I have been reading William T. Vollman‘s The Royal Family on my Kindle. It is an addictive read, but a long, indulgent slog — I find myself wanting to stop reading but unable to, like the lost crack- and smack-addicted whores in the San Francisco Tenderloin hell Vollman has brought to life here. I’ve read 37% of the book (welcome to the new Kindle math) and Vollman’s writing is so visceral, you can hear the characters speak in their cracked and weary voices, you can even smell and taste them, their piss and sweat and accumulated stink clogging up your nose and their pain swelling deep in your arteries, their need crackling through your nerves with electric sparks.
It reminds me that ultimately we’re all egotists, no matter how high above the gutter we climb. No matter how nice we smell and how soft our clothes and beds, we can’t escape the rushing, pounding feel of our own blood in our own veins, throbbing in the dark when we lie down at night. The wanting to be touched and held, to be heard, to be comforted, welcomed and understood. And as ugly as the world Vollman reflects is, as harsh, stinking and slimy as it gets, it’s so amazing to be alive in it. To feel that rushing blood. To hear your own thoughts in your head. To breathe the smell of life.
