EXCERPT FROM
L.M. Sinclair Must Be Stopped!
I AM NO CRIMINAL. YES, I ONCE COMMITTED WHAT, in the eyes of the law, was considered a crime, but the law is sometimes an ass. That long-ago breach, for which I paid a price, did not harm anyone and was justified. As I would be now, should I go forward with what I’m contemplating. If push comes to shove, this new breach would be a relatively minor infraction, a piffle, a slight property offense, and in the service of a higher purpose: stopping the greater wrong being done by L. M. Sinclair, whose very name is an offense.
L. M. Sinclair. Of course, she has to use the writerly two initials: T. S. Eliot, E. B. White, J. D. Salinger, J.K. Rowling, E. L. Doctorow, J.R.R. Tolkien (three!). It goes on and on—A. D. Nauseam. Or A. D. D. Nauseam. No, she can’t be just Laura Sinclair, the initials and her surname no doubt part of a whole PR package cooked up by her agent or publicist. I’m certain she lives over on Lewis Street, her nom de plume thus likely abusing old Sinclair Lewis, who has to be spinning in his grave.
L. M. Sinclair—the master, the mistress, the high priestess of revenge chick lit, a malignant subgenre of a pernicious genre. I’ve scanned through her “books,” those toss-offs of perverted feminist pique, those rancorous, pseudo-literary rants. I’ve seen the pathetic praise of reviewers: “Sinclair fires salvo after salvo . . . No one narrates the battle of the sexes, in all its gore and glory, like she does.” “There is the conventional combat between the sexes . . . and then there is Sinclair’s gender-riven guerillawarfare . . . her no-holds-barred, entertaining narrative captures our cultural moment and our species’ history.” These so-called critics are afraid to call her out for what she really is: a provocateur, a kind of fem-anarchical bomb thrower in the literary marketplace.
A Molotov cocktail: What else besides explosive trash can you call a “novel” such as Curry No Favor? A middle-aged woman discovers that her husband is a serial cheater. Under the cover of months of spicy Thai meals, she slowly chemically gelds him. A dope in the first place, he doesn’t understand what is happening to him and arrives, bit by bit—or rather, bite by bite—at the epiphany that he is a woman and, against the odds in his case, a happy one. They divorce, the heroine remarries, and somehow, implausibly, she and she remain friends. Travel was the one thing the two of them had always done well together, and so at the end of the story they take a trip with others to Europe, where the heroine means to confess everything, but then decides that would spoil their friendship, which is better than their marriage ever was. She exculpates herself and the entire exploit with a syrupy, pseudo-philosophical take on friendship and soul-mating contorted from Khalil Gibran.
Curry was Sinclair’s first book, a little over two years ago, and it made a splash. Soon after came The No-Qualms Quartet, which, though not quite as viciously emasculative as Curry, made a wider call to gender warfare.
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Sinclair has been relentless, spewing out books like frog spawn.
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Now, courtesy of the Bungle, comes word of a new Sinclair novel, A Taste for Lust, one even more outrageous than her previous pestilence.
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Excerpt From:
Karl marx and the lost california manifesto
From Lt. Junger and Lt. Fischel to King Frederick William IV
April 23, 1849
To: His Excellency King of Prussia Frederick William IV
Re: Herr Karl Marx
To our most high King, the greatest sovereign in all of Europe—Ja in all the world! We have arrived in the village of San Francisco on the western coast of North America. The village is, if your Excellency will please pardon the expression, a miserable little shithole of a settlement. When it rains, the “streets” are worse than a Polish barnyard. Men and animals risk sinking in the quagmire. Rats are numberless and are minded no more than chickens. When it is dry, the wind blows sand and dust through the settlement as in an Arabian desert sandstorm. Most in the village live in tents like Bedouins and suffer the elements. Fleas and lice are, if your Excellency will pardon the expression, King here. They rule without mercy (unlike your Highness) every man in the village. In the line of duty your servants are living in a large tent full of rabble from every corner of the world. They all purport to be gold miners, but they are of such low character that we would not be surprised if some are communistic conspirators, possibly in league with Marx.
