Review
WHORE
by Nelly Arcan
Black Cat/Grove, 176 pp.
In recent reviews, Nelly Arcan’s novel Whore has been mistakenly compared to Catherine Millet’s The Sexual Life of Catherine M. Aside from the sex, the connection seems to be one of representation: Millet’s work is a memoir, as is Arcan’s. Well, sort of. "Fictionalized" memoir is what I’m sure Arcan would prefer it to be called, even if her discussions of her real past life as a prostitute in Montreal betray this sense of artistic freedom.
Whore – while powerful, infuriating and insightful – doesn’t fit the mould of "novel," making it a more difficult work to evaluate than the best Hubert Selby Jr. can come up with. The entire work is written as a series of internal monologues by "Cynthia," a moniker chosen by both Arcan and her fictional author. Occasionally the long passages become impenetrable, almost indecipherable. Because of her strict adherence to a stream-of-consciousness style, the tone often falters, revealing more of Cynthia as Arcan rather than Cynthia as fleshed-out fictional prostitute. This belies the sense of real misery and disintegration that Cynthia is living.
Yes, there are the clinical sexual details you would expect to find with a book of this nature. But it is Arcan’s passages outside the sex and through the details that are the most interesting. For her, life as a prostitute is something that props her up even as it bleeds her dry. Both men and women are targets for Cynthia; she sees them clinging to identities that are crumbling with lies, age and apathy. Disease and collapse are life-affirming: "I’d like to be unveiled cold and naked to my community, so that no one can deny me any longer, permanently fixed as an identified corpse." And you thought your job was tough.
Why would you want to read a work like this? I’d say not for the sex, although Arcan’s icy details are squirmy and fun. What counts is what’s discussed around the plumbing – Cynthia’s philosophy is furious and slimy, and probably as honest as you can get.
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