Every few months, a new "Literature is Dead/Dying" think piece crops up in high-profile media. Perhaps you've noticed. As a book nerd, I certainly have, though they've begun to bleed together: Their diagnoses of literature's ills tend to be eerily similar.
I've suspected for a while that these essays, as a category, might somehow be rooted in declining privilege: Literature has never been a majority interest in America, so I've wondered if these writers might be projecting some kind of status insecurity onto literature. Still, until recently I'd never thought to look at the identities of the authors before. And I certainly never thought I'd discover that every last author whose work I had read on the subject would be a white male—or that all but one was straight.
Take The New York Times' Verlyn Klinkenborg, who recently wrote that a "technical narrowness" is responsible for the "decline and fall of the English major." A few months prior, J. Robert Lennon derided contemporary literary fiction as "fucking boring" in Salon. Before that, Lee Siegel informed us that today's fiction is "irrelevant" