and that to dismiss it or ignore it purely on the basis of its imperfections or on changing literary fashions is to lose far more than is gained. I think James Joyce would be flattered and impressed.

Hopefully you don’t hate every word I’ve written and maybe I’ve misread some sections or misunderstood some parts or ideas and maybe the things I’ve liked most about it aren’t your favourite elements.

I think it’s impressive and ambitious and enthusiastic and, crucially, lacking in literary cynicism.

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to read it.

Thank you, too, for reading.

Back to shorter posts next week!