October 26, 2004

Like some sort of recurring venereal disease, Beautiful Losers erupted again in conversation this morning. Anna, a collegue at the Writing Centre, mentioned her fascination with postcolonial literature and I started gushing about Cohen.

“I hate Beautiful Losers,” she said. “And not just because it’s depraved … though all that necrophilia and fucking of dead saints certainly turned me off.”

“But how could you not love all that depravity?” I asked startled, “All that filth … bodies writhing in passion … monstrous cocks spewing semen until they rot in agony?” I flailed my arms with flourish in inarticulate despair.

“And the necrophilia?” she asked.

“Yes! What’s not to like about the necrophilia?” I demanded pounding my hand on the table as my supervisor walked into the room. There was awkward silence while we stared at each other. I felt a great urge to elaborate.

Thus, I resumed my violent arm motions and told them that Beautiful Losers is not just about the necrophilia. Ultimately, it is a book about love and the desperate need for a saint whose toes you can lick. Cohen’s words are profound and primordial — they address our fascination with death and our need for intimacy and faith. “We all want to fuck dead saints,” I said.

At that point Nadine came into the office for her shift and started laughing when she saw how passionate we were about our disagreement.

“The whole thing reminded me of the gap between generations,” she told me later. “Anna is a Millennial who appreciates order and deplores depravity. You on the other hand are some sort of living residue from 1969.”

I think Nadine just called me a dirty hippie.