Saturday, 15 March 2014


By Andy Nowicki

(Note: the following excerpt is from an upcoming autobiography and literary treatise, which concerns the artist's moral responsibility to challenge our debauched Zeitgeist and to spit aesthetic defiance into the faces of his would-be cultural controllers, in as exquisitely compelling a manner as possible... see also Alt Right Art.)

And now, being a happily married middle-aged man with two lovely children, I find myself more perplexed than ever concerning my native-born antisexualism. As a writer, I am compelled to explore sexual themes in a manner that takes seriously their appeal while at the same time rejecting the rampantly “hedonistic,” relentlessly pro-sexualist perspective one finds so ubiquitously in our current state of aesthetic and cultural degeneracy. How does one pick one’s way through this sweaty swamp, finding a balance somewhere between sterile and irritatingly ironic distance on the one side and prurient debasement on the other? How can sex become an aspect of a writer’s aesthetic, complete with an acknowledgement of its undeniable allure, without this concomitantly leading to a seeming out-and-out endorsement of what one portrays? How can one write erotically, eschewing prudery and rejecting cringing, cowardly euphemism, without one's prose becoming unseemly and pornographic as a result?

In order to address the role of sexuality frankly, while still maintaining a necessary critical eye, keen to detect the shortcomings of hedonism and the pitfalls of trendy “sex-positivity,” requires a writer to tread determinedly between seemingly opposing forces, and moreover, to forge a continuity, even to locate a satisfying (if paradoxical) complementariness, between the one and the other. Indeed, as has often been remarked, the very appeal of sex lies in its perceived forbiddenness; once it ceases to be smutty and wicked, it ceases to be exciting. An erotic writer who wishes to tell the truth but also strives to maintain a proper posture of critique toward his subject matter will, in a sense, find that his cross-purposes mutually reinforce one another. He can be at once a moralist and a titillator, since it is only by letting the reader understand the feverish, fearful appeal of a thing that one shows that which is to be feverishly, fearfully disruptive and appalling at its essence.

To hold sex at a distance, aesthetically speaking, is to refuse to engage with it. Thus most explicitly Christian-themed, pro-chastity propaganda can only be laughable, and not in the least effective. Of course, this is somewhat of a piece with the propensity of contemporary Christians to blandly declare sex a “wonderful thing,” blessed by God himself, as long as it’s kept within the proper bounds of wedlock, and who make the accompanying, highly risible claim of eschewing prudery. If one knows what sex is, one senses instinctively that it is a starkly elemental force: dangerous, disruptive, and fearful; of modern-day bromides espousing so-called “sexual freedom,” one must observe the ideological mush-headedness: the notion that one should have “freedom” in this arena amounts to little but an endorsement of slavery, for lustful appetites leave one dependent, and the only way to break one’s dependence is to reject sex entirely, which few people who have the choice are able to do in our carnally-saturated age, due to the ubiquity of licentious images and themes preesnted in the media and elsewhere.

Christians, in short, are afraid of being called “sex negative” by the reflexively libertine establishment, so they respond by declaring loudly that they are the true sex-positivists. Married sex is the really exciting thing, they insist, and within a marriage one experiences such actual “joys” of sex as could never even be imagined outside of the God-blessed realm of wedlock. In this manner, Christians keep at a distance from themselves the undeniable truth of what I related earlier: namely, that sex is what the serpent introduced to the Garden, disrupting the harmony of a once-peaceful, once-pure existence. That the serpent was allowed to strike at all within the hallowed realm of innocence, of course, in a way makes God complicit in the whole mess of our current encampment of debauchment, but such is merely an extension of the perennial teleological conundrum of evil’s very existence in a universe supposedly ruled by a just God. If it’s not something that can be explained very easily, but it must be grappled with in a macro sense, and the entire matter of carnality is but one prong in this larger mechanism.


We must say, then, that the two seemingly contradictory presuppositions are nevertheless quite accurate: 1) Sex ushers in corruption and destroys innocence, and 2) Sex, like many other malignant, inherently corruptive things, was created by God, who, despite His inscrutable behavior, is nevertheless (by definition) good. This is but an extension of an already existent theological conundrum. In any event, the writer must navigate these waters in a manner that does justice both to the sensual delight attendant upon carnal communion and the sad erosion of purity brought about by the devastation of innocence that is the (natural and inevitable) sexualization process, i.e., puberty.

But eroticism and tragedy are in fact inextricably linked. Therefore that which elicits arousal can and indeed should at the same time produce tears, for the twin branches of delight and despair in fact stem from the trunk of the same Tree of Knowledge, which God first placed in the midst of Eden for his own inscrutable purposes.

Andy Nowicki, co-editor of Alternative Right, is the author of six books, including Lost Violent Souls, Heart Killer and The Columbine Pilgrim. He occasionally updates his blog when the spirit moves him to do so.

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