Hedonism is by definition an urgent philosophy. To demur, to decline, even to hesitate, is to fail. In a world in which all delights must be sampled, and all desires sated, there is no place for the passive thrill-seeker. If he lies face-down on the Ottoman in his vomitorium it must be because he has misjudged his ability to have sex with five people of various genders while eating chip-rolls and custard slices, and not because he simply fancied a nap. The true hedonist does not sleep: he blacks out.
The frenzy with which he conducts himself — often with a baton dipped in Tabasco sauce — is misleading to those who do not understand the demands of a life dedicated to flesh. It looks easy, all this shuffling about in silk gowns. But the true hedonist is a slave. His shuffle may be colonic in origin, but his hobbling gait might just as well have been shortened by leg irons. From the moment he wakes up and puts the sheets and the scalpel in the incinerator, until the moment he turns out the light in his sensory deprivation tank and sticks the first tube of nitrous oxide up his nostril, he feels the lash of his twin masters: Pleasure and Time.
Of course, lashings aren’t necessarily a bad thing to the hedonist, but the trouble with Pleasure and Time is that they flog in different directions. Pleasure must always advance, to the next plateau, the next Swiss finishing school for jaded heiresses; but Time runs backwards. There is no future for the pleasure slave, only a past of missed chances. From the day he buckles on the codpiece of self-indulgence, his destiny is clear, written in silk and leather and blood and fluids less polite. Only the volumes, places and times are unknown. And each second that booms past is another burp denied, another squeal silenced. His heart can only pump so many times. The gut can only process so many condor drumsticks.
Naturally the democratising of vices has milked hard-core hedonism of most of its venom, but even in its more popular form — a white-bread affair of guilt-ravaged soccer moms wolfing an extra rusk before book club — a faintly fatalistic tone has been retained. Hail, Caesar’s Palace: those about to party salute you.
Which may explain the current infatuation with pleasure guides that make their point through ultimatums that end in death. Consider Peter Boxall’s popular 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die, a gigantic crib-note purporting to encapsulate all worthwhile literature for readers who are apparently sprinting towards the grave. 1001 books does sound awfully intimidating, but readers will be relieved to discover that it also includes Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist, which means it’s really only 1000 books to read before you die; or just one if you wish to die right now. Alternatively it contains 11 titles by JM Coetzee, so you might want to approach it as 11 Books You Must Read Before You Discover the Ultimate Futility of Language And Reject All Other Books.
But of course that would undermine and diminish the frenzy that a four-digit number brings to the whole phenomenon. Eleven books one can do. 1001? Before I die? Geez, Louise, that’s going to be cutting it pretty fine. And it gets worse, because the lists don’t stop with books, despite one’s suspicion that the entire pleasure-before-death craze might be the result of one author’s flipchart doodles, entitled 1001 Lists To Compile Before My Publisher Axes Me.
Until all of this nonsense started, dying was relatively sedentary. One phoned Les Franken and Ellen Erasmus at their toll-free number, and they organised a hearse, plastic chairs, a blue marquee, and an ox, and gravity and worms did the rest. But now, thanks to rampant white-bread hedonism, the checklist has become vast.
Of course one wouldn’t mind if they weren’t so banal. 1001 albums to listen to before you die? 1001 movies to see? 1001 places to visit? Okay, but only after 1001 Useful Anecdotes To Shout Over Supper Before You Platz.
No, if onrushing death is the counterweight, we need to load the hedonistic scale a little more heavily. 1001 Sexual Positions to Try Before You Cramp. Maybe 1001 Places To Visit In A Tank Before You Are Extradited To The Hague. Definitely 1001 Maltese Poodles To Kidnap And Shave Naked Before You Die In A Hail of Police Bullets Outside A Rural Convenience Store.
Now we’re talking.