PRAISE MAKES ME HUMBLE BUT WHEN I AM ABUSED I KNOW I HAVE TOUCHED THE STARS

I am feeling very happy. I have spent the day collecting all the bad reviews of my book. And you know what? The more one is hated, I find, the happier one is.

Of course, it is salutary to train oneself to be no more affected by censure than by praise. To be unworthy of praise, and undeserving of blame. But I ain’t no holy old Ghandi-man of the mountains. Fuck that. You can calculate the worth of a man by the numbers and quality of his enemies, and the importance of a work of art by the harm that is spoken of it.

I've always believed that I have the ability to arouse instant enmity in certain people. They meet me and hate me on sight. Sometimes it gets to me and I mope about the studio wailing “Everyone hates me.” But then I come too. “Don’t be silly darling. Everybody hasn’t met you yet.”

It seems that, within me, there are two profound needs at play : the need to be liked, and the need for exactly the opposite. And I’m happy with that. When my enemies stop hissing, I shall know I’m slipping. Besides, a hundred hisses outweigh a thousand kisses. The former come more directly from the heart.

Few people can be happy unless they hate some other person, nation or creed. I hate every thing. Well, just two things actually. Living things and objects. Oh and miscellaneous, just in case I left anything out.

As for you lot? It does not matter much what a man hates provided he hates something. So hate me cocksuckers. I only want negative comments on this diary. If you can’t say anything good about someone, sit right here by me.

See if you can match any of these : -

“Sebastian Horsley, a man who has absolutely nothing to declare but his own lack of talent.  He is a prat ... a wanker. This book should be avoided by anyone of a nervous disposition or by anyone who has a fondness for the female sex. The question that may enter the enquiring mind is this : what exactly is the point of Sebastian Horsley? Do him a favour and bin it.”  The Standard.

“An emotionally infantile spoiled brat, a vapid poser, he has less talent than a used condom”  QX magazine.

“An insufferable cretin.” The Leeds Guide.

“An attention-seeking tosser.” The Telegraph.

“This book is forced and embarrassing. He is a show-off who can’t do anything. He has a wild artistic temperament, but no talent.” The Telegraph.

Horsley is the grubby/moderately brighter equivalent of the model/actor. His heroes (Brummell, Byron and his namesake Sebastian Flyte) wouldn’t have liked Horsley.  The chip on his shoulder squeals from every page. Spare yourselves this trivial autobiography and wait for him to appear on Celebrity Big Brother. The Literary Review.

Do your worst tosspots. Use me and abuse me. Marks will be given for the most wilfully offensive. We are going to use them for the American publication next year. Remember : that which cannot be wholly concealed should be deliberately displayed.

Comments

[T. Allen]

Your blog is quite good. you
should get syndicated here in the US.

Good luck,

Tom.

[scotty]

You know, I feel horrid for not posting something mean/nasty here (as you requested). But I must say....I am very glad I found your blog. In risk of sounding like a fanboy, I absolutely must say that I love your writings and can't wait till your book is released here in America. I really dunno why these journalists can't see that fact that you're not being completely serious and/or you are very much enjoying their critisism, which sounds to me like little baby bats fighting each other, since you're either not being serious, or you're just being your witty/dandy self.

So....please keep writing and making me laugh and giving me hundreds of new favorite quotes!

[mary cigarettes]

how presumptuous of this tom person to assume sebastian isn't being serious...of course he's being serious...sebastian is willfully and earnestly buying into the whole risky construct of artifice...he's living on a tightrope...it undermines the charming talented fellow to say he doesn't take himself seriously.
he makes me laugh too...but this is scary motherfuckin shit,matey!
this is england!

[scotty]

Ah, you mean "Scotty person"? I'm sure it's all over my head. I actually don't know what on Earth I was trying to say, perhaps except that the journalists are being silly twats.

Perhaps being a dandy (and holding dandy ideals, if you will) is reserved for the grown-ups!

Wait, does having read The Picture of Dorian Grey count? Cos I just love Lord Henry.

[k]

Well I asked for the book over here in Australia and they told me it won't be in until the new year. Lying cunts.

[Lucia]

There was another comment here and it has been removed. One where it posed do you indeed intend to have a Holly production as the next step on the life of Horsley? How come you removed it? I thought it was an astute question pose.

[Stephen Duke]

Mr Horsley is the epitome of the aesthetic idiot, a man with tailored suits and off-the-peg opinions. How to describe his "look"... if Edward Scissorhands had been a victorian pimp, he would've looked like Mr Horsley. He seems to think that he is dressed to kill, when in fact he is dressed to golf. With Elton John.

His book will only shock those persons whose job it is to be shocked by people like Mr Horsley. It is a dreary catalogue of conventional sins and dotty relatives. The only truly shocking revelation in the book is that this creature spent $200,000 on a wardrobe that belongs in a wisconsin fancy dress shop. To achieve so much tackiness at such expense is almost admirable. Only the christmas tree in rockefeller plaza sets a precedent.

Mr Horsley's book will no doubt amuse those that belong to the same illiterate middle class as the author. If you lead a sheltered, suburban life, then by all means take a cheap holiday in other people's misery and revel in the drugs, whoring and buggery from the comfort of your ghastly conservatory.

However, if you happen to be a person of taste, I urge you not to buy this book. Steal it instead. Enjoy it as one would enjoy watching a gibbon throw its shit at the bars of its cage, for that essentially is Mr Horsley's place in the world.

[Woo]

I'd say you're a funny honey, but it'd probably annoy you. Can I just say you're some kind of talented cunt instead?

[mary cigarettes]

i think this stephen duke chap is actually sebastian himself...it's the same voice...trust sebastian to give himself a public whipping?!

[Mark]

"less talent that a used condom" was my favorite. Unfortunately for your critics, I have been alive long enough to know that talent is much over-rated. And his manuscript or novel is probably languishing because he's got a face like a catcher's mitt and sweaty palms.

I'm just glad people like you and my good friend Kenny Hensley are out there raising hell while never comitting the worse sin of all: being ambivalent.

[Cypher The Panic Artist]

Dear Sebastian,
It's Cypher here in Dublin. I bought your bio for Christmas!lol I am very sorry - I know you want people to hate you - but I don't. I loved it! I identify with so many aspects of your life. You are a wonderfully witty writer. As you know I love artists biographies - but I tend to hate auto-biographies. But yours is a little gem I will treasure. Having met you a couple of times - I am struck by your humour, and good manners!
I wish you all the very best! You are an inspiration.

BTW Please Check Out My New Website - www.thepanicartist.com

All My Very Best

Cypher

[Passerby]

Well I think you're brilliant, and the mere thought of you cheers me up. But you really, really must resist the temptation to steal other people's lines (such as the one about hating living things, objects, and miscellaneous),
first because it isn't courteous, second because
your own brain will get lazy, third because your Lilliputian enemies will start to claim all your humour is second-hand, which would never do. The only lines you should ever purloin are lines of coke.

[ayse]

I love you.
I am a housewife raising two kids in Istanbul.
I really cannot say whether I would annoy you.
Yet I REALLY DO LOVE YOU

[constantine]

she's as fucked up as you and she runs a sex club - you can't hate a girl who loves Wilde so much and wanted to sedn you a postcard via scarlet...

[Chuck]

Oh, please. You don't want anyone to hate you. You're just afraid that this is the best you can do. Negative attention is better than no attention at all, for you and for every eight year old on the planet.

"Hate" is far too strong a word. You're not nearly relevant enough to merit hatred. At best, you provoke a mild dislike before being swiftly forgotten.

This is my first time reading your silly rantings, and please rest assured it will be my last. You bore me.

[Marilyn]

Aren't you that fellow who calls himself 'failed suicide'?

Poor dear, you sell yourself short. I'm sure you can be more of an achiever in the future.

If at first you don't succeed, try, try again!

[Stephen Duke]

For anyone who has suffered the misfortune of purchasing Mr Horsley's book, do not curse your own guillability. I have invented a little game to render the reading of Mr Horsley's drivel a half-way bearable experience. It is called Sebastian Bingo.

Before embarking on Horsley's tome (which should really be called, "Carry On Up The Colon"), make a list of all the dandies of recent history. Then, when reading the book, simply cross off the name of each and every dandy whose utterances Horsley has plagiarised without acknowledgement. When you have crossed-off your entire list, cry, "house"... or perhaps, "caravan" as that is better suited to Mr Horsley's station.

After all, while the talents of those he steals from earn them a place on the slopes of parnassus, Horsley's abilities would not pay for a caravanette in Rhyl. Without a swingball set.

[Shoku]

I was more offended by your words when they were misquoted by an incoherent imbecile as nonsensical responses.

[coach purses]

I do not think I am any better or any worse than most people, but I know that the world would consider me a monster of depravity， if I set down every action in my life and every thought that has crossed my mind.

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