The works of philosophical fiction in Klosterman’s new book, Raised in Captivity—his first collection of short stories—explore questions about the nature of narrative and truth-telling, the ways people seek connection and disconnection, and the effect of modern American life on the human spirit. Chuck Klosterman’s writing appears in such venues as The Washington Post, GQ, and Esquire; he is the author of 10 other books, including the nonfiction works Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs; Eating the Dinosaur; and But What If We’re Wrong? He spoke to me by phone.

Chuck Klosterman: Years ago, I was touring for Fargo Rock City, my first book. It was a book about hair metal and the experience of growing up in the Midwest listening to what is now considered classic rock. So I was always being asked these questions about my aesthetic sensibility, or what had prompted me to write about this kind of art. It always took me a long time to answer these questions—my responses were long and wandering, and it seemed like I needed 5,000 words to explain myself.

I was in Los Angeles on that tour, and I went to Book Soup, a bookstore off Sunset. That was where I discovered Dave Hickey’s book, Air Guitar. I think I’d heard his name—I was familiar with a piece he’d written about the heresy of zone defense in basketball. But otherwise he was completely unknown to me. The book had a guitar on the front and looked interesting, so I bought it and brought it back to my hotel room. The whole thing is great, and as I read I came across a passage that seemed to completely encapsulate what I’d been trying to tell audiences and reporters on the tour. It’s a line that is still the best summation of what I find interesting about criticism:

Bad taste is real taste, of course, and good taste is the residue of someone else’s privilege.

I tend to think about the nature of criticism a lot, and I’d never seen anyone describe that reality so succinctly. Part of me worries I’m actually misinterpreting this sentence, and that it means the exact opposite of what he seems to say on the surface. But I take it at face value: It’s the idea that when someone loves art that’s considered to be in bad taste, particularly as a critic, that love is a reflection of what they are most authentically moved by. Because they have no other motive for lionizing the art, outside of their own desire to express their worldview. Whereas the idea of good taste, which is such an important quality for the professional critic, is an example of people using other people’s ideas to adopt a persona they assume gives them authority and depth. That instinct is a very real thing, and it’s very detrimental.

Dave Hickey writes this line in his essay about Liberace [“A Rhinestone as Big as the Ritz”]. He realizes that Liberace is something that somebody with good taste is supposed to be repelled by. Yet there is this overwhelming mass of humanity who doesn’t feel this way, including him. He finds the fakeness beautiful. It’s almost as if his emotional response to Liberace is at war with his intellectual understanding of how a critic is supposed to consume piano-driven music.