The Rage of the Literary Man

And a reading list

What is it about this tweet that enraged so many literary men on Twitter? Is it that I dared to mention three masters of the American short story? Do they hate bars with working-class clientele? Or is it that the angry literary men prefer Dylan’s early work? Perhaps I should’ve highlighted Highway 61 Revisited and that would’ve been enough to avoid the Twitter histrionics. Maybe I shouldn’t have called Raymond Carver “Ray,” but that’s what I’ve always called the greatest American short story writer of all time. Whenever I tell someone to read his work, I always say, “Hey, what you should do, if you want to get hip to the American literary tradition, is read the short stories of my guy Ray Carver.” Sometimes, walking around my Miami working-class neighborhood, dodging the roosters, I’ll hand off a copy of Ray’s Selected Stories to a freshly arrived immigrant, and say, “Read Ray, hermano.” I love his work. I love Ray Carver. But a lot of literary men were enraged by that now infamous word—Ray. Perhaps you’re enraged right now after having just read it. If that’s the case, I want you to take a deep breath and ask yourself a simple question: What is it about that word—Ray—and a simple tweet offering tried and true advice to the beaten down American young man that enraged me so?

The responses to the tweet had me asking myself a question: Why are American literary men so angry lately? They’ve been angry for years, but in recent months, the rage has reached insufferable levels. Something is deeply wrong with these literary men. It’s distressing. I don’t like to see my American brothers enraged and flailing. I think a couple of things are going on, but it starts with the last decade of “masculinity” discourse that’s dominated elite media. The Trump era ushered in this conversation, with talk of “toxic masculinity” bombarding the hyper-online literary man. This has resulted in a literary man who is extremely aware of his masculinity, even if he is opposed to the word and doesn’t consider himself traditionally masculine. The literary man is constantly haunted by the specter of masculinity. This is obviously an elite—and striver—problem, because working-class men, unless they somehow meet a New Yorker staffer on the construction site, haven’t been aware that this discourse has been ongoing for a decade. The non-online man, warts and all, just is. He might be misogynist; he might be a brute. But he’s just whatever kind of dude he is, and that’s that. Most of my time is spent hanging out with regular dudes who aren’t obsessed with their masculinity, so the neurotic behavior of the literary man is always jarring.

The modern American literary man, of course, is an email-job man, so he’s been sucking down this masculinity discourse and constantly thinking about what kind of man he is. Am I toxically masculine? Am I a nice guy? Is it bad to be a nice guy? When I see these fidgety, angry literary men, this is what I assume they’re thinking about. The masculinity discourse also happened to coincide with the complete takeover of the publishing industry by young women. I was the first to write about this, so I won’t belabor the point, but we can all finally agree that it happened—and it’s changed the behavior of literary men for the worse.

The literary man, as so many recent articles have stated, has disappeared. Yes and no. He’s certainly publishing less, but he’s louder and angrier than ever. So the literary man, who’s been stewing in masculinity discourse for years must also now contend with the changes in his industry that have resulted in his labeling as problematic and unnecessary. The result is peak neuroticism, shame, passive aggression, and outright rage. The computer has driven the literary man to constantly ask himself, what kind of man am I? Man, that must be exhausting.

Now we can begin to understand the response to my tweet. There is nothing at all strange or inflammatory about telling young men to read the work of three great writers, hang out at a bar where you’ll engage with real people, and listen to the late career masterpiece of one of the most popular musicians in history. This is all basic stuff. You can only respond emotionally to this and be triggered by ol’ Ray Carver if you’re an email-jobbing literary man consumed by hyperawareness of masculinity. To these literary men, the words “Ray Carver” initiate the following question: What kind of a man am I and what should I think of Ray Carver? The answer depends on whether the literary man is left-wing or right-wing. Both types of literary men are equally annoying and consumed by their masculinity, but their discomfort manifests in differing obsessions.

The left-wing fake socialist literary man identifies as anti-American, which explains his pathological obsession with literature in translation. These guys apparently only read novels in translation, seemingly as a way to reject traditionally American-masculine coded writers such as Carver and Richard Ford. In this fake socialist world, masculine American writers are certainly toxically masculine, so someone like Carver elicits this histrionic rage. The fake socialist literary man is a self-loathing American, and he can’t admit that the current publishing situation for his ilk is troublesome—that would align him with his right-wing brother—so he rejects the traditionally masculine literary tradition of America and gets off to the 800-page tomes of Scandinavian and European writers. He’s one of the good ones, you see. It’s a good thing that men like him aren’t being published. He’s American, but he hates America and will never dare read the dreaded Ray Carver or Denis Johnson. He spits on Hemingway! These fake socialist literary men should all move to Berlin already or set up shop in Jon Fosse’s backyard. What’s funniest about these guys is that they probably identify as pacifists, but they’re all itching for a fight. They shout threats into the void and probably headbutt their New Directions tomes in fits of rage. They’re so repressed and alienated from the physical world that they’d probably do well to join a gym. I’m amazed that these 125-pound editorial assistants and PhD candidates can even pick up these tomes they love so much. Get in the gym before you throw out your back reading a tome, little man!

