12 Questions for Tao Lin
A useful exploration of parasocial longing
The interview began with an introduction from the writer Jordan Castro, a former subject of mine. Though I wouldn’t say I was a diehard Lin-head, I enjoyed Tao’s nonfiction book, Trip: Psychedelics, Alienation, and Change, and had begun reading his Substack here and there; I liked pieces about Nini, one of his two cats, and took pleasure in admiring the preternatural relationship he has with his animals. These articles, in combination with some of his recent writing on the paranormal, on reincarnation and the afterlife, have helped me grieve the sudden loss of my Labrador Retriever, Alfie, and, even more, reevaluate and help eradicate my fear of death—which is really something. I’ve also liked Tao’s work on holistic medicine and the many pitfalls of Western medical ideology (to crassly summarize, Tao believes that Western medicine merely dispenses a palliative form of care on the road to death, while alternative therapies can provide a more absolute kind of healing, one that may lead to a longer, more spiritually fulfilling life). While suffering severe gut issues that came to fruition around the same time my dog passed, I’ve felt uncertain whether or not to go the natural, holistic route, or capitulate to the relief that Western chemicals might offer. Reading Tao, or listening to some of his long-form interviews on podcasts, has given me the confidence to attempt to take the long, holistic route toward health, if such a thing could ever exist (I have broken here and there). These were the reasons, sensible reasons, that I thought Tao would be a great subject for my 12 Questions series.
What’s annoyed me about Tao, before I even asked Jordan Castro if he and I could be introduced, is that while I often enjoy the content of what he writes about or discusses, I’ve had trouble relating to him as a writer, or, to say it differently, to him as a person. Reading Tao Lin, I felt no room for any visceral, parasocial relationship, which is, whether one likes it or not, one of the most pleasurable aspects of reading; it’s why people say the best authors are immortal—they remain eerily present for conversation long after their death (this is also why A.I. writing will never succeed). People relate to and enjoy particular writers, feel seen and admire particular writers, because of something unique and intangible called sensibility, an extension of personality. It isn’t that I found Tao Lin completely devoid of personality, all his interests and fascinations make up one of the most unique personalities that can be found. The problem, which is subjective, is that through his writing I didn’t particularly find his sensibility to be interesting or relative; I found his unaffected style bland, at times evocative of what could be read in a college textbook; one idea after another in the most direct form possible, without any apparent lyricism or flair. I would walk away from something he wrote having appreciated what I learned, but not compelled by or drawn to him. It was like meeting someone you share so many interests with, so much in common with, but, and this is what’s inexplicable, simultaneously feel disconnected from. I empathized, understood, and agreed with Tao’s writing, but between us there was a chasm that didn’t exist with other writers I’ve enjoyed (Emmanuel Carrere, Annie Ernaux, Martin Amis, to name a few). I read and reread him, and still, had trouble, even though so many of the topics he was actively exploring resonated. I wanted to relate, so I kept reading and trying, but the chasm remained, and there was, in some sense, a barrier that couldn’t be broken, or a distance I found impossible to cross. So be it.
Until now, all of my 12 Questions interviews have been conducted over email. I’ll often meet the writer in person and have extensive conversations with them, but the interview portion itself consists of a list of questions I send the artist, which they answer in their own time. Until my interview with Tao, I’ve enjoyed this form. My intro can feel more like a freewheeling profile and the interview which follows is the space where the writer can build out their own aesthetic and, based on my prompts, express themselves without any interference, or elaborate on any idea they’d like; writing is freedom. I enjoy more than anything to see how a writer chooses to play with language, or, and sorry for this nauseating cliche—dances with words, on their terms. So following Jordan Castro’s introduction I sent Tao a list of around fourteen questions all based on my impressions of his work, on his public persona. Usually I’d ask the writer if we could meet up or talk on the phone first, but Tao didn’t seem very open to it, and I didn’t want to push. I sent off the questions and waited and hoped and eventually life continued and I, for the most part, forgot about it altogether.
