Who Is Gustave Deresse?
“Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money…”
“Putting aside the need to earn a living… there are four great motives for writing… [one of which is] sheer egoism… Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death… It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic… with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all — and live chiefly for others... But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.”
-G. Orwell
Gustave Deresse.
But who exactly is the guy, you wonder? Well, it depends.
If “who is Gustave Deresse” is code for “to what extent can you accurately regurgitate the man’s resume?” Or “can you at least describe his anatomy vividly enough for my mind’s eye?” — or any such tediously earthly inquiry — then I have not an answer for you. In fact, his bio alone can tell you more than I am currently capable of without a peek. Yes, seriously.
But that’s the beauty of people like Gustave Deresse.
The contour of his face, the pitch of his voice or its inflection; the place or time of his birth, the reason for which he believes himself to have been born, or the lack of it; the name of the city, town, or planet where he grew up, married, divorced, sleeps around, doesn’t, or— for all I know — consecrates himself sexlessly unto the Lord. All such datapoints constitute information I needn’t either learn or clarify to confidently write an eponymous piece describing just the kind of guy Gustave Deresse is at his core, precisely because Gustave Deresse is the kind of guy he is.
Having impressively managed to convince himself that the nᵗʰ time is, in fact, “a charm,” the gambler squanders hard-earned paycheck after paycheck at the slot machine; losing himself as he does, winning nothing. Most of us are hardly different. The most ambitious among us “modern” writers, it would seem, are those of us who manage to numb our hearts enough to dedicate swaths of dispassionately written prose and soulless stanzas to insipid trivialities, without a twinge of regret, shame, or remorse. Those of us, as it were, with sufficiently unfeeling hearts that will not interfere when we squander entire troves of painstakingly-crafted words on yet another shot at winning the ever-so-coveted adulation “jackpot.”
As for Gustave Deresse? Well, he forms part of a rare counterpoise to this disaster.
Indeed, Gustave and others like him represent a thin, scarce, yet surprisingly sufficient countervailing ray of vulnerability that, nevertheless, shines through as the only real hope of restoring some integrity to the egoistic hell we’ve made of this, and every similarly clout-oriented platform we’ve disparaged with our growing sense of self-importance. Gustave, you see, is the kind of guy to publish a heartwarmingly candid piece coaxing his readers to withhold from his work all forms of praise — comments, shares, the prospect of a fourth digit to magnify “applause,” the prospect of adding yet another follower to a soon-to-burgeon follower count—on his own publication, of all spaces. Why, you wonder? Well, presumably because Gustave Deresse actually — genuinely — values legitimate engagement and hard-earned praise above the obsequious flattery that too many of us would readily trade our pens and voices for a bit too eagerly.
“I always appreciate gaining readers and followers who appreciate what I have to offer. But that’s the key: they have to appreciate what I have to offer, for themselves. I know for a fact not everyone who follows me has an interest in my writing, or anything else about me. This is essentially fine…” ᴳ.ᴰ
Gustave explains, shortly before clarifying his stance on the matter:
“If I read you, follow you, or join your newsletter, I want you and/or your content as part of my life. It’s really that simple. As counterproductive as it may be to my overall goals, I’m not here for the popularity.” ᴳ.ᴰ
But anyone can feign humility. Faux modesty does, after all, tend to make narratives more relatable, and thus a tactic commonly employed to tacitly increase engagement. Does it not? I couldn’t blame you for concluding as much. Could anyone? — in a neurosis-ridden world where self-victimizing is far from the last resort? If parallel universes are indeed a thing, most alternate versions of this article will surely echo such distrust, and present it as a call to prudence. In this universe, however, one Gustave Deresse leaves me no such choice. In this universe, Gustave substantiates the claims above before I ever knew he’d made them — consistently, unconditionally, without any indication of expected reciprocity — on more than one occasion. The impetus for this article was, as a matter of fact, a batch of further, recent evidence in his favor.
In a “medium” where a publication’s value is tantamount to the thematic integrity and quality of its works, highly-biased selectivity is paramount; the less inclusive, the better. Sure, every neophyte deserves their shot, you concede, but surely not at the expense of your darling pub’s success. Right? The Ineclectic Publications is one of those pleasantly odd tightrope acts that perplexes onlookers such as myself with every inch advanced. Maintaining or amplifying a truly engaging publication’s success is undoubtedly no cakewalk. Each successful step along the rope is, thus, already an inherently impressive feat of balance in itself. Gustave would probably agree, which only makes the fact that this, nevertheless, did nothing to dissuade him from putting my embryonic stanzas on display, amid other, comparatively seasoned and refined “ineclectic” publications, all the more touching. Thought-provoking prose, beautifully constructed stanzas, and every extemporaneous oddball in-between—such is TIP — a delightfully chaotic clusterfuck. An absurdly nonsensical juggling act amid an ongoing tightrope act, the combination of which manages to both epitomize what every publisher is warned against becoming, while thriving not in spite of, but rather thanks to its every apparent contradiction.
Gustave’s Ineclectic Publications have yet to reject even the most unpalatably experimental oddities I’ve pitched his way. He has, indeed, yet to leave a single one of my submissions void of thoughtful commentary, which rarely (if not never) consists of merely single comment, no matter how successful or hopelessly shunned the piece turns out. Suffice it to say that there are a handful of submissions that I’ve reason to believe have been read by Gustave exclusively — that is, read by him and only him—and not by a single other pair of eyes. I, nevertheless, sincerely doubt he’s ever felt tempted to remove any of these failed stains upon an otherwise modestly successful publication. If anything, he seems to have a knack for reading my unacknowledged rejects exceptionally thoroughly. These he tends to shower with maximal “applause,” and with considerably more praise and feedback both (respectively) sincerer and profounder — single-handedly, on his own — than multiple readers have collectively, even among the more “successful” of my pieces.
If you ask me, the earnest heartfelt writer longs for nothing more than the kind of appreciation that someone like Gustave Deresse can bestow upon her work, especially when — as in my case — it’s expressed such that she feels fortunate to read, and immediately know that it is a respectable fellow scribbler who has candidly reacted to her work, with opinions worth pondering. Visceral appreciation of this sort is exactly what I hinted at earlier, when alluding to the impetus that birthed this curveball of an article; this blurb, unplanned and unforeseen, that I had no prior intention of writing whatsoever. As per usual, just as I was moments away from finally squirming out of the weeks-deep procrastinative hole I regularly escape away into, I decided that I was “obligated” to uphold what’s come to feel like an increasingly inviolable tradition. I dodged the long-shirked to-do list “one last time,” and searched for a “lighter,” atypical read outside the classic go-tos; something to “awaken and arouse the muse with.” (I.e., I was digging for some pithy, quotable adage that I might use to vindicate myself if I ultimately decided to stall for a few more minutes, hours, possibly another day?)
My search came to a surprisingly abrupt end; at once, an internally-conflicted monologue ensued:
Ease my Conscience — Don’t Follow for Follow, Read for Read, or Join for Join? Get the fuck out of here. It’s almost too fitting — this is just the thing.
Jesus. Not sure what I was expecting, but… probably not something genuinely touching. That was beautifully vulnerable — actually vulnerable. And I here I was basically convinced that “vulnerable” was as vulnerable as one could find on the platform. I’ll be damned. Wait, no — wait! You can’t forget Gustave. The guy definitely stands out. Yeah, I suppose that’s a diamond in the rough; especially with assholes like this one here before the mirror having to beat themselves back into humility every couple days to remain afloat. Haha. Funny: either responding or not responding to the man’s feedback would be equally and several times easier if he wasn’t such a genuine dude. But alas, a genuine dude he is. I’m glad he makes it difficult. Alright. Alright…
Here’s the plan: respond to him, him and only him, and no one else, if you must. When you do, make sure you do so with at least as much “real” as the guy deserves, yeah? If after that you’re still hellbent on skirting shamelessly away from the platform once again, and decide to call it quits on your triumphantly announced “return” after barely even half a month — whatever. But not a second prior. Got it?
By the way… who was the refreshingly candid soul that wrote this, anyway?
Ah.
Haha…
Yikes. Nope.
Few things sting the way words gone unread do. Words half-heartedly acknowledged — especially out of pity, or due to some misplaced sense of obligation — might be the only thing that comes close. It might even sting worse, actually. Either way, I know the pain of the sting in either form too irritatingly well; it’s something I experience too frequently, too often, and in far too many ways to ever forget. And while I’m almost certain that he’s standup guy, who’s neither “accidentally” or consciously even half as pretentious as I still can be at times… surely, it’s nonetheless a sting that people like himself, nevertheless, must know… either about or just as well, if not worse.
As for the flipside of that coin? The rare luxury that is experiencing the flipside of that coin… well, it might be very much a stretch (an annoyingly histrionic one, at that) to claim that “few experiences are as validating,” or “as reassuring” or “feel anywhere as good” as any possible alternative. But it is no stretch at all, however, to acknowledge that there is, nonetheless, no substitute for the sincere acknowledgement — let alone sincere and eager acknowledgement, if one should be so lucky — of one’s solitary, rambling attempts at making sense of one’s own painfully restless mind amid its darkest moments.
It’s no strech at all to recognize that nothing can quite validate, reassure, or come anywhere near tickling the whole of one’s existence, in quite the same peculiar, borderline “transcendent” way that sincere interest in (or appreciation for) one’s lonesome, unhinged musings manages to so unfailingly. For the compulsive, obsessive, writer… there are certain corners of his lonely, pensive heart that no person, thing, or indeed any “alternative” experience will ever truly warm. At least not in quite that way — this he always knows.
With all of that being said, the truth is I couldn’t really know whether Gustave Deresse would at all confirm that any such void exists anywhere at all within his heart. One can ultimately only speculate. What I do know, however, is that he is aware of the asymmetry that distinguishes his own instinctual interest in his fellow scribblers’ writing from their often disproportional interest in his (regardless of how knowing this actually makes him feel). I also know that I’ve experienced enough unconditional support and appreciation on his part to trust that the man harbors enough good to outweigh the sum total of every shortcoming of his, none of which I’ll probably ever witness (for better or worse). Evidently, the man harbors at least enough good to compel me, virtually a “complete stranger,” to write an eponymous op-ed virtually unprompted. Lastly, I now know firsthand — clearly, as this article’s existence would suggest — that amplifying the sort of honesty and vulnerability one experiences at the receiving end of touching moments, or perhaps even merely just emulating the Gustaves of the world, if only on occasion… can maybe do something to reorient those lost wordsmiths (now in the majority) who ceased writing from the heart, oftentimes too long ago to even remember what it is to write freely, unprompted by ulterior motives.
Who knows? Another unplanned piece born out of a thankful heart might just make another reclusive scribbler like myself — a guy who very rarely bothers to “play the game,” or even venture beyond his bookshelf merely for his own enjoyment — feel inexplicably compelled to write another similarly unprecedented piece (possibly downstream of an ongoing chain reaction? It doesn’t always hurt to hope) just as I myself now have:
purely as a gesture of overwhelming gratitude.
For
Gustave Deresse | Writer; AI Artist
In a world where vulnerability, honesty, and genuinely self-effacing kindness have become this rare, every sighting of such things ought to be celebrated, or at least acknowledged.