During our voyage, Herr Marx was a leader among those flummoxing the American captain of our ship. His insubordination rubbed that man to exasperation, so much so that we overheard the captain say to the first mate that he ought to put Marx ashore among the cannibals of Patagonia. However, he did not, and Marx is now in San Francisco.
We arrived in San Francisco two days ago, at dawn. Upon anchoring, we were greeted by a longboat full of unsavory-looking men who rowed out to our ship. They demanded to know if we had any “professional” women on board. Our captain told them to wait, then brought up onto the deck two women whose character (and only that, we swear) had been known to us since they joined the ship in Brazil. The captain then asked the men what they would be willing to pay there and then to have these “pretty dames, fresh from Rio de Janeiro, grace your place of business?”
An auction then broke out, each man bidding vigorously. However, during the auction Herr Marx appeared on deck in a singular costume. On our voyage he had dressed more or less like a London dandy (a bankrupt one) but was now wearing what he apparently supposed to be the dress of a gold miner—tight-fitting trousers tucked into high riding boots, a white blouse and short blue jacket, and a blue shepherd’s cap. A satchel was strapped around one shoulder, and in his other hand he held a large iron frying pan which he had brought with him from London, and which he now brandished as if a sword. He uttered a kind of war cry, stopping the auction and engaging the captain. Marx protested that while he rued their virtue, the women, if they so chose, should be allowed to use their talents in whatever labor they wished, but he would not stand silently by and watch petty capitalists exploit them. The captain and the longboat men would have none of it. The captain ordered the first mate and another crewman to pitch Herr Marx overboard, which they promptly did, frying pan and all, followed by his trunk. The trunk began floating away with the tide. It was all Herr Marx could do, still clutching his fry pan and trying to keep the satchel afloat, to thrash his way toward the shore. The men in the longboat jeered at him and would gladly have watched him drown.
The captain and crew also called him some names that were very unkind to Germans generally. Somehow, Herr Marx made it to where he could stand in the water. However, because of the outgoing tide, he was still some distance from the shoreline, and he could move no closer, as he was stuck in the harbor’s muddy bottom. He stood there, his feet cemented in the muck, holding his frying pan overhead to keep his balance and avoid falling and re-submersing. His shepherd’s cap was of course gone. Waist deep in the water, his thick beard dripping, he resembled a cross between Poseidon and a short-order cook. Chastened, he did not renew a verbal assault on the longboat men. By this time, the men had taken the professional women on their boat and were almost ashore. Your servants were in a dilemma—should we pursue the floating trunk, as it maybe contained the Communistic screed Marx is thought to be preparing? Or did the satchel contain it? We had tried to search both during the voyage, but the trunk was locked, and Marx kept the satchel on his person at all times.
Our pulling Herr Marx from the muck might give away our identities and expose our mission. On the other hand, by chasing the trunk, Marx would remain stuck and perhaps re-submerse and drown. The disappearance of Marx’s screed would be no loss, but if he and the satchel were to disappear, we might lose the opportunity to learn from letters or a journal who his co-conspirators are here and in Europe.
Our dilemma was solved by a brown-skinned Junge, apparently a North American Indian, who was at the end of the dock. He threw a loop of rope a remarkable distance out to Herr Marx and tied it to a donkey. With no small effort, the donkey managed to pull Marx through the water and the muck to the shore. Because of the early hour and no other apparent reason for his presence, the Junge’s willingness to rescue Marx must mean he was waiting for him and that he is a co-conspirator.
Seeing that Marx and his satchel would not drown, your servants used a rowboat to retrieve his trunk. Unfortunately, we found no manuscript in it, only numerous pitiful tchotchkes, a broken tea service, London dandy clothes, and a small library of freethinking rubbish. These we all dumped into the sea. At a distance from the rowboat, we were able to see Marx and the Junge go off in a direction away from the settlement. We are confident we can track them.
Your servants,
Lt. Ernst Junger
Lt. Franz Fischel