Around a month or two later I received his responses and found them underwhelming. He had a really good answer to a question I asked about conspiracy theories, but other than that everything appeared conventional, almost unnecessarily straightforward. Where was the personality? Tao Lin had answered the questions, but that was exactly the problem. Here’s what the punk rock musician and novelist Richard Hell had to say about my interview process: “These questions are so wacky… But there’s an incidental effectiveness in these questions that, if the interviewee actually takes them seriously, turns them into like Rorschach tests or free association or something, in that you’re showing your subject nonsense and appraising them by what meaning they can find in themselves to attach to it.” Tao Lin didn’t appear very interested in this free association. He instead chose to answer the questions in the most direct, unaffected manner possible, before moving on to the next one. (Q: How would you define romantic love? A: love + romance, Q: Do you care about being understood? A: Yeah, especially in the past ten years, when I've written increasingly more nonfiction. Q: What’s the most dangerous situation you’ve ever put yourself in? A: I don't know. Q: Is there a cultural zeitgeist that you relate to most? How come this one? A: I don't know.) In our asynchronous dialogue, there was still no connection. It was as if we were a married couple who talks in the kitchen after a long day’s work, merely discussing practicalities, avoiding the painful process of enduring emotion or vulnerability, of saying what shouldn’t be said, running our mouths in order to achieve catharsis. Tao Lin answered all my questions. But the way he answered, which at times bordered on trite, was not, I believe, Tao being intentionally evasive. He was being himself, and my frustration amounted to something like asking a bird to become a different animal altogether. It was pointless. You don’t get anywhere with anyone unless you take them as they are; if you try to bend people (or reality) to your perspective you’ll be stuck in a permanent form of misery. So under that lens I reread the interview two more times, and, still miserable, felt not yogic or at peace but resentful and despondent; a good example of why concepts are much easier in theory than in practice; I guess that’s just who I am, and, on the situation, a couples therapist might end up saying that, at a certain point, while I relate to much of what he has to say as well as the topics he’s interested in, Tao Lin and I might not be compatible. I had trouble accepting that. In my heart of hearts I maintained a sense of faith that we, Tao and I, had a chance. Since Tao really had nothing to do with these thoughts going on in my head, it was in this perverse, lonely dynamic that I discovered myself wishing for a parasocial connection to finally materialize. This is indeed a bizarre wish. Usually one might wish for a reversal of unrequited love. But I did not care if Tao loved or even liked me. I desired, so bad, to love someone who was indifferent, who would perpetually remain indifferent. This is similar to how I watch and rewatch David Lynch films with the goal of seeing what others admire, even though the truth is simply that his films have never opened up to me, even if, from a distance, I could understand and appreciate what Lynch was doing. This is similar, also, to conceptually understanding why someone is seen as beautiful without actually finding them attractive yourself; a cerebrum vs gut kind of thing. Admiration, love, and connection are all subjective, the stuff you can’t contrive. Why even try and see what others are seeing? Is it to convince yourself that you’ve been wrong all the while, or are blind to something obvious? The inclination comes in part from curiosity, but also a lack of confidence in one’s convictions. A perspective on an artist can change over time, with each revisit, and you might finally enjoy, say, the work of Marina Abramović the way all your friends do, but this has nothing to do with the relationship between you, your friends, and Marina Abramović. Connection and admiration parallels the phase of life you’re in, your particular subjectivity, unique light, etc. There’s a chance you might very well perish without ever connecting to David Lynch, Marina Abramović, or Tao Lin, and that’s OK. There’s no harm in trying so as long as you’re aware of that. This is what I was telling myself for several weeks in the lead up to sitting down and writing Tao’s intro. But, something changed.
