What I liked about monsters was never that they taught me to love my body. If anything, that would have reproduced the same representational problem in a slightly more gothic outfit. They gave me somewhere to put feelings about embodiment that did not seem to belong in the available categories of pride or shame. Cronenberg’s bodies could be horrifying without horror automatically meaning hatred, and they could be grotesque without requiring me to avert my eyes until the grotesqueness had been resolved into something more affirming. Schoenbrun is doing something different with that possibility, because Camp Miasma is much more interested in desire and in the things we continue to want after we have acquired the vocabulary that tells us why wanting them is complicated. But I think both arrive at a similar suspicion of the idea that political liberation should produce aesthetically well-behaved bodies. {read}