I would have given this a 3/5, but I think the inclusion of the two extra essays in the new edition actually speak to Munoz’s ability to write with less spurious, less academy-poisoned posture, and reflect my longing for a followup that would’ve built on the many budding ideas in this work.
The academic nonsense the majority of the book falls prey to is the worst kind: constantly outlining justifications and clarifications of non-points in anticipation of criticism from other theory-saturated navel-gazers.
Munoz also seems to miss the most salient point of Halberstam’s writing on queer time and failure, most frustratingly that the queer world is not just a set of NY artists from a pretty narrow temporal sample.
I often found myself flabbergasted by supposed proofs and connections Munoz declared, while having done next to no engagement or close-reading with the materials at hand. This is part of the academy-poisoning, and while I understand Munoz was doing this work in a professional capacity, work that is obfuscated and makes claims that it cannot substantiate isn’t some noble, underdog queer hope against all odds as we sail into the horizon; it’s alienating, exhausting, and makes the queer world feel small with an energy contrary to the intent; to be anti-academic for a moment, if you’re ever recommended this book by a fellow academic-type, ask them for three critical bullet points on the text that actually reference the writing and not the intent, and aren’t the things Munoz wastes too much time spuriously addressing (eg: why Bloch?); the generally uncritical praise of the book stunts the productive work we ought to be doing to make it useful and communicative, and any bible-like canonization of material like this must be regarded skeptically, always, whether or not the writer dies too young and is well beloved and tried real dang hard.
So much of the commentary is vague, moderate, and antiseptic. A book that says “hey I’m going to invoke cruising as theory, and I’m going to ensure I hold several meanings of that up at once for a queerer reading” should be thrilling. But it falls short time and time again. There’s no play. There’s little to no ecstasy.
The two additional essays I do think demonstrate that Munoz was aware of this problem with the work. Maybe this is because they do much closer engagement / close reading of the materials at hand, or maybe it’s because it approaches work that feels so much more difficult to tackle, so much more barbed and combustible and ecstatic troubling work. And perhaps because they literally begin to tackle the problem of the gulf between an academic treatment and the real world. We actually see the c-word (communism, and not in the clannish, obtuse academic way even). But these two glimmers of excellence aren’t the book at hand.
And this new edition, which I only recently picked up as I returned to the book, having struggled with it on and off for years now, has a frightening forward.
Perhaps it’s just because I’m reading this so closely on the Heels of a return to Mark Fisher, but in the forward of this edition (in addition to many “manifestos” on wilderness and queerness and the future in other publications) Munoz is getting the highly sterile academic-hagiographic treatment, instead of looking to what did and didn’t work in the book, where it’s been contested and where it’s flourished and instead of imagining what the future could’ve held (which the book asks us to do but never seems to try itself), etcetera, and this intensive canonizing feels untrue to the spirit of the book and Munoz’s work in general; the spirit of the book is perfection, but the execution falters. I “invoke” (to borrow the bludgeoned verb from Munoz) Fisher to ask what are those of us left to do with these tasks assigned by dead men who largely wrote on the exact same problems as one another: a precarious present, and a look both forward and backward to that which never arrived and that which is yet to arrive.
Fisher has by and large become a meme at this point, which is also disheartening, and also frustrating and seemingly contrary to the spirit of Fisher’s work. The difference is, Fisher’s treatment of the same anxieties is eminently readable, and concretized. Munoz is looking ahead to wonder when we manifest concretized hope. Fisher has the exact same aspiration. But Fisher, as a meme, has greater reach and influence specifically because of his (imperfectly) proletarian treatment of the problems.
All this said, I’m glad to be reading the two in conversation. I’m very glad to have gotten the chance to read the additional essays. I do wish Munoz were still here to put his brilliant brain to less distracted ends.