Reading The Boy by Germaine Greer is rather like finding out you have a particularly nasty form of necrotising fasciitis. There are a number of stages that one goes through.
The first, and most memorable, is to pass out with laughter. To me, the idea that boys are in any way "beautiful" is the funniest thing I have heard since The Young Ones. As a 16 year old, I have spent a great deal of time looking up and down the list of suitable words to describe people my age. "Undignified" was in there, and I think I saw "greasy" somewhere near the top. But "beautiful" definitely didn't make the cut. Unfortunately, I could hardly describe my body as beautiful. Prepubescent and teenage boys wear baggy clothes for a reason, and I know looking down in the shower isn't one of my favourite activities.
The second stage is that of mild disgust. Personally I can't help but think of the legions of be-macintoshed dirty old men, rubbing their hands together at the thought of the publication of this book. I certainly couldn't see myself buying it, at least not without having paranoid ideas that the cashier is pressing the button marked "silent alarm" under the table.
But the final stage is, of course, acceptance. There is something to be said for The Boy (and something beyond "urrrgghhh ... naked? boys? really?") Perhaps the discomfort I feel in being scrutinised in this way is telling because this is the way that we (and by "we" I mean the male population of the planet) have been looking at the other 50% for the past three million years.
My one problem is that it all seems a little too Just William for me. Greer seems to have a scarily strong faith in the niceness and innocence of boys - "outrageously lovely" she called us in one interview. This is just not true. Between the ages of 10 and 16, boys are about as innocent as Myra Hindley's evil twin.
And also I can't help but ask myself the question: what would I do if my mother bought this book? I would probably run away from home and join the circus (or the Conservative party). This is not the kind of book that should be innocently resting on coffee tables throughout Great Britain.
This morning, when I slid out of my bed at 6:35am, I did not exactly feel like one of Michelangelo's cherubs, nor did I feel "outrageously beautiful". But I must admit I am rather flattered that Germaine Greer thinks I am.
No comments:
Post a Comment