At one time or another, we’ve all been served a dish of that tripe. Some of us might even have believed it. But what does it mean?
That all news is bad? Seems unlikely.
That the absence of bad news is good? Possibly, but a tad obvious, don’t you think?
That absence of any news is good? I suppose so—if ignorance really is bliss.
I’m going to shimmy out on the proverbial limb and assert, flat out, that it’s all nonsense. Crapola. Flapdoodle. Tommyrot. You get the idea: it’s phonus-balonus. How do I know? On what evidence do I base this assertion?
Book sales statistics. Specifically, reports of the sales of my self-published books.
You see, every month I get reports about purchased books. When I don’t receive a report—that is, when there is no news—it may be some kind of news, but it is definitely not good news. But there’s no need to linger on that, is there?
Thank you for being so understanding.
The reports I receive (or don’t receive) may not be news, but they are oddly informative. For one thing, I now know which of my books sell, and sell consistently from month to month. The relative “goodness” of that news is questionable. What troubles me about it is a question—of a more sociological nature—that it inspires.
But first, a little back story: for a few years, some time ago, I became interested in cannibalism. (As something to write about, not to practice. I provide this quick disclaimer, lest you jump to obvious conclusions, considering the fact that I was—at the time—a food writer). I did one big book (How to Serve Man: On Cannibalism, Sex, Sacrifice, & the Nature of Eating) and co-edited, with historian Ken Albala, a smaller anthropophagic anthology (Human Cuisine). Since then, I’ve mostly lost interest in the subject. Satiated, one might say.
Why do I mention these particular books?
Because those two regularly outsell all my other books, combined—and I’ve self-published about a dozen of them. It worries me a little that so many people want to read about a subject that is supposed to be disgustingly abhorrent. Worse, I fear that some readers might not be as intellectually disinterested as one might hope.
On the other hand, it lends confirmation to a long-held suspicion: that all of us, as a species, evolved from ancestors who ate each other—and, that, on some level, we miss that portion of the menu. As civilized beings, we make up for its absence, by substituting the practice of merely symbolic cannibalism.
Today’s article on that theme originally appeared in the online magazine Modern Salt.
What’s Eating You?
Ambrose Bierce once defined a cannibal as “A gastronome of the old school who preserves the simple tastes and adheres to the natural diet of the pre-pork period.”
Of course, we’re much more civilized today—we no longer actually tear into our enemies with our teeth. We prefer to do it symbolically—with our tongues—but we reveal our ancient cannibalistic tendencies by using metaphors from the kitchen. To be verbally “roasted” by a superior is to be “raked over the coals,” and “basted.” In French, the verb cuisiner (to cook) also means to interrogate with the help of torture.
Sometimes, if we deserve the hot treatment, we are merely left to “stew in our own juices” or “fry in our own grease.” The Spanish equivalent is quemarse en su propia salsa, “burn in our own sauce.” Once we are thoroughly cooked, our colleagues may properly describe us as “done to a turn.” Likewise, someone who has been (or is about to become) totally defeated is “dead meat” or “gobbled up.”
When someone’s in trouble at the office, they’re said “to be in a pickle” or “in hot water.” In Italian, they’re essere in un bel pasticcio, “in a lovely meat pie”—and when an American might say that the boss is going to make “mincemeat” out of such a person, the Italians say fare polpetti di qualcuno, “is going to make meatballs out of him.” To “have someone for breakfast” or to be “chawed (chewed)” or “chawed up and spit out” is to be completely destroyed—or at least demoralized—by such a tongue-lashing. A worse insult, that is only implied, is to be “chawed” and not spit out—because that means the hapless victim is digested, reduced to the status of “used food,” (the stuff we flush down the toilet).
It is worth noting that, while there are lots of food-based slurs, ethnic or otherwise, for others who are treated as inferiors (for example: “bagel-benders,” “frijoles,” “frogs,” “fruitcakes,” and “krauts”), completely different food-names are applied to superiors. Food terms can be used to indicate flaws in our superiors—which allows us to treat them (if only surreptitiously) as our inferiors. Almost always, the descriptive insults suggest that superiors eat too much. Consider terms like “the big cheese,” “the big enchilada,” “old lard-ass” or “lard-bucket” or “tub-of-lard,” or the “top banana,” or the “big potato.” In Spain, the preferred term is el pez gordo, “the fat fish.” None of these terms (with the possible exception of those containing the word “lard”) would be used for someone we actually believed to be more powerful but less qualified than ourselves—when they could hear us. For sure, we don’t want to be caught using one of these expressions—lest we “get our goose cooked.”
When someone asks, “What’s eating you?” they’re suggesting that some imaginary, corrosive, consuming evil is the source of our discontent. What’s really surprising is that no one ever asks “Who’s eating you.”
Paid subscribers to these substack pages get access to complete editions of two of my novellas. Noirvella is a modern story of revenge, told in the style of film noir. Unbelievable is a kind of rom-com that forms around a pompous guy who is conceited, misinformed, and undeservedly successful. Both books are sold by Amazon, but paid subscribers get them for free!
Also, substack pages (older than eight months) automatically slip behind a paywall—so only paid subscribers can read them. If you’re interested in reading any of them, you can subscribe, or wait until they are re-released in book form (something I’m in the process of considering).
Meanwhile, it is easy to become a paying subscriber (just like supporting your favorite NPR station). It’s entirely optional, and—even if you choose not to do so—you’ll still get my regular substack posts—and I’ll still be happy to have you as a reader.
True... but now I'm curious to know why you brought that up.
you have obviously never been called someone’s “Little Butter Duck”