The rage of the right-wing literary man stems from the fact that he was silent during the peak woke years and seethed in seclusion. Now that it’s safe to speak out against wokeism, this dude is finally visibly angry—and boy is he screaming. Watch this brave boy go! Watch him go on Twitter and scream talking points from 2022 like a real brave boy. Tell me again how women took over publishing. Do your best Alex Perez impression, sans the humor and the charm. Like his left-wing brother, the right-wing literary man is utterly humorless and steeped in self-loathing. Since he was a coward during the peak woke years, email-jobbing like a good boy, he has to overcompensate now. He drops f-bombs and idiotic slurs, as if meanness is somehow masculine. He’s “based,” you see. I think that means he’s basing his entire identity on 2022. But he’s finally reacting! Good ahead, reaction boy, say something else from 2022. Get it all out! Or go back a little later—hit us with something fresh from 2020. This one’s a real dissident! If the left-wing literary man is petrified of being seen as American, the right-wing literary man is terrified of being seen as gay or feminine. These guys are so consumed with self-loathing over their years of silent seething that they now practice a cliched masculinity devoid of any sensitivity and vulnerability.

What’s interesting is that I get hate from both of these camps now. If you’re a regular guy who’s classically masculine but unafraid of vulnerability, the enraged literary man consumed with self-loathing will dislike you. You’re simultaneously too manly—and American—and too sensitive. Of course, this combination is the ideal. The great American masculine writers lived in this space. A man is strong; a man is weak; a man laughs, a man cries; he’s masculine, but he’s not afraid of the feminine. The American literary man is consumed with shame and rage, obsessed with projecting his brand of online masculinity, so I’ve put together a reading list for him. If there is to be a future for the literary man, he needs to get healthy first. This reading list will start the healing process. Most of these writers are American because this list is for the American literary man. I’m not interested in the European literary man—I assume he’s somehow more defeated than his American brother, putzing around Berlin in a daze, depleted and dragging around a tote bag full of tomes. A lot of the writers listed are from the 1980s/90s short story/dirty realism boom, which produced some of the best writing on American masculinity. These writers are still contemporary enough that they speak to the self-loathing condition of the literary man.

Raymond Carver, Where I’m Calling From: New and Selected Stories: The greatest American short story writer and the best chronicler of American masculinity. Start with Ray.

Barry Hannah, Airships: The stories in this collection are deranged, hilarious, and incredibly moving. Hannah is mostly known for his wackiness and style, but he’s one of the best at capturing the sadness of the American man.

Norman Mailer, The Fight: Mailer covers the bout between Ali and Foreman in Zaire. My favorite sports book.

Philip Roth, Portnoy’s Complaint: Read all of Roth, of course, but start here.

Sam Shepard & Johnny Dark, Two Prospectors: The Letters of Sam Shepard and Johnny Dark: Shepard is one of my favorites and I could’ve gone with many of his plays or the short stories—read his short stories!—but I love this book. Two best friends writing letters for forty years—all the ups and downs of a life, the difficulties of American manhood.

John Cheever, The Journals of John Cheever: Read all the stories, but don’t miss this one.

J.D. Salinger, Nine Stories: Salinger is one of all the time greats, no matter what anyone says. This collection is his masterpiece.

Thom Jones, The Pugilist at Rest: Tough stories from a tough and sensitive man.

Frederick Exley, A Fan’s Notes: This might be the great American novel.

Richard Ford, Rock Springs: The Sportswriter is brilliant, but Rock Springs is his masterpiece.

Larry Brown, Big Bad Love: One of my top ten short story collections.

James Alan McPherson, Elbow Room: Another one of my favorite short story collections.

Leonard Gardner, Fat City: A perfect little novel about boxing and life and everything else.

Harry Crews, A Childhood: One of the great American memoirs. Crews was a tough, sensitive bastard.

Roberto Bolaño, Last Evenings on Earth: The title story is one of the greatest short stories of all time. Bolaño captures the malaise and aimlessness of the young man better than anyone. There was something very American about Bolaño.

Anton Chekhov, Selected Stories: Every man should read Chekhov.

Atticus Lish, Preparation for the Next Life: Lish’s debut novel is a contemporary masterpiece.

Scott McClanahan, The Sarah Book: McClanahan is one of my favorite contemporary writers. You should read all his work, but The Sarah Book is special.

Leonard Michaels, The Collected Stories: Michaels’ The Men’s Club is a cult classic, but he was a true master of the short story.

Percival Everett, Erasure: Everett is one of our greatest living novelists. Start with this one and read everything else.

Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast: It all starts with Hemingway.