Jackson in the Desert

In one of those strange juxtapositions as we follow the course of reading through our lives I put aside St Aubyn's novel of drugs and debauchery, Bad News, to read a recommended recent NYer story, Greg Jackson's Wagner in the Desert, apparently a sneak preview of his forthcoming debut collection (good for the NYer for introducing a new writer) - and found myself in another drug-imbued world of self-indulgence, irresponsibility, and unfulfilled, in fact unexplained, ambition. And yet, despite its unpleasant, nihilistic qualities, the story is very daring, extremely well written, funny at times, and sharply observant - and even laughingly self-critical. Jackson is definitely a writer to pay attention to - in hopes that this state of sorrow does not constitute his entire repertoire. The story is in a sense yet another story of extremely hip and aware rich young people (20s, maybe 30s tops), in this case on the environs of LA, mainly focusing on a weekend retreat four of them - one young couple on a last fling before they try to have children (and in a long-view back reference at the top of the story tells us they do in fact have children), the narrator, and an unattached woman (an executive in training, with a large bag of cosmetics in tow) -- all assume they will become a couple, and the narrator makes that his goal for the weekend, to the extent he can have any goals except for getting high. The story begins with an inventory of pharmaceuticals that I couldn't understand but served its purpose: these people, and this writer, are pros in the field of narcotics, stimulants, hallucinogens, et al. The story could go nowhere, of course - four stoned people climb a mountain and gaze on the Salton Sea - but it's saved by Jackson's acute self-awareness and ability to push the boundaries of fiction to and beyond the point of no return: he refers to his own writing as fictional confession mode, and nothing seems to be out of his range - including a long passage on masturbation fantasies, for example. He has that rare capacity for stepping aside from his own material and reflecting on his writing and on the self about whom he's writing: in one very thoughtful passage, for ex., he reflects on the issue of how and why he can use, and is using, a first-person plural in his narration: what does it mean for a writer to talk about what "we" felt, what "we" did - who are "we," after all? The thin plot line - the other guy in the foursome is in pursuit of a financier named Wagner who might back his preposterous-sounding movie idea - isn't enough to carry the narrative, nor does it have to do so. Jackson's narration is good enough to carry us through this one; what remains in his collection, and in his career, is an open question - but I hope he, and his material, rise from this darkness.