I don’t suggest reading Nathaniel G. Moore if order is your thing. The stories in Jettison are unpredictable, careening rides full of obscure snark, jerk protagonists and chains of contrasting cultural references.
Indeed, Moore’s stories seem bent on making the reader uncomfortable. The collection’s opening, “The Catullus Chainsaw Massacre,” is an utterly surreal account of a Waterloo student named Henry and his constant battle with his roommate. Did I mention that his roommate happens to be the ancient Roman poet Catullus, and also happens to be psychotic? Cringeworthy scenes like the one where Catullus secretly fondles and steals Henry’s girlfriend’s dress give way to absolutely absurd, frankly freaky confrontations. It’s all super-weird, and, if you can stomach it, a whole lot of fun.
As much as absurdism and playful exaggeration make up the baseline of the collection, there’s something untethered and dark about Moore’s humour. Sure, “A Higher Power” is a thoroughly entertaining story, with its outrageous scenes of Paul Newman and Paul Martin performing a perverse, homoerotic buddyship in the midst of political scandal. But it is also essentially a first-person account of the apparent kidnapping and torture of a delusional, self-destructive teenage girl by an ex-Prime Minister and Cool Hand Luke.
Even when not attempting women’s voices, there’s an anxious dudeliness to all of Moore’s writing. In “Jaws,” a creepy uncle tells readers, positioned as his nieces or nephews, about their mother’s awesome, bizarre life story of love, tragedy and suburban assassination conspiracies led by sea creatures. In the satirical “The Magic Kingdom Empire,” a “mid-level think tank left winger” congratulates himself on his navigation of office politics, enjoying “politically correct food,” his seductive potential and his habits of leering at the “emasculated shoppers” of Whole Foods.
These neurotic macho vibes reach an unpleasant height in “American Psycho,” in which the protagonist is a mildly depressed writer forced to work at a combination American Apparel and small-press bookstore. It’s funny and teases Toronto’s lit scene, and that’s all fair game. But the guy is also haunted by Susan, a jealous peer/once-almost-love/frenemy/literary rival. Presumably spurned and hysteric, she simultaneously makes him do chores while trying to ruin all of his dates and relationships, as well as his stature in the Toronto literary scene, by claiming that he’s a sexist pig.
Already questionable in tone, the story’s epigraph comes from Tao Lin, the alt-lit darling who has been variously accused of abuse, emotional manipulation and rape. I can’t tell if this is just a reckless and tacky attempt at satire or what. The liner notes at the end of the book only confused me more. If anything, the story as a whole indicates that he doesn’t care what book reviewers or peers think about what constitutes misogyny anyway.
Jettison is nothing if not daring, and the “Screw you, let’s get weird” approach smacks equally of New Narrative writers and high-end sci-fi. When the total flippancy thing is done well, it’s actually hilarious. In “Also by Douglas Coupland,” Moore shit-talks the entire literary establishment to an astounding and kind of loving extent. The story describes a sham of a literary gala taking place sometime in the 2020s (or at least after Coupland’s Foot Locker has won the 2019 Giller Prize). The series of extended character profiles, particularly of the overly qualified busybody interns at the event, had me laughing out loud.
So Moore is constantly teetering on the sticky line between parody and paranoia. The collection’s final story, a raunchy, pseudo sci-fi love story titled “Blade Runner,” might be the best of both worlds. It’s full of cocaine, robot therapists and, most of all, “sexual abjection,” but it’s speculative enough to feel more like an artful, gonzo B-movie than anything to wrinkle your nose at. It’s actually kind of sweet, and is the most evenly paced and well-written story of the bunch.
Moore’s stuff is not everyone’s flavour of fiction. But even though confusion and discomfort are the core affective mechanisms to Jettison, there are a few really smart and rewarding moments to be enjoyed on this wacky, postmodern rollercoaster if you just hold on tight.
