About the Things They Want Us to Think and Write
And Why We Must Never Comply
The greatest, most famous writers to ever live wouldn’t make it today. Not only would they not be popular, but most of them wouldn’t even get published. And I’m not talking about little guys, either, nor pretentious unknowns, or even savant obscurities like Knut Hamsun.
No, I’m talking about the classics. The big dogs. The greatest to ever do its. The ones that are so damn good at putting together a string of sentences that you don’t get to say they’re bad.
Enjoyment is always optional, of course, but quality, in its highest form, well that’s objective. This has always been the case, but in the last decade, it’s been replaced by something sinister. Today, our creative landscape is ruled by the authoritarian Righteous ruling class.
Seriously, think about it. An author like Charles Bukowski wouldn’t last a week in the modern publishing world. And if he somehow managed to, there’s zero chance he’d be celebrated on TV or in public. This is the most important point: read what you want, but hide it because it’s filthy and you’re wrong for liking it. That’s how they want you to feel.
His blue-collar, bordering on disgusting portrayal of the perverse American underbelly would never be allowed to be published in the United States, let alone celebrated, yet it’s important. He encapsulated a moment, and said things that nobody else dared to. Through this, he found truth in a way that very few artists ever do, even if it was disgusting and crude and everything wrong with the world.
This truth alone is worthwhile. It is the core essence of literature, of art.
Speaking positively about him in anything more than a hushed voice is enough to get you removed from most college campuses across the country, as are in opinions that don’t perfectly fall in line and dance to the marching order. Trust me, I know. I’ve spent the last four years living it, studying literature in the Midwestern United States as the core tenants of intellectualism decay around me.
Writers like Hemingway, Bukowski, Fitzgerald, Baudelaire, and Kerouac were routinely dismissed by my professors and peers alike. Their works were all some kind of -ist or -ic, they always claimed blindly. Racist, sexist, homophobic, xenophobic, the list went on and on, each pejorative more meaningless than the last. And when pressed on what this actually means, we always arrived at a similar conclusion — problematic.
Now I’m not here to defend anybody’s personal life, views, or decisions. I’m not even trying to convince you to read Bukowski or Hemingway or even Kerouac or Yichang (though you should; he’s one of the greatest writers I’ve had the pleasure of reading). All I care about is preserving the quality of literature, and more importantly, the right to create unrestricted, uninhibited art.
The only thing that matters when interacting with a writer and their work, in my opinion, is quality. Plain and simple. Are they good? Do they move me? These are the questions bubbling through my mind when I read Hills Like White Elephants or Ham on Rye. These are the things that define literature, and that we can learn from and grow as writers and thinkers.
If you disagree, that’s fine — I respect your decision to like and read what you want — but what I can’t accept is an erasure of the masters because they make you upset or offend the anointed rulers of our day. To that, I say no. I won’t accept it. The fact that Ernest Hemingway has more books on the American Library Association’s list of Banned and Challenged Classics than any other writer is revolting.
We’re stifling our emerging creative class by force-feeding them Trans Frankenstein and POC poverty porn over the classics. Want to add some racial diversity to your reading list? Great, pick up Yichang, Achebe, or maybe even Mishima.
Push yourself outside of your comfort. Stop reading what they tell you. Think critically about why the books and narratives that are being pushed today are being pushed.
And let me tell you: it’s not because they care about equity.
If they did, they’d put their money where their mouth is and do something about it. But they don’t, won’t, and never will. The publishing industry pushes diversity every chance it gets, yet remains 79% white and 78% female.
These are the same people protesting the streets and freaking out on Twitter when a business doesn’t have enough female board members or didn’t respond correctly to BLM. Where’s the equity in their own house? Are hashtags enough?
Why is it always do what I say, but never follow my lead? Throw some scholarship money at some kids a thousand miles away, but don’t let them in the office.
Faux-diversity is big business, you know? And we’re all footing the bill.
Look at people like Alex Perez, for example. Graduated from the MFA program and was one of the hottest young writers in the country. On paper, he fit everything “they” say they want and champion: working-class, atypical background, POC, marginalized background, from a lesser-known literary city. But then he opened his mouth and said the things writers want to be published aren’t allowed to say and BAM, no chance of a major contract.
In an interview conducted by Elizabeth Ellen at Hobart, a prestigious, non-paid literary magazine, that caused outrage throughout the literary community at large, he spoke what he believed to be truth about modern letters.
And they (the editors and bourgeoisie Lit Twit elites) all acted exactly as you’d imagine they would, following the script they’ve spent the last decade or so perfecting. Feign outrage, name call — usually misogynist if non-white, racist if white — de-platform, and position themselves as the simultaneous heroes and victims of the situation.
His talent didn’t change, though, and he certainly didn’t get any less interesting. If anything, he should’ve been more appealing to the major houses due to his newfound almost-fame. His books would’ve flown off the shelves in the aftermath. Just look at what happened with Oliver Anthony. The country is desperate for new voices, for change.
But he wasn’t. A slew of Hobart editors resigned in outrage — how could he! How dare he not fall in line?! — and his career, at least in the traditional sense with fancy NYC publishing houses and fellowships and awards and cocktail hours and critical acclaim, had died in its infancy.
This is where things get interesting, though. His career “died”, but it didn’t really. A door was slammed shut but a door was forced open. The internet, Twitter, and a global population that’s simply had enough have created an environment that has perhaps never been better suited for dissident creatives.
Wake up, people.
We don’t need them anymore. Their awards are all bullshit. Nobody watches the Oscars. Even the Nobel is meaningless. Write the novel, make the film. Send the tweet. Allow yourself to be governed by truth and yourself.
Toeing the party line is demanded, but it isn’t necessary anymore. Speak the thoughts that your brain can’t help but feel. And if you’re scared of the repercussions, there’s a reason for that. It means you cannot wait any longer.
You’re not supposed to, so you must.
