Wetlands by Charlotte Roche
Modernism. Existentialism. Atheism. Nihilism. God wasn’t waiting for us. We were just passing time. The beginning of the twentieth century is littered with literary classics like The Trial, Ulysses, The Waste Land, and Waiting for Godot. Classics that are succinctly summarised by Queen’s refrain from Bohemian Rhapsody: “Nothing really matters, anyone can see, nothing really matters.” The works became classics because they reflected, or created, a world view that became the epitome of the 20th Century. A world where our body just disappeared into thin air. Our body, ashes into the air.
But we don’t disappear into thin air. There is something left behind. There is our shit that disappears down the drain. There is our piss soaking into the earth. There are our toenails, fingernails, our pubic hair, our facial hair, our snot, our cum, our smegma, our earwax. There is the sleep that sticks to our eyes, there is our dandruff and all those flakes of skin that dance in the sunlight. Daily our bodies fall apart and touch the earth. Our bodies end in the earth. Discarded. Excreted. Grounded.
I might be standing alone with my bare arse hanging out in the open, when I say that the novel Wetlands by Charlotte Roche
For exterior itching, you squeeze a hazelnut-sized dollop from the tube onto your finger with the shortest nail and rub it onto your rosette. The tube’s also got a pointed attachment with lots of holes in it that allows you to shove it up your ass and squeeze salve out to quell the itchiness inside.
Wetlands has been described as “shocking”, “explicit” and every publishers dream sales pitch, “controversial,” but this has no bearing on why I consider the book significant. The graphic descriptions are hardly groundbreaking. Bataille’s ‘Story of the Eye” broke that ground eighty years ago. Wetlands is significant because it captures a burgeoning 21st Century world view. World view is perhaps the wrong phrase here. Let’s call it a bare body view.
Wetlands is the story of 18-year-old Helen Memel who lies bare bottomed on a hospital bed in the Department of Internal Medicine at Maria Hilf Hospital after an accident involving shaving her anus. Helen revels in the various discharges of her body. She uses her smegma he way others use perfume:
I dip my finger into my pussy and dab a little slime behind my earlobes. It works wonders from the moment you greet someone with a kiss on each cheek.
Wetlands celebrates all the bits and pieces that are generated from the body. The piss. The puke. The menstrual blood. The anal discharges. Wetlands celebrates the abject.
Paul McCarthy, ‘Santa’s Chocolate Shop’ 1997
I never really understood the abject until I read Wetlands. I remember a couple of years ago standing in a Berlin gallery staring mouth agape at Paul McCarthy’s video installation, Santa’s Chocolate Shop, blankly watching as Santa’s pantless elves were covered in Santa’s chocolate sauce – a substitute for a certain bodily fluid. ‘Oh, so this must have something to do with Kristeva and the abject,’ I thought to myself and quickly followed the thought bubble with a more audible ‘hmmmmmm.’ I decided that the abject didn’t really matter too much to me. I might piss and shit, and I might be disgusted by own my piss and shit, but honestly, that crap stinks. However, while reading Wetlands, and I was often gagging and gulping while reading some scenes, I came to the conclusion that there is a kind of tragic beauty in all of these bodily discharges. It is the beauty of the break-down of the body, a body that lives, even though it is already dead. As Jean-Luc Nancy wrote in Corpus:
All of its life, the body is also a dead body, the body of a dead person, of this death that I am living.
I remember accompanying a friend to Emergency after he broke his finger and watching all these bodies that were breaking down. The body of a woman sitting next to me who was gasping and gulping, trying to suppress the sickness that was fighting its way up her throat. The body of a child who was vomiting into a small waste basket. The body of a junkie who was raving obscenities and pacing across the room. The body of a man who was hunched over clutching his stomach, muted screams as tears ran down his face. And the bodies of a solemn elderly couple who were sitting still and holding hands stared vacantly ahead. I saw these bodies and I saw bodies that were living but at the same time dying and I thought that it is often only when the body breaks down that we become aware of it.
I remember moments when my body has broken down with another. Our sicknesses mix. Our fevers lead us to holiday together in hallucinations. Our bodies broken. We leave them on the bed together. We know they are there. We feel their physical presence. We know them more than ever. But we leave them behind. They don’t work anymore. Maybe it is here, in sickness, that we can transcend the barriers of skin and share this mutual imagining of meaning. Maybe, while living, we can only moan and let our vile fluids stew together.
After Helen has her arse operated on and stitched up, she decides to tear it open again on the wheels of the hospital bed. She does this in the hope that her separated parents will reunite while visiting her at her bedside. As long as she keeps stewing in her blood and pus, there is a chance that their love can be rekindled. It is a naive yearning for love and meaning in her life. Helen’s mother is the antithesis of the anti-hygeine Helen, her mother was the kind of woman who’s dying thought at the scene of an accident would be: “How long have I been wearing these panties? Are there any wetspots on them?” The mother represents the unliving, those who adverse to the abject, the kempt:
Everything is clean and carefully styled. Every little body part has been treated with some beauty product. What these women don’t know: the more effort they put into these little details, the more uptight they seem.
When Helen was younger she caught her mother lying on the kitchen with her younger brother passed out. The oven door was open. It is a clean kind of death. The death that a clean woman would hope for. Helen rescued her mother and never spoke of it again.
The clean death, the death where we wait for it all to disappear is the death of the classics of twentieth century. The death of Wetlands, is the death we die each day, our body breaks down. As Heidegger writes that being “is always already dying: in its “being-towards-its-end.”
argues that authenticity is formed by a particular set of cultural tastes and values and not from any historical truth. I would argue that authenticity is formed through a half empty jug, through ambiguity. By being able to project meaning onto an ambiguous object an individual feels an object is authentic because it adheres to their own individual meaning. Once news media begins to fill the jug up with meaning through referring to the object frequently in stories the jug begins to be filled with outsiders manifestations of meaning. The object loses its authenticity for an individual and in turn loses its cool. But all this would be nought but theory if there wasn’t any empirical data, because with data comes ‘truth’ .
