I had to put down One Few Over The Cuckoo’s Nest yesterday because of the off-putting way Kesey refers to women and the black characters in his story. Calling the black guys in the book, “the black boys,” and portraying them as these hellish perpetrators of despicable things to helpless patients, using sodomy as a violent act to subdue and torture was appalling. Not only that, but the way the head nurse is described as a “ball cutter,” basically representing a wily feminine force whose only job was to dehumanize and demasculinize every man she came across. It made me wonder about his past and what kind of message he thought he was spreading when he wrote this book. Then it made me think of other authors and whether or not their past or beliefs should weigh heavily on whether or not people appreciate their works. Personally, I usually don’t mind reading books I know unapologetic racists write, because, well, that’s the nature of this damn American Literature canon. A lot of the writers whose prose I respect and admire were downright degenerates and heathens, slaveholders and misogynists but what they wrote was beautiful and devoid of overt tones of bigotry. However, if that shit does decide to pop up and become an unavoidable recurring theme, that’s where I draw the line. 

I have a threshold for bigotry, though it really should be incredibly unacceptable, but I love words. I really do. I love the way writers use words, divorced of their messed up beliefs, in spite of their unsavory lifestyles. I try not to judge people in general so why judge the writers I like, because in the end, you never really know anyone. All you know is what is written about them or what they say fleetingly in an interview or heresy. I get that. But I will be damned if I’m going to sit there and read about a set of “charcoal black boys… shining onyx”  or whatever. I can almost here how much he hates the skin color of my race and it makes my skin crawl. It makes me nauseous to think that this book is taught with such vigor and he’s held in such high regard. It makes me angry, because I actually like the book. I really wanted to read it, but the physical illness and fury that welled up inside of me as I read was something I just could not ignore. So, ef you Kesey. I will not fall into your clutches. Maybe I’ll watch the movie… I do love Jackie.

Instead, I will read Hunter S. Thompson a drunk man I can get behind…. for now.