I read Tao Lin’s Trip this past year. It was huddled away in a local bookstore on a shelf by the floor, and I picked it up during my psychadelics phase. I was primarily interested in the cover (although the title was pretty cool, too). I can now confidently say that it is my favorite book. The content was great, but the author, Tao, was even greater. Throughout the book, he takes on several perspectives: at some points a journalist and teacher and at other points writing in his witty autofiction style.
Tao is a mystery man. After Gawker criticized him for his self-promotion efforts, he covered their door with stickers reading “Britney Spears.” In his writing, you come to know everything about him, but at the same time nothing. Atlantic author Hua Hsu’s description of his writing has stuck with me: “But there’s something unusual about a writer being so transparent, so ready to tell you every insignificant detail of a seemingly eventful day, so aware of his next novel’s word count, yet also remaining so opaque, mysterious, ‘inscrutable.’”
I am wholly aware that I may be descending into the cult-like following of Tao Lin. Reading the comments beneath one of his talks, I wonder whether I am falling into the same rabbit hole other Lin-lovers have already jumped into or whether I will hop over it like those quick to write him off.
“Genius,” one commenter writes.
Another: “not sure if aspergers or drugs.”
While reading or watching Tao, you can’t help but feel an unedited realism, coupled with his distinct dry humor. He masterfully switches from a critical analysis of why psychadelics are illegal to his personal experience tripping on DMT. I’ve never felt more welcome when reading someone. In contrast with the Victorian novels that I was always into, Tao reads like a self-consciously not-self-conscious enumeration of events coupled with feelings. When Tao is sad, he says he is sad. He doesn’t show, he tells; and it’s refreshing. Instead of tryig to piece apart how characters are actually feeling and acting, we are left with his unedited feelings and actions, left guessing at his motivations and wondering if he cares about anything at all.
You can’t help but feel fortunate to have read Tao. The sheer apathy in his writing makes him feel honest — makes you feel like you a part of something bigger. Even in the depths of his nihilism, his writing gives you hope.
And his writing shows me an in-between location where I can be both personal and subjective while also maintaing a journalistic, objective perspective.
Whenever I read a good piece on Medium, I immediately want to know more about the person. I check out their website, LinkedIn, Twitter, etc. I want to feel connected. While guarding my personal information may help me better decipher the facts and only present the facts, it’s remote and unrelatable. It feels deceitful not to write how I feel or who I am. And I think it’s time to make that change.
