Adventure sometimes fails us. Not from failing in our task or aim, but from failing to actually be “adventurous” in any real, proper, braggable sense. Things collapse right in the middle. The eventness of the event lacks luster. The production of desire seems forced— even or especially for others’ adventure. We might be listening to someone raving about a wild-and-crazy tale that— in the experience itself— seems scripted or reducible to some recognizable form. Their event is just symptom, lacking real risk and contingency. I call this schtick: whenever the Life-Narrative, while trying to shape everyday life into poetic or narrative form, flattens all the jagged complexity and contingency of experience for the sake of an ideal form. And it doesn’t always happen when life clichés— on ayahuasca in the Amazon or trainhoppng through Middle America. Schtick can sneak into fresh forms, too; it’s an inherent hazard of all Life-Narrativization. Of overperfection. I remember Milan Kundera trying to stuff a roughly equivalent sense into the term “kitsch”— as the “sentimentalization of reality,” as Harold Bloom called it— but I think the term “schtick” is more distinct and narrative.
Once past the wide-eyed years, the salty will often reach a wholesale disillusionment with all “adventure” or “experience,” weary of the after-emptiness, or of eye-rolling at others’ little teen-dreams. They wipe their hands of it. Roquentin, the unhero of Sartre’s La Nausée, for example, adopted just such a post-schtick attitude. The marriage of everyday life and poetic form, for Roquentin, inevitably ended in bitter divorce. “This is what I thought: for the banal even to become to become an adventure, you must (and this is enough) begin to recount it. This is what fools people: a man is always a teller of tales, he lives surrounded by his stories and the stories of others, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live his own life as if he were telling a story. But you have to choose: live or tell.”
Roquentin’s belief in adventure― of travel, of event, of moments― bottomed out: “I have never had adventures. Things happened to me, events, incidents, anything you like. But no adventures.” Same with his brassy ex-amante, Anny, who returned briefly to reveal that she had also come to crisis: she no longer believed in “perfect moments”― those lyrical bolts of time closely resembling the Lefebvrean moment, “those instantaneous tragedies where the masks and shawls, the furniture, and myself… where we each had a minor part to play.” For Anny, the perfect moment required a seizure or sudden deed that exploited what she called the “privileged situation,” a situation imbued with “a rare and precious quality, style, if you like” that ranged from disaster to royal fantasy to romantic love. Privileged situations set the stage for the perfectible moments to follow. “First there are annunciatory signs. Then the privileged situation, slowly, majestically, comes into people’s lives. Then the question whether you want to make a perfect moment out of it.” Roquentin, who had never been avid of the art to begin with, finally catches on:
“In each one of these privileged situations there are certain acts which have to be done, certain attitudes to be taken, words which must be said― and other attitudes, other attitudes are strictly prohibited. Is that it?’
‘I suppose so…’
‘In fact, then, the situation is the material: it demands exploitation.’
‘That’s it,’ she says”
The salt had seeped in however. Now, she could no more believe in perfect moments than Roquentin could in adventure. Contingency, being, everyday life— everything ballooned out and over possible poeticization or narrativization.
But is this wisdom or merely weariness? A breakthrough or a failure of courage? Certainly, it’s an aesthetico-poetic decision of a kind: poetic form and life cannot be fully reconciled; we might as well cease trying. Existence resists; it is a superfluity that will overrun and defeat any form imposed upon it. It is de trop, as Sartre says. Even history― the existence of others― squirms free. Pinning down the biography of a M. Rollebon, Roquentin cannot shake the spuriousness of his conclusions. “These are honest hypotheses which take the facts into account: but I sense so definitely that they come from me, and that they are simply a way of unifying my own knowledge. Not a glimmer comes from Rollebon’s side. Slow, lazy, sulky, the facts adapt themselves to the rigour of the order I wish to give them; but it remains outside of them.” This ordering, this imposition, is a “work of pure imagination” better suited to novels. And rather than existence, his or others, Roquentin would prefer the ideality and obedience of fiction, something “which would be above existence. A story, for example, something that could never happen, an adventure. It would have to be beautiful and hard as steel and make people ashamed of their existence.” There you have it: narrative on one side, everyday life on the other.
But the problem with most supposed “adventures” or “moments”— with the ones that collapse or cause you to roll your eyes— is that they are anything but adventurous or momentous. They banish real risk and contingency for well-rehearsed effects and affects. They are schticky to the degree that, with our Life-Narrative, we continue trying to surprise others but cease trying to surprise ourselves. But, again, schtick is inevitable with the attempt, which is noble— even though it usually keeps me from documenting things like travel and transformative passages of my own Life-Narrative. But I gotta push through.
Uncle Erving Goffman tells us that we’re always be engaged in some form of script or subconscious dramaturgy in our everyday lives. Only, once we’ve become overly-aware of this narrativization, it suddenly seems forced or in bad faith— schticky. In Schillerian terms, we subjugate the rich complexities of everyday life to an overly ideal or simple form, and “bring about unity by suppressing variety” and thereby “depopulate the kingdom of appearance.” On the other hand, if we shape too loosely, everyday life returns being mere circumstance. Merely tubing down the stream of experience. The big question becomes how to unite, as Schiller believed the Greeks did so admirably, “at once the fullness of form and fullness of substance?” Or rather: how do we approach this unity, given the ultimate impossibility of total reconciliation?
Contingency is the best antidote to schtick. Let’s say you’ve pegged the script you’re riding— the “it’s a woo-hoo Manhattan bar night followed by late-nite pizza ” or the “this is like that movie, Band of Outsiders.” How do you derail the narrative, or rather introduce openness or indeterminism? One way is to simply call out the points of falsity— the places where your intuition tells you that Band of Outsiders is pulling you in the wrong direction, stories that you already know the ending of, half-hearted affectations that are covering real affects— and deflect things down a different paths and moods. Another way is by method: rolling the dice, figuratively or literally speaking— by saying “I know this is not how the story is supposed to go, but I’m doing it because I need a different story to really engage me.” You might call up and name the form just enough to break it.
Michael Moses, in convo one day, recommended a book by Gary Saul Morson called Narrative and Freedom, which I haven’t gotten to yet. The failures of the Life-Narrative are more or less the same as the failures of narrative more generally— and just as an author might employ tricks to save experience from over-idealized form, these same tricks can deflect schtick as well. I’m going to stop here, read Narrative and Freedom, then maybe just scribble some pointers below in the comments— especially, now, at this point of leaving North Carolina just as it was really getting idyllic and dreamy. Leaving perfection for Los Angeles.