Filthy Animals by Brandon Taylor
“They’re always in the thick of violence. It moves through him like the Holy Ghost might… There was some other god, then, a god for whom the spilling of blood was a prayer, an act of devotion. And they’ve been praying to that god their whole lives.”
Short stories have long been regarded as a pre-emptive vehicle to a novel. The art of short fiction, perhaps due to the brevity of the form, is deceptive. For writers, it is notoriously challenging to craft. For publishers, it is exceedingly difficult to sell. But for Brandon Taylor, his new collection of short fiction Filthy Animals seems to be an exception to this dichotomy.
Released in June this year, Filthy Animals follows the success of his debut novel Real Life (2020), which was shortlisted for the Booker Prize. Filthy Animals consists of eleven short stories, six of which follow a continuous narrative, while the remaining stories work as standalone, tonal accompaniments. Taylor explores themes of abuse, suicide, violence, race, queerness, and illness. These themes are broad and subjective; challenging to write about with the restraints of the short story. But the way in which Taylor discusses such questions is refreshing, relying on ambiguity and nuance to tempt the reader into a greater labyrinth of thought, often through the means of complex characters.
One such character is Lionel; a queer, Black graduate student, who becomes embroiled in an open relationship after attempting to take his own life. It is this narrative that forms the backbone of the collection, with several short stories following Lionel’s relationship with Charles and Sophie. In the opening story of the collection, “Potluck”, Lionel arrives at a lunch, where the usual social cliques stand as walls of collision. Taylor captures this world as a forest of bodies, plates, chewing mouths:
“Lionel waited his turn, watching as they pirouetted and collided. They touched the smalls of each other’s back and shoulders. Men and women. They hugged and kissed and pressed against each other. Looped arms and hooked thumbs into pockets. They poured wine and spooned things into each other’s plates. The loud whack of plastic trays and the tinkle of ice, the hiss of seltzer. As they finished and they squeezed by Lionel, he saw they were his age.”
Taylor is frenzied and obsessive in his observations. Just reading that passage makes you feel like an outsider, scanning the room for an exit before hiding in the bathroom. It was in this story that a thought arrived: a literary theory of “domestic anxiety.” This domestic anxiety is not a fear of home appliances or lounge rooms, but more so a kinetic view of the rules and regulations of the modern age; the social cues, external projections and expectations we live by. The way we are always waiting and watching for the right moment. Feigning happiness, while enduring a stabbing, internal longing. This feeling underpins much of the collection.
In many ways, the ménage à trois that forms between Lionel, and the two lovers, Charles and Sophie, is indicative of the reader’s position throughout the novel: an outsider entering a pre-existing dynamic. The secretive dimensions of the open relationship are tested as Taylor steers the narrative between Lionel, Charles, and Sophie. In “Flesh,” we see Charles and Sophie deliberating about Lionel, and in another story, the revelation that Lionel perhaps has stronger feelings for Charles becomes apparent. This act of questioning, and revelling in the impossibility of longing is fervent and delicious, as three individuals wrestle in defining the kind of love growing between them.
The deluge of the modern world – work commitments, social lives, past traumas, and internal projections – is juxtaposed against the intimacy of human connection. In my favourite story from the collection, “Little Beast,” Taylor captures the whirlwind chaos of caring for young children, as a heartbroken nanny Sylvia deals with a petulant child. The opening line of the short story, “Sylvia has blown up her life” says everything and nothing. It draws the reader in, tempting them with the magnitude of her supposed destruction. Through frustration, anger and violent impulses, the enduring power of the piece is how the two connect. As Sylvia washes the young girl in the bath after a bout of particularly unruly behaviour, she begins to speak, telling the girl about the end of her relationship:
“Grown-ups get sick sometimes, and nobody knows why and nobody knows how to fix it,” Sylvia says. “And you try your best not to get anyone else sick.”
This ‘sickness’ is not a physical ailment, but one of the soul. A malignant longing for a lost love.
“She couldn't be with him, couldn't lie next to him, because she sensed in him the same thing that was knocking around inside her. The same looming, wild, stalking thing that moves behind her at every turn and corner.”
This story further affirms my theory of domestic anxiety. While Taylor never gives too much away, this fear is one of expectation and a recognition of superficial, ‘assumed desires’ and those of reality. It encompasses the frightening sensation that dawns on someone when they realise something is not right; a feeling that is part of human nature.
At the center of Filthy Animals is a deep sense of unease about the worth of existence. It is a decree of rebellion, a call for escapism, and a parade against the expectations to do ‘the right thing.’ This is seen through Lionel’s narrative; a man expected to carry on living after a suicide attempt, and saved by a previously undiscovered form of love. In “What Made them Made You,” a young girl watches as her body decays beneath her. And in the title story “Filthy Animals,” a boy collapses into the darkened precipice of adolescence, witnessing the violence of friendship.
Through the tales - horrific, fantastic and saddening - Taylor paints portraits of people as complex entities. The players are not good or bad; Taylor does not do redemption. For a brief moment, I found myself questioning the stories: People don’t talk like this? This isn’t how normal people act? But when the final page is turned, the book is put down, my reading glasses come off, my hands gnaw at my eyes and I see it: these people are real. They are truthful. The same violent delights that traverse their minds, traverse ours; desire, hate, retribution, longing. We too are guilty of such horrid, filthy thoughts. But what barrier stops us from truly committing the actions we fantasize about? Where do we concede the recognition of life’s limitations?
Filthy Animals is a surprising observation of modern life. Through each story, Taylor skilfully dissects the restraints and reveries of contemporary life, recognising that to exist is to walk in the shadows of what life demands of us. But to live is to express the convivial passions within.
Sebastian Hugh is a writer and artist based in Victoria.