Standing in my kitchen with the painter Paloma Gonzalez-Castellanos, I ran through all the different 12 Questions I’ve been conducting, how frustrating its been balancing the series with finishing a novel that’s long been due. I mentioned Tao, and Paloma said she sees his notes a lot on Substack (a feature of the app almost identical to tweets) without following him. She remembered him because of all the content he posts about his cats, but never began reading much of his work. I took a sip of coffee and shook my head. I was over his fucking cats, and began to think of it as some sort of annoying shtick not very different from performative stoicism. I showed Paloma the interview and explained how I was annoyed by all the I don’t knows. What confused me even more is that I asked Tao over email if in the published version of the interview I should remove the questions which garnered a mere I don’t know and he just replied, I don’t know. OK, that’s not actually true. What Tao replied was: Would prefer if you left them—thanks for leaving it up to me. Was this another example of his performative stoicism? Was there something he wished people would learn from this? Or was he just being a dick—if you want someone to learn something, just say it. I said all this to Paloma, who responded: Oh, no, I actually like that a lot. And why? She replied: Because there’s a great deal of confidence in not knowing.
There wasn’t really a way I could see myself publishing the interview with the questions and answers the way they were. The piece would mainly be an intro, with no insight into Tao himself, from Tao himself. I was hesitant to go ahead and ask him six or seven more questions out of the fear, or realization, that I’d end up waiting several weeks to end up with more of the same. When Interview Magazine agreed to publish Tao Lin’s 12 Questions I figured it’d be best to push the envelope on organizing a call. My plan was that if we connected over the phone then perhaps he’d put more effort or time into answering the next set of questions. And as you might have already guessed, that one hour conversation was so rewarding and complete that the transcript, edited for clarity, has ended up serving as the majority of the content in our interview. Aside from one or two questions, with Tao’s blessing, I threw the initial questionnaire right in the garbage. This isn’t to say that all future 12 Questions will be conducted as in-depth transcripted phone calls, but it is a lesson in versatility. Some artists may provide a more interesting interview when they have time to write and think, and others kind of need to be shocked into a state of immediacy in order to feel comfortable being vulnerable and, hopefully, connect on a level that surpasses practicality. It was during this hourlong conversation that I felt connected with Tao for the very first time. And it was not only because I was able to better understand who he was and where he’s coming from by hearing his voice. It was because he was able, in the intimacy of my responses to his theories and perspectives, to feel seen, to feel that in some way I understood him, or at the very least was open to understanding and grasping his ideas. There was no part of our conversation that had anything to do with whether or not I agreed or disagreed with his perspectives, I was merely curious to hear what he had to say. I think he felt comfortable, and through his comfort came an affinity that could not materialize through my consistent efforts, as a reader, to build an emotional parasocial relationship. In my own experience with Tao Lin, a two way street was necessary.
Following our conversation I reread several pieces and found that I could better recognize Tao, Tao Lin’s soul, and finally see where he was coming from. His article on materialism, the afterlife, and the paranormal suddenly opened up, and, as I mentioned in the first paragraph, has reshaped my own perspective on the afterlife, beginning to help alleviate my debilitating fear of death. It’s one of those pieces of work I’ll no doubt return to through the course of my life, just like To Stay Alive by Houellebecq, or A German Requiem by James Fenton. Though Tao’s writing is not as obviously poetic, the work’s aesthetic heartbeat becomes apparent when the reader begins to thread, on their own, the emotional sentiments that tie the unaffected results of his meticulous research. He lays things out as they are to him, and he seems unafraid of how it might come off. There’s a requirement from the reader to establish the thread, perhaps put in some effort to understand who this man is, but as I’ve found, once the connection becomes apparent, once Tao’s emotional sentiment becomes evident, the result is rewarding. Tao Lin’s work will stand the test of time. Like many great artists, a lot of readers will find themselves alienated in the process. If only they had the privilege to talk with him on the phone like I did. They’d have felt Tao’s presence, and, in turn, they’d see him. This mutual witnessing would allow Tao to slightly alter his vocal intonation from the regular monotone to something lighter, more friendly, to simply adjust the syntax of his responses to indicate that he felt more comfortable, and, in an instant, the chasm would disappear. I’ll leave you with this: his whole thing is not a shtick, and there’s a deliberate manner to the way Tao Lin meets the world, and structures his ideas. Albeit empirically, with intensive research and an endless array of statistics, he engages with a unique form of emotional transparency. With this in mind you might be able to read him differently as well, assuming one or two of you have struggled as I had.