Anvil | 289 Pages | $20 | paper | ISBN 978-1-77214-07-7
‘Jettison’ by Nathaniel G. Moore
Book Reviews
I don’t suggest reading Nathaniel G. Moore if order is your thing. The stories in Jettison are unpredictable, careening rides full of obscure snark, jerk protagonists and chains of contrasting cultural references.
Indeed, Moore’s stories seem bent on making the reader uncomfortable. The collection’s opening, “The Catullus Chainsaw Massacre,” is an utterly surreal account of a Waterloo student named Henry and his constant battle with his roommate. Did I mention that his roommate happens to be the ancient Roman poet Catullus, and also happens to be psychotic? Cringeworthy scenes like the one where Catullus secretly fondles and steals Henry’s girlfriend’s dress give way to absolutely absurd, frankly freaky confrontations. It’s all super-weird, and, if you can stomach it, a whole lot of fun.
As much as absurdism and playful exaggeration make up the baseline of the collection, there’s something untethered and dark about Moore’s humour. Sure, “A Higher Power” is a thoroughly entertaining story, with its outrageous scenes of Paul Newman and Paul Martin performing a perverse, homoerotic buddyship in the midst of political scandal. But it is also essentially a first-person account of the apparent kidnapping and torture of a delusional, self-destructive teenage girl by an ex-Prime Minister and Cool Hand Luke.
Even when not attempting women’s voices, there’s an anxious dudeliness to all of Moore’s writing. In “Jaws,” a creepy uncle tells readers, positioned as his nieces or nephews, about their mother’s awesome, bizarre life story of love, tragedy and suburban assassination conspiracies led by sea creatures. In the satirical “The Magic Kingdom Empire,” a “mid-level think tank left winger” congratulates himself on his navigation of office politics, enjoying “politically correct food,” his seductive potential and his habits of leering at the “emasculated shoppers” of Whole Foods.
These neurotic macho vibes reach an unpleasant height in “American Psycho,” in which the protagonist is a mildly depressed writer forced to work at a combination American Apparel and small-press bookstore. It’s funny and teases Toronto’s lit scene, and that’s all fair game. But the guy is also haunted by Susan, a jealous peer/once-almost-love/frenemy/literary rival. Presumably spurned and hysteric, she simultaneously makes him do chores while trying to ruin all of his dates and relationships, as well as his stature in the Toronto literary scene, by claiming that he’s a sexist pig.
Already questionable in tone, the story’s epigraph comes from Tao Lin, the alt-lit darling who has been variously accused of abuse, emotional manipulation and rape. I can’t tell if this is just a reckless and tacky attempt at satire or what. The liner notes at the end of the book only confused me more. If anything, the story as a whole indicates that he doesn’t care what book reviewers or peers think about what constitutes misogyny anyway.
Jettison is nothing if not daring, and the “Screw you, let’s get weird” approach smacks equally of New Narrative writers and high-end sci-fi. When the total flippancy thing is done well, it’s actually hilarious. In “Also by Douglas Coupland,” Moore shit-talks the entire literary establishment to an astounding and kind of loving extent. The story describes a sham of a literary gala taking place sometime in the 2020s (or at least after Coupland’s Foot Locker has won the 2019 Giller Prize). The series of extended character profiles, particularly of the overly qualified busybody interns at the event, had me laughing out loud.
So Moore is constantly teetering on the sticky line between parody and paranoia. The collection’s final story, a raunchy, pseudo sci-fi love story titled “Blade Runner,” might be the best of both worlds. It’s full of cocaine, robot therapists and, most of all, “sexual abjection,” but it’s speculative enough to feel more like an artful, gonzo B-movie than anything to wrinkle your nose at. It’s actually kind of sweet, and is the most evenly paced and well-written story of the bunch.
Moore’s stuff is not everyone’s flavour of fiction. But even though confusion and discomfort are the core affective mechanisms to Jettison, there are a few really smart and rewarding moments to be enjoyed on this wacky, postmodern rollercoaster if you just hold on tight.
Anvil | 289 Pages | $20 | paper | ISBN 978-1-77214-07-7