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?