I felt, before sending this off, that I owed Tao another message. In an attempt to establish a rapport, or to transcend the parascocial relationship into something reciprocal and natural, as I have with so many of my subjects, this is what I wrote him a few weeks ago:
I really enjoyed your piece in Granta on the afterlife. It’s helped change my general perspective toward fear, which is insane. It’ll take a few more days to digest, as well as a few more reads, for any true change to occur, but after only a few days of reading it, it’s helped me a lot, serving as a kind of fundamental, psychological reference point.
In our interview you said that a lot of your physical ailments didn’t stem from emotions, or from your ‘psychology’, as you put it. But I’m convinced mine are physical manifestations of several broken and unhealthy ways of thinking; the devilish paradox of bodily health is that once symptoms manifest physically they begin to exist as a standalone trauma; they no longer stem from emotions. It’s unclear, then, if changing one’s psychology for the better will end up alleviating these torturous physical ailments, all the pain and the sorrow and hurt and remorse, remorse, mainly, for time lost, time spent doing one thing instead of nothing, behaving, in general, poorly or irresponsibly, or against one's best interest, the tension between our actions and ideals. I’d like to live a life free of pain.
I will send Interview the draft tomorrow, though I’m tempted to keep it and say fuck you to their shitty, affected, performative-grotesque brand. You’re big enough a writer that my piece will reach a decent enough audience if I publish it alone. But sending the piece to the editor at Interview, a man I don’t respect at all, might also be a good way for me to practice biting a bullet in order to get where I need go as a writer; making sacrifices to gain more of a readership so that I can, hopefully, economically exist on writing alone and one day not have to worry about money any longer. It’s not about ego, I just want to live somewhere decent and focus on my craft and reach an altogether higher, psychological awareness, without whoring myself out or becoming obsequious to anyone who can write me a check so that I can survive for another few months.
There’s something I owe you, some gratitude for the conversation we had on the phone two weeks ago. It was really great to connect and hear your voice. This past year, the most difficult period of my life thus far, in one of the most difficult weeks where my health was just at such a low point, you brought me back to life. Connecting with great artists always has the ability to bring me back to life when it appears that nothing else can, nothing chemical or physical. This is why, I’m realizing now, I started this series, and it’s why, I’m realizing now, that no matter how much I want to give it up so that I can spend more time writing non-fiction and fiction (as opposed to contending with the work of others), I really must persist, because it serves such an integral purpose in my life. Thank you again for existing. This was a very rewarding interview.
He still hasn’t responded. And, to be honest, I’m not very confident he will.
GG: Was there a specific point in your life that you decided to turn away from Western medicine and focus more on natural, holistic health?
TL: I’m not sure, because I never used pharmaceutical drugs by prescription. I used them recreationally. And somehow I just always had a distrust of them.
GG: Was that way of thinking something you picked up from your family, or did it come to you independently?
TL: As a kid, I was a hypochondriac. I went to doctors a lot. And they never were able to help me. They often made things worse. Like, I had this chronic nosebleed problem and a doctor used a procedure where he stuck a hot piece of metal up my nose to try to cauterize a blood vessel or something, and it made it worse. Then in high school I had lung collapses. Each time I would go to the hospital and they would put a tube in me, and it was the most pain I’d ever felt. That happened three times. Later in life, I figured out that when my lung collapses, I could rest and it would get better on its own. So I didn’t need all those procedures. A series of things like this made me realize that mainstream Western medicine wasn’t going to help me. So I felt like I needed to get healthier on my own.
GG: Would you say a large percentage of disorders that are usually treated with Western medicine can be fixed by the body healing on its own?
TL: Yeah, I would. Yeah.
GG: So what’s a good example in your own health where one thing changed because you let your body do the work as opposed to interfering?
TL: Depression, anxiety. A psychiatrist would've given me antidepressants and benzodiazepines for these,