A defence of the performative reader

By Arabella Hodges, Third Year, Philosophy and English

‘The Cotham Hill Columbian Coffee Company Commander needs no introduction; his aesthetic speaks for itself. His coffee foams with platitudes, oat milk o’erflowing the measure. His legs, weakened from mild malnutrition and frequent sitting, are crossed beneath him. His battered book cover is sullied from overuse, the pages beyond the introduction, however, remain astonishingly untainted.

The face of the Penguin-classic perusing, pen-wielding ponce typically wears an expression of mock delight at the delicious palate of words before him. Yet the only palate that is even remotely refined is this reader’s taste for an espresso, and for eagle-eyed members of the public, gawking at his intellectual prowess. Oat milk, mullet, moustache, thick knit, thick skull, to hide his thick, thick brain that so tragically misses the mark of understanding the novel before him.’

And so follows the writing of the self-proclaimed non-performative reader. The clever, clever reader able to determine real from fake, performative from non-performative. Oh! So astute is this reader that they, and only they, can fit a generation of men into a few small tick-boxes on a slightly larger checklist.

Mullet? Tick. Oat milk? Tick. Stokes croft? Tick. Dostoyevsky book? Tick. Inability to comprehend Dostoyevsky book? Tick. Here lies one whose name is writ in water, the ‘performative reader’, look on his unread works, ye mighty, and despair.

But follow me, as I travel from the antique land of performative readers to the, as yet untold, story of the spotter of the performative reader. As I fall victim to the harsh stereotyping and high-horse gallivanting that precisely this spotter of performative readers is subject to.

Who is this person, shining a light on performative readers for us laymen to laugh and jeer? Why, dear reader, it is you. Yes you, who has stumbled across this article, whose eyes have lit up at the phrase ‘performative readers,’ and who’s decided to jump in on the fun, another kick to the already beaten-horse of the performative reader.

‘But his book might as well be upside down,’ you protest, ‘for all he understands!’ Well, Raskolnikov-reader, it is certainly not you who displays the cunning intellect of Crime and Punishment’s protagonist by noticing the performative reader, for isn’t Raskolnikov himself subject to performative reading? Indeed, ‘the dust that lay thick upon (his books) showed that they had been long untouched.’

Why can we only fathom that someone is reading to be seen, for the performance of it? The most simple, harmless act of pleasure and self-improvement can be none other than a performance.

So it seems the question is not, then, of the performative reader, and whether or not they exist; for we can never truly know if one is a performative reader. The question is instead a self-directed one. Why do we feel the need to label performative readers? Why can we only fathom that someone is reading to be seen, for the performance of it? Perhaps the performance is not put on by the reader, but by the eager-eyed crowd, seeking the bubble reputation at even the canons mouth. The most simple, harmless act of pleasure and self-improvement can be none other than performance. It is no surprise then, that not just anyone can be labelled a performative reader. Indeed, no hackles are raised at one reading a Coco Pops box, or a magazine in a dentist’s office. It is only when someone challenges our intellect, reading a penguin classic, preferably one translated from a foreign language and with an obnoxiously long introduction.

The performative reader reveals our own proclivities to performance, to public display. We are not ourselves but ironically detached parodies of ourselves, once removed to perform a public self-flagellation before anyone else can.

The performative reader reflects the modern obsession with authenticity, activities are deemed ‘cringe’ because they appear forced and inauthentic. However, mere recognition of one’s own cringe, or self-awareness, allows the ‘cringe’ activity to become a celebrated form of irony, a sociological critique. Since the performative reader is unable to performatively read with irony (for how can they defend themselves to passers-by), they are a public free-for-all, easy pickings for people to hurl abuse at. The performative reader reveals our own proclivities to performance, to public display. We are not ourselves but ironically detached parodies of ourselves, once removed to perform a public self-flagellation before anyone else can.

Am I not also guilty of this? Isn’t it me who’s littered this article with Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky, Keats, Plath? But alas, here I am, absolved of the crime (and punishment) of performative referencing as I observe my sins and draw your attention to them.

So, it is the performative reader who is truly authentic. We, the cruel public, serve as the PR’s PR team, advertising them to all, but the performative reader cannot access this once-removed layer of irony to jeer at themselves. For they are simply reading.