Foutre La Merde’ dans

By Aaron Goldberg
November 2010
Paperback | 120 pages | 127x178mm

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Description

Multi award-winning novelist Aaron Goldberg returns with his debut award-winning novel “Foutre la merde, dans”. A recipient of a $400,000 Arts Grant from Merde-och University, “Foutre la merde, dans” is a by-the-dots piece of contemporary literature, exploring notions of identity, sexuality, multi-multiculturalism, oppression from the dominant paradigm, persecution, depression, repression, acceptance and the ultimate triumph of getting your own retrospective at the Wheeler Dealer Centre, as well as increasing your Facebook friend count and your industry currency by 100,000 points/friends.

What “Foutre la merde, dans” isn’t, is vicarious. Which means you will be afraid to read it because Goldberg is a radical practitioner of ‘psycho-physical transference’. This book will assault you (don’t say we didn’t warn you!) with repetitive whining of a life less lived. But at least it isn’t vicarious. Lost in translation, the title of the book is a metaphor for the novel itself, as it unravels like reverse-engineered origami. Taking cues from Antonioni’s Blow Up, Burroughs’ cut-ups and rude bastards from Europe, Goldberg’s biggest regret in life is his inability to speak the mother tongues of his mother: Spanish and French… Does vulgarity count as a second language?

Video

The blockbusting launch of the novel ‘Foutre la merde, dans’. Aaron reads an extract following an introduction and tune by Simon Strong and Sonke Rickertsen.

Extract

It felt like 4am. It felt like that moment when on an aeroplane, the cruising time is over and the descent begins. In sleep it was the time when the R.E.M stops – you know it but you don’t. Jean appeared somewhere, slightly fatter, or was it her? Is she the muse? Another bitch. It was probably mum, aged 34, on the beach sometime around 1962. Or Judy, or Polly, but the hourglass was wider. It was all of them. Then the song. Always an addictive tune: ‘Bury me deep in love’. Lying on his stomach his cock was hard and pressing into the 3.5cm thick mattress of the fold-out couch. ‘Bury me deep in love’ as he lay on his stomach, his jaw sinking into the pillow. It was a total cliché. He was like a flag for the 7 hole rammed against that thin mattress. And then the same fantasy: Missionary position, skin temperature about 39 Celsius, comfortable sheets, nice slightly messy smell. No drama. Another craving subsides. Next memories: Drugs. Beers. Shit food. Sleep. Shit. Sitting on the dock of the bay. ‘Bury me deep in love’, by the Triffids, a lousy, boring, bloated band. For people who dance in their heads. For Mr.Averageness who likes ‘alternative stuff’ on the side. And that fucking lead singer. David McComb. A 1980s ‘Byronesque’ fashion casualty. A ‘classier’ Michael Hutchence. Australia was into their ‘Byronesque’ Michael Hutchence/Nick Cave dandy-pandy private school romantic poet types, it was either that or drunken sheep shearers. And McComb was another. He wasn’t Leonard Cohen, but he tried. Just some farmer from a rich family, private school education. Lots of privilege with sunburnt country Colonialist harshness. The sophisticated women liked it, whether they were rich or poor – the poorer ones generally more fun – but usually Catholic. Bitches.

‘Bury me deep in love’. Then he realised it wasn’t what he thought it was. It wasn’t burying his love deep in her, it was being ‘buried deep in love’. It was like being stuck in the movies City of the Living Dead or the Vanishing or Kill Bill2, buried alive, trapped, closed in. Saturated. Fucken hell. You were getting ‘buried deep in love’. All over you. How did that song get in his head? He didn’t even like the fucking Triffids.

In the car it was about coffee. In the car it was about Willie Nelson singing ‘pages’. In the car it was about coffee in the fashionable coffee house that served really good coffee, imported. The staff were all under 30 and were a mixture of retro chic and American Apparel uniformity. The coffee was imported from third world climates where the beans tasted better. Everything tastes better when it isn’t replicated. The coffee tastes fine. Pay the extra amount you cheap, ungrateful shit. If you want something decent you must pay for it. The after-taste of the coffee was still there. It wasn’t unpleasant.