Katie Roiphe’s recent essay in the New York Times entitled “The Naked and the Conflicted” calls out contemporary authors for being prude snugglers, and praises mid-century males for being pervy sex fiends. The article, complete with handy graphs, decries the current generation of literary greats as too obsessed with irony and ambivalence to let its characters (or themselves, she hints somewhat heavily) enjoy sex or their own virility. Citing David Foster Wallace, Jonathan Ames, Jonathan Franzen, and Michael Chabon, among others, she writes:
The younger writers are so self-conscious, so steeped in a certain kind of liberal education, that their characters can’t condone even their own sexual impulses; they are, in short, too cool for sex. Even the mildest display of male aggression is a sign of being overly hopeful, overly earnest or politically untoward. For a character to feel himself, even fleetingly, a conquering hero is somehow passé.
Now wait just one minute.
Not all contemporary authors and/or their protagonists are namby-pamby wimps without any of that manly sex drive. Yes, the first half of Roiphe’s article, analyzing the use of sex in the work of Mailer, Roth, and Updike, makes sense to us, but it’s around the third page that she begins to veer off track. Describing what she refers to as the “new narcissists,” she writes:
They are good guys, sensitive guys, and if their writing is denuded of a certain carnality, if it lacks a sense of possibility, of expansiveness, of the bewildering, transporting effects of physical love, it is because of a certain cultural shutting down, a deep, almost puritanical disapproval of their literary forebears and the shenanigans they lived through.
…
It means that we are simply witnessing the flowering of a new narcissism: boys too busy gazing at themselves in the mirror to think much about girls, boys lost in the beautiful vanity of “I was warm and wanted her to be warm,” or the noble purity of being just a tiny bit repelled by the crude advances of the desiring world.
…
In contrast to their cautious, entangled, ambivalent, endlessly ironic heirs, there is something almost romantic in the old guard’s view of sex: it has a mystery and a power, at least. It makes things happen.
So, if a writer doesn’t choose sex as a topic, their work lacks a sense of possibility? Why can’t people write about other things and still have “expansiveness”? Sex in literature should be just another tool utilized by the author in order to achieve some kind of goal. The three “old guard” novelists she profiles happened to focus on sex as a topic as well as a means of furthering character or story — does that really make so much of a difference in terms of their virility? Sure, sex is a huge driving force in the human experience, but it’s not the only one. Plus, the fact that she criticizes the lack of real sex or interest in sex in Wallace’s Infinite Jest suggests that she didn’t get the point (or any of the points) of that book.
Maybe she didn’t get Ames, either, since the man was clearly affronted by his inclusion in the wimpy column, as expressed via this tweet:
We haven’t read it, but we will take his word for it (and pick up a copy immediately).
But onward — as far as we’re concerned, the real problem is that Roiphe just hand picked a few well-known (and mostly well-loved) authors who corresponded with her pre-conceived thesis. That’s no way to make a compelling argument — of course there are plenty of middle-century authors unconcerned with sex and plenty of great contemporary authors who discuss it in virile detail (and as she says, vice-versa). For example…
The most obvious retort to Roiphe’s article, as far as we’re concerned, is “um, what about Chuck Palahniuk?” Definitely a member of the “new guard,” Palahniuk, famous for (among many, many other things) the quote “Love is bullshit. Emotion is bullshit. I am a rock. A jerk. I’m an uncaring asshole and proud of it,” also penned a number of sex-charged novels, including Choke, which follows a con man who picks up women at sexual addiction support group meetings, and Snuff, which is about porn and has detailed descriptions of everything from anal sex to “the Goldilocks of dildos.” Not for the faint of heart, we say.
Another example is Stephen Elliott, who is definitely part of the new-blood literary movement, and is also known for his descriptions of sex, notably sadomasochism, described in much of his work, including his recent memoir The Adderall Diaries, with graphic candor. Does this not count because it’s not deviant in the traditional way (man subjecting woman to abuse as opposed to the other way around)?
Miranda July (a female author, which is a subset of this issue left completely untouched by Roiphe) certainly doesn’t shy away from the harshness of sex, or her characters’ need for it. In her story “Something That Needs Nothing” (published in The New Yorker in September ’06 and our favorite in her recent collection No One Belongs Here More Than You), the lead character is left heartbroken by her lover and turns to performing in the “and More” section of Mr. Peepers Adult Video Store and More.
I learned to be aggressive with the customers, to take my clothes off in front of strangers. It was like being on the rock, when the kids splashing below were yelling “jump.” I bought a lime-green negligee and a dildo, with which I de-virginized myself. I told involved stories about my perpetually wet pussy. Soon a stalker followed me out to the curb and spat on me. I went inside, called Berryman’s Lumber, and asked Pip to come pick me up. I could almost hear the name “Mr. Peepers” vibrating in her head… She was living in an unfinished basement with a dirt floor. I lay down upon her mattress, and she lay beside me. Soon we turned to each other; it seemed almost brutal at first. I was still in my wig… Each night she picked me up from Mr. Peepers, and I’d stay with her, still wearing my wig. One day, after wearing it for thirty hours straight, I came down with a fever. Pip tended to me, and when I took it off, I knew she wouldn’t pick me up from work again…
Ultimately, we think there are plenty of “new narcissism” authors who deal with sex in provocative and interesting (and virile) ways, and of course, like any other large group of people, some who don’t. Maybe Roiphe is thinking of the much discussed current trend of romantic, dorky, skinny-jean-sporting male leads in movies, but even Michael Cera in Juno impregnates a girl on the first go, which proves his literal virility despite his painful awkwardness. In that vein, we think this might be yet another thinly veiled attack at the “hipster” generation, decried by frustrated critics in many of the same exact terms Roiphe uses — we’re too “endlessly ironic,” emblematic of a “cultural shutting down,” too “self-conscious,” and worst of all “steeped in a certain kind of liberal education” [emphasis ours].
Yes, there is some truth to the idea that current “hip” culture is self-conscious and narcissistic, but what generation of artists and tastemakers wasn’t? Please. Here’s another hypothesis: maybe our generation of literary greats is just as virile as Roth’s, but dealing with a whole new set of issues that come out in a whole new set of ways. As Wallace writes (in the same essay that Roiphe draws her quotes of his from),
But young adults of the nineties – many of whom are, of course, the children of all the impassioned infidelities and divorces Updike wrote about so beautifully, and who got to watch all this brave new individualism and sexual freedom deteriorate into the joyless and anomic self-indulgence of the Me Generation — today’s subforties have very different horrors, prominent among which are anomie and solipsism and a peculiarly American loneliness: the prospect of dying without even once having loved something more than yourself.
So consider us pervy snugglers.
We’re sure there are a million more examples of writers who buck this trend. Who’ve you got for us?
Comments (28)
have Ms Roiphe respond to your article with a response as long as the article.
Maybe she could back up her position, which would be an interesting read, maybe she’s just using a hot topic (sex – we ain’t got much) for attention.
[...] The New York Times castrates male hipster authors [...]
What about gay authors? Dennis Cooper anyone?
He should definitely be on here.
thanks for writing this; i felt exactly the same way about the article and it’s good to see someone point out that, well-written as it was, it picked only novels that illustrated the Beta-male wet dishrag point. Which is, as you said, totally one-sided. Enjoyed the rebuttal-this is never something that could be argued for conclusively anyway!
Why should sex take up so much in words when it takes up so little time in our daily lives. Did I just reveal too much about myself?
Great points, mostly. Roiphe DOES seem to believe that sex makes or breaks a narrative (in that it’s the only motivating factor worth writing about). She also neglects even to consider the possibility that an aversion to sex is not necessarily symptomatic of some kind of underlying post-ironic “coolness,” but rather a much simpler fear borne of cripplingly low self-esteem, which is as close as you’ll ever get to the exact opposite of Roiphe’s argument (and, to me at least, a more persuasive possibility).
I’d just like to point out that, from a purely literary standpoint, talented as they might be, Chuck Palahniuk, Stephen Elliott, and Miranda July can’t really be considered members of the “new guard.” At least, not in the same way in which Franzen, Wallace, Eggers, and even Chabon are members of the “new guard.” Neither, for that matter, can Jonathan Safran Foer. In terms of quality, there’s just really no comparison. Oh well. Time will sort these matters out.
is it just me or does anyone here think that Katie Rophie’s article would have been infinitely more interesting, dare I say sexier, if she had included Brett Easton Ellis. Then, where would he go? He’s not the old or the new nacissism. He’s more like retro narcissism. Ellis could be like the Miles Davis of the birth of cool narcissist-lit doing for the new cool nacissism writers what Miles Davis’s did for cool jazz.
After reading Rophie’s article, I thought about the sexually saturated environment of the early 21st century. John Updike did not see thirty TV ads a week for “E.D.” Mailer did not live in a world where everyone in movies of course jumps graphically into bed with each other. If they did, it was hinted at but rarely shown. Sex had the ability to shock back then. Now it is more like, “Phil, but the liver back in the fridge and shut up.”
If some of today’s male writers want to explore the difference between sex and intimacy, I am all for it. At one time they might have been wedded together, but not in the age of “friends with benefits.” In a world where almost anyone can find any kind of sex they are looking for, the ability to shock and titillate is been blunted from overuse.
[...] Roiphe doesn’t get into this because her whole essay would fall flat if she did. She clearly picked only those authors that fit her thesis and ignored the rest. And her thesis would be…sexism is better than ambivalence? Roiphe [...]
I disagree with the opinion part of this post, obviously, but I would like to respond to a matter of fact. My new york times book review piece this sunday did NOT mention Jonathon Ames. I think in general it would help in shoring up your credibility if you actually read the piece you are trying to attack.
Katie, that’s the best you can do? I agree with earlier poster – I’d be very interested to see your thoughtful rebuttal to this critique.
The article didn’t mention Jonathan Ames, but I thought of him (as a counterexample) when I read it, so I’m not surprised he responded. He and Gary Shteyngart both write exuberant, funny descriptions of sex.
[...] Emily Temple at Flavorwire: So, if a writer doesn’t choose sex as a topic, their work lacks a sense of possibility? Why can’t people write about other things and still have “expansiveness”? Sex in literature should be just another tool utilized by the author in order to achieve some kind of goal. The three “old guard” novelists she profiles happened to focus on sex as a topic as well as a means of furthering character or story — does that really make so much of a difference in terms of their virility? Sure, sex is a huge driving force in the human experience, but it’s not the only one. Plus, the fact that she criticizes the lack of real sex or interest in sex in Wallace’s Infinite Jest suggests that she didn’t get the point (or any of the points) of that book. [...]
[...] 8, 10 by mdotstyle Boldtype responds to Katie Roiphe’s NY Times article on the current male author’s attitudes [...]
I pretty much hate Katie Roiphe.
Yeah, KR sucks my nuts… That manly enough for you Katie? This is such a bullshit thesis of such narrow scope. If I ever had actually paid for the NY Times anymore, I’d stop.
As a 32 year old male, I read both new and old guard authors, but, in the arena of sex, prefer the old guard. Kunkel’s Indecision was maddening to read for what seemed to be an aversion to the act. I open a book by Updike and I can’t wait to be sliding through all the erotic fun and delicious tension… Yet, I completely identify with the ambivalence Roiphe points out. I feel like a Roth character set in a new guard novel. I’m a driven, virile guy, but there is something about sex nowadays, so trivial and also complicated. Sex is available, in virtual and real forms, so much so that one can barely sustain his appetite for it. I have found myself countless times on the brink of an adventure only to politely pass it up, or divert myself from it. It lets me down. It’s sad somehow. And it is a grim business to sit there and consider why this thing I have been aching for fails to heal me. My parents divorced, and I know whatever erotic splendor they experienced in their years together will never be worth the pain they caused each other… So what to do with this very necessary and treacherous business of sex? In a more simple world there was lust and love, now there seems to be dozens of shades in between. In the realm of sex I have to check in with myself and ask, who am I in relation to this other person sexually, which sexual personality am I expressing here? What is the dynamic? Sex seems less transcendent every time I do it…
But I confess I want to live in Roth’s and Updike’s worlds, in which sex itself often feels like a transgression. Behind all their specific ambivalence is a simple operating principle: sex, for power or pleasure or adventure or whatever, is worth doing. It feels good. It confers masculinity. It’s easier to be a lusty male, I find. And it feels more authentic, to me anyhow. And it allows me to operate with more power in other parts of my life in which Eros is the energizing force.
I met on Foer recently at his book party. I thought ‘this is not the handshake of a man dominates a woman sexually’ (although he very well could). There was simply too much ambivalence in his handshake for me to imagine otherwise. And then I consider the utility of writers in the world. Writers spring from our existential dilemmas. This new guard of writers are simply responding to new problems. Their virility or ambivalence are simply traits of the men who are qualified to approach these questions.
Katie, I loved your article. You have covered something that has long been overlooked. Thank you… Now I am ready to go out and have some fun, old guard sex.
my twitter comment was meant as a joke, as well as the usual plea for attention, which is the nature of twitter.
in essence, i was hopping on kate roiphe’s bandwagon as a means to promote my novel ‘wake up, sir!’, in addition to filling the hungry, insatiable maw-of-the-moment, which is that damn empty twitter box.
furthermore, i wasn’t included in the ‘times’ article because i’m not part of the new vanguard of leading male authors, but i guess because of my tweet and there being so many authors named ‘jonathan’ that i was mistakenly included in the vanguard in the flavorwire critique, which katie roiphe pointed out in her comment above, but in doing so she misspelled my name!
anyway, i find it amusing that i’ve entered this conversation through mistake, self-promotion, and another mistake!
jonathan ames
ps as to all the authors named ‘jonathan’, i’ve often thought of it as a kind of new york/literary ‘brothers karamazov’ and as i once wrote in an essay in my book ‘i love you more than you know’, i’m the sickly brother jonathan, who often wanders off into the forest and is found screwing sap holes in trees.
sam lipsyte’s line in home land, “he gibbered a new language into her” (don’t have copy at hand, might have that wrong, lipstye’s sentences are often perfect so I wish I did), says it all for me. (& of course echoing everyone else re: contemporary gay/female writers of sexx
I think Katie is definitely onto something, and of course all the responses here are tinged with the anger that comes from insecure people who got hit right where they live. May I add, quoting Miranda July is probably NOT a good way to defend your argument.
What’s most frightening is that the writer openly refers to himself as a proud member of those poor, unjustly maligned hipsters… and considers the article just another attack on his lifestyle. Get over yourself and stop whining. You are just backing up Roiphe’s and other detractors’ viewpoints.
[...] A rebuttal to the above article. I’m not crazy about it, but it’s something nonetheless: http://flavorwire.com/59632/too-cool-for-sex-the-new-york-times-castrates-hipster-male-authors [...]
There are so many things wrong with this critique of Roiphe’s terrific essay, but above all else is the inclusion of Stephen Elliott. Of COURSE Flavorpill likes Stephen Elliott, a hipster champ, but he has in no way made a name for himself as a serious literary figure and is worlds away from writers like DFW, Franzen or even Ben Kunkel, whom Roiphe chooses to mention. Flavorpill bloggers: Get over your hipster obsessions, because they cloud your judgment.
@ Updyke: I’m in total agreement with you about Stephen Elliott et al., but that doesn’t mean Roiphe’s right. Her claim that the chasteness all over our contemporary superstar fiction results from a sort of terminal self-referential narcissism is totally unfounded. To Roiphe, chastity simply equals narcissism. That isn’t an argument. Check out Franzen’s “The Twenty-Seventh City” for some actual sex between actual characters.
Hadn’t read all the comments when I wrote this, so maybe consider it a continuation of Updyke’s comments, above. This article (yours, not KR’s) is typical Flavorwire “we have to create CONTENT… let’s make it our limp version of ‘provocative’” fare. Interesting that you not very subtly turned this into an “us” vs. “them” equation with your “us” as the hipsters! I don’t care that you don’t necessarily agree with her; my own love for Bellow & Roth is nonexistent and for Mailer, at best, conditional. But you don’t even tackle her argument on its terms. Nowhere does she say, “No one is writing about sex.” Do you not think there were dozens of “deviant” writers in the 60s and 70s? If there were, what is supposed to make Stephen Elliott– er– “hip” now? In any case he isn’t any more deviant than, say, William S. Burroughs was in the 70s and neither (at those relative periods) are as well known as, say, Bellow was then and DFW is now. Thus, these deviant writers, of both the then and now variety, and whom no one is denying the existence or value of, aren’t really relevant here are they?
Roiphe set the parameters of her argument pretty clearly. But you got so excited that you could drop a bunch of names you mistook your own churlish gesture for actually refuting something. You didn’t refute anything, you just listed a bunch of extraneous information meant to make you look erudite and “hip” (your term).
Alas, with the too-cool-for-school one can never call out, for example, a ball-less band like Animal Collective by saying they don’t have the rawness or visceral quality of the Stooges or even Led Zeppelin because you are immediately branded a fuddy-duddy for not getting on board with some FLAVOR-of-the-month tripe created by college graduates who think they’re cool cause they embrace both Morricone and Pink Floyd. Flavorwire’s ace scribe’s response is something like: “What, you don’t get Animal Collective? Well, they’re just over your head. Here are 20 more bands that are over your head and which have nothing to do with what your criticism of them is.” Animal Collective might be an interesting band, but I know this: they are (1) precious and (2) ball-less. That last sentence is a paraphrase of what I think Roiphe is saying. “Sure, argue all you want that the myriad influences, the complex song structure, the ‘infectious’ harmonies, the odd arrangements, etc. are interesting… where are the balls? For that matter, where is the ass?” Enter Flavorwire, always at the ready with a useless list of things designed to make them seem like they know something, but which usually just demonstrates either adherence to some lifestyle or scene, or a lack of taste.
Finally, the people demanding that Roiphe needs to “respond” to this article are either insanely naive or possibly retarded given that it’s roughly the same thing as throwing a pie at someone then complaining that she didn’t even eat it. Flavorwire has a quota for daily “content,” so someone who wrote an article for a *real* news publication owes it a rebuttal? Well, I’ll give you this much: to think that requires more balls than Animal Collective OR Dave Eggers.
Clearly, Katie Roiphe longs to be humiliated via sex and is lashing out at authors who don’t work her femsub fetish into their books.
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