Modern Liaisons

The digital age has birthed a venomous mutation of misogyny, incubated in chatrooms and social media foxholes. Emboldened by anonymity, self-described incels commiserate online, blaming women for denying them sex and romance. This cauldron of resentment inevitably bubbles over into the material world. But what, really, is the relationship between acidic hatred unleashed on keyboards and everyday acts of chauvinism?

This question drives Russell Smith’s Self Care. The story follows Gloria, a millennial eking out a living as a freelance writer in Toronto. In the opening pages, her quasi-boyfriend, Florian, chokes her during sex without consent. It’s not the first time. When she half-heartedly confronts him, their conversation devolves into a dance of manipulation: Gloria tries not to make him feel guilty, and Florian brushes off the assault as something benign.

Gloria’s experience is indicative of a broader noncommittal, dispiriting, and humiliating dating scene. Isabel, her best friend, imagines an uninspired fling:

Eager for a change, Gloria makes a clean break from Florian. Newly single, she experiences a different kind of internal tension. “Not a fear of being alone,” exactly, but “the anxiety that comes of not having a signal for your phone and a long time to wait.” Without anyone to distract her, “she would have to learn to read again or something.”

A chance to challenge herself arrives in the unlikely shape of Daryn, a young man who in every way — socially, emotionally, ideologically — represents the opposite of what Gloria is looking for. In short, he’s an incel. What starts as a chance encounter becomes an opportunity to be with “a boy who wanted her terribly and hated her terribly — or were all men like that? — and whom she could almost certainly control, in his desperation.” Gloria recognizes the unsustainable power she wields over Daryn. Even so, she pursues the intense sexual experiment to the point of destruction.

In their liaisons, Gloria takes the role of domme, ordering Daryn through each step of intercourse, from where he can touch her to when he is allowed to come. She is convinced that she is teaching him that “you don’t have to dominate and control women” to achieve pleasure. “It doesn’t come naturally to me,” she explains. “It was a decision I made because I was angry.” Though uncomfortable for her at first, this clearly defined sexual framework eventually leads Gloria to achieving a long-elusive orgasm.

Daryn is appreciative of her attention and affection. Early on, he declares, “I love you,” the first in an escalating series of red flags. It’s not long until the seething insecurity and jealousy he masks in person is unleashed when they’re apart. Panicky texts such as “Where are you right now? Who are you with?” quickly turn into “You disgusting slut. What a fucking whore.” But Gloria stays in their situationship until its inevitable and tragic conclusion.

A former arts columnist for the Globe and Mail, Smith seems curiously detached from the issues of sexuality and gender his novel contends with. While his journalistic, observational eye for the cadences and behaviour of a younger generation is sharp, he appears wary of inserting a political position. As Gloria tries to understand Daryn, she wonders if men like him are pushed toward their views during stilted, suburban adolescences. “He wasn’t rude to anyone or outwardly racist. There was nothing wrong with him,” she notices. “But he would be mocked by someone like Florian for his lack of sophistication or worldliness; he wasn’t from downtown and didn’t know the name of any bands or podcasts or microbreweries.” This view of incels borders on sympathetic. When Gloria and Daryn run into some of his online friends at a bar, they come off as little more than nice, if slightly uncouth men.

Smith saves his most biting commentary for a society that, he seems to believe, has overcorrected in balancing the scales of representation. In his exaggerated version of Toronto, everyone is medicated for something, barely employed or a vacant careerist, self-involved or overtly woke. The story opens in the wake of a series of suicides, including the death of the well-known author Devon Rumpel, who “used to get a lot of grants and published a lot and then it all stopped.” (In his acknowledgements, Smith points out that Self Care was refused funding from federal, provincial, and local arts councils.) Another is of the gallerist Hilary Hong, who “was known for the vibrant fundraisers she arranged, some of which had caused notoriety for explicitly excluding white cis males and even a small group of white feminists.” The suicide of one of Gloria’s professors, another public figure, brings about a slew of content warnings and “carefully worded discussions.” At times, these details give the satire a defensive and defiant air, as if it was written only to oppose a stifled arts landscape.

What does ring true is Smith’s illustration of how failed promises of upward mobility have impacted an entire generation. Gloria believes it’s not just “fucking entitled men” that mark the breaking point for most women her age, but “having shitty jobs all the time even though you have an education and did really well in school and you’re always broke and there are always asshole men who are your boss, and then they want to fuck you too.” Yet these concerns of class and gender are only touched on. Smith begins a cultural critique that explores how people devalue themselves and one another but seldom ventures far below the surface of social mores. Even when things turn increasingly violent for Isabel, Gloria, and Daryn, the novel, oddly, remains neutral. Self Care never quite feels fully attuned to the milieu on display, offering ample details but few revelations about how men and women are getting by in a rapidly changing world.