Six Billion Degrees of JK Rowling
I don’t know JK Rowling.
I don’t know JK Rowling’s husband. I don’t know JK Rowling’s children. I don’t know JK Rowling’s friends. I don’t know JK Rowling’s dogs. Publicist, lawyer, accountant, stylist, agent, manager, doctor, tree surgeon, personal trainer, plumber. Past, present, future (most likely). The list of non-connections between myself and JK Rowling is an abysm.
I want to say I know how JK Rowling feels. Contrary to – well, everything these days – it is possible to understand and disapprove, or misunderstand and approve, or any combination thereof. But that’s wrong. I don’t know how JK Rowling feels, any more than JK Rowling knows how I feel. I want to say I know how JK Rowling makes me feel. That’s wrong too. I choose my feelings. Nobody has the power to make me feel anything. I want to say I know how I feel about JK Rowling. But I’m not sure about that either. I feel something very different when I’m reading JK Rowling books than when I’m reading JK Rowling tweets. One feeling often tries to drown the other. Neither succeeds. Not for long, anyway.
I’m deeply jealous of the endless hordes of humans who seem to know everything. They know I’m a woke left-wing liberal with a Freudian complex. They know JK Rowling is a worthless TERF c**t. They know Meghan Markle is a royal usurper and Taylor Swift is a deep state spy and that if you step on a crack you’ll break your mother’s back. Did you see the leaps there? Did you care?
Maybe I’m a solipsist at heart. Sometimes I feel like one. But I don’t think so. My existence is contingent on everyone’s validation except my own. Sometimes I think I’m a nihilist but then I see a puppy learning to swim. Sometimes I think I’m an extraterrestrial and that’s why I can’t understand why people hurt each other so often. Not accidentally hurt or recklessly hurt like I do when I’m on the phone with EasyJet customer service (a dreadful misnomer). Deliberately, purposefully, gleefully hurt. One time I told a friend he had a flat ass (in fact his ass, like the rest of him, was very well-proportioned, which made me infuriatingly jealous). I did it with the express purpose of hurting his feelings. It succeeded. That night I put post-it notes all over my room: You’re a terrible person. You’re evil. You don’t deserve to live. I can’t hurt people on purpose. Though I am an expert at hurting myself, but that’s a topic for another column and another play.
Then there’s this play. This play will hurt people. No matter how hard it tries not to hurt people it will hurt people. Somebody somewhere will be hurt. And the hurt will be my fault. Actors say the words –a talent I woefully lack – but the words are mine. I own them. I own the hurt I cause. I don’t know if the cost is worth the benefit. I’m not even sure what the benefit is. Some mix of narcissism, ambition, creative expression, altruism, and selfishness. Just add that to the list. Things I don’t know, by Joshua Kaplan.
If you really want to know how I feel about JK Rowling and transgender rights and free speech and Twitter and victimisation and perpetration and test kitchens and Daniel Radcliffe’s genitals and all the other flotsam floating around my consciousness that wasn’t cut for time or distaste or disinterest, see the play. Just promise me you’ll report back. I’d like to know, too.
I don’t know JK Rowling.
I don’t know JK Rowling’s husband. I don’t know JK Rowling’s children. I don’t know JK Rowling’s friends. I don’t know JK Rowling’s dogs. Publicist, lawyer, accountant, stylist, agent, manager, doctor, tree surgeon, personal trainer, plumber. Past, present, future (most likely). The list of non-connections between myself and JK Rowling is an abysm.
I want to say I know how JK Rowling feels. Contrary to – well, everything these days – it is possible to understand and disapprove, or misunderstand and approve, or any combination thereof. But that’s wrong. I don’t know how JK Rowling feels, any more than JK Rowling knows how I feel. I want to say I know how JK Rowling makes me feel. That’s wrong too. I choose my feelings. Nobody has the power to make me feel anything. I want to say I know how I feel about JK Rowling. But I’m not sure about that either. I feel something very different when I’m reading JK Rowling books than when I’m reading JK Rowling tweets. One feeling often tries to drown the other. Neither succeeds. Not for long, anyway.
I’m deeply jealous of the endless hordes of humans who seem to know everything. They know I’m a woke left-wing liberal with a Freudian complex. They know JK Rowling is a worthless TERF c**t. They know Meghan Markle is a royal usurper and Taylor Swift is a deep state spy and that if you step on a crack you’ll break your mother’s back. Did you see the leaps there? Did you care?
Maybe I’m a solipsist at heart. Sometimes I feel like one. But I don’t think so. My existence is contingent on everyone’s validation except my own. Sometimes I think I’m a nihilist but then I see a puppy learning to swim. Sometimes I think I’m an extraterrestrial and that’s why I can’t understand why people hurt each other so often. Not accidentally hurt or recklessly hurt like I do when I’m on the phone with EasyJet customer service (a dreadful misnomer). Deliberately, purposefully, gleefully hurt. One time I told a friend he had a flat ass (in fact his ass, like the rest of him, was very well-proportioned, which made me infuriatingly jealous). I did it with the express purpose of hurting his feelings. It succeeded. That night I put post-it notes all over my room: You’re a terrible person. You’re evil. You don’t deserve to live. I can’t hurt people on purpose. Though I am an expert at hurting myself, but that’s a topic for another column and another play.
Then there’s this play. This play will hurt people. No matter how hard it tries not to hurt people it will hurt people. Somebody somewhere will be hurt. And the hurt will be my fault. Actors say the words –a talent I woefully lack – but the words are mine. I own them. I own the hurt I cause. I don’t know if the cost is worth the benefit. I’m not even sure what the benefit is. Some mix of narcissism, ambition, creative expression, altruism, and selfishness. Just add that to the list. Things I don’t know, by Joshua Kaplan.
If you really want to know how I feel about JK Rowling and transgender rights and free speech and Twitter and victimisation and perpetration and test kitchens and Daniel Radcliffe’s genitals and all the other flotsam floating around my consciousness that wasn’t cut for time or distaste or disinterest, see the play. Just promise me you’ll report back. I’d like to know, too.