Alphonso Lingis’s book entitled Abuses is a compilation of letters to friends during his travels. He says in the preface that the letters were eventually too long and never sent. He addresses the book: “To, whom, gathered together in this book, are these pages now being addressed? To friends whose names and addresses I do not know. To you, in Mexico, Cuba, Peru, the Philippines, Nicaragua, Antarctica, Brazil, France, Thailand, India, Bali, Bangladesh, Guatemala, in places I have never or not yet visited, you who are moved and troubled by what and by whom you encounter there” (Lingis 1-2).
Letter writing is a lost art. In today’s world we rely on inter-office memos, phone calls, e-mail, instant messaging, blogs (such as this one), and text messaging to connect with each other. So it seems so archaic and out of place that he write a letter, and yet it is ideal that Lingis uses the epistolary genre to present his philosophy. Even though the letter is addressed to no one, to everyone, there is an intimacy in which he writes (to me). I feel like he is writing my experience, my memory. Lingis wrote (to me): “You are sitting there, digging the show they are putting on for you, a little abashed at how far they are willing to go to be sex objects for you [...]” (111). It is like a forgotten memory. But Lingis makes me feel and remember viewing that “libertine theater” in Thailand (Lingis 114). But who writes for you or to you Al? Do you remember our experience together? Lingis, was Thailand any different from our trip to Macau, where we sat on sticky over-cushioned seats, nibbling salted peanuts in anticipation of the strip tease? Do you remember the clanking of our pint glasses, and how our voices boomed in order to speak-over the bass coming from faulty speakers? Do you remember how you spilled your drink on the masked businessmen escorting the heavily perfumed beauty upstairs? This was no ordinary night club. Do you remember how quite suddenly the room went silent as the women were paraded on stage in pairs? We evaluated their faces, breasts, thighs, and bellies. We could choose anyone we wanted to, take them upstairs…our sordid secret. They were numbered, for our convenience, with blue and white ribbons. It was like a livestock beauty contest at the county fair, without tickets, cotton candy or funnel cakes. How much joy we felt. There were blondes, brunettes, and redheads in every shape, and size. Which one did you want? You were the judge. What number was it? You will try to forget (she will too), as to not remember the staged pageantry, the number, the walk upstairs, the perfume, the night…. but I won’t let you.
