Some weeks ago, a miserable, dogmatist rag entitled the Worker’s Spatula ran an article about me replete with libellous inaccuracies. The piece, “‘I Have Read Adorno,’ Announces Sam Kriss”, falsely reported that I consider György Lukács, “with the accent mark”, one of my main theoretical influences. Nothing could be further from the truth. As I emphasised on Twitter shortly thereafter, I find Lukács quite boring, and not once have I cited him, with or without the diacritic mark.
The Spatula, to its discredit, has yet to correct the error. When I contacted the so-called newspaper’s editorial staff, they informed me that they do not alter the text of articles they have already published, as to do so would be “the essence of revisionism”. They did, however, invite me to pen a guest column correcting the error myself, which I have happily obliged to do.
It would be easy enough simply to reiterate that, although I have indeed read Lukács, make no mistake, I do not find him interesting, let alone an influence on my own thinking. But no proper intellectual, like myself, would be satisfied with such a petty rejoinder. As such, I should like to go a bit further and speculate as to why the Spatula would publish such drivel to begin with.
Following the rhetorical dicta I laid out in my groundbreaking essay, “In defence of personal attacks”, I should like to hypothesise that the author of the piece, first of all, is envious of my stellar publication record and high level of education. A critical evaluation of Adorno was central to my graduate thesis, after all. I have read Adorno. I imagine the author of the Spatula hit-piece has not – certainly not with my thoroughness, in any case.
This author also probably has a very odd penis. I imagine a penis sloping downward and listing to the right, sporting a rather alarming bulge in the middle of the shaft, with a ragged and impossibly long foreskin hanging off the glans like melted cheese off a tortilla chip. I imagine a distinct odour, somewhere between baby powder and saag paneer, building in the fetid swamp of the author’s mildewed briefs, yearning for the fortuitous moment of a urinary or masturbatory session to leap forward and thoroughly permeate all available space.
Does this author fuck? Yes, but not pleasantly. His coital experiences are sporadic and invariably brief. He thrusts his mangled rod forward into the apathetically receptive orifice of his partner after a second date. There will not be a third date. After a few stops and starts, his half-erect Schlong will wheeze, sputter, and cough a few droplets of cottage-cheese-textured jism into the reservoir of one of his corner drug store’s cheapest unlubricated condoms.
This author’s phallic lack almost certainly served as a chief motivation for him to publish such falsehoods about me. Lukács, an influence of mine! What nonsense! Hopefully this author will discover that bitterness and spite serve as poor substitutes for genuine writerly passion. To write a “genuine polemic”, as Walter Benjamin (whom I have also read) has written, the author must approach his object “as lovingly as a cannibal spices a baby”. My earnest hope is that my response here proves instructive.
Learn from the master, you fucking unrepentant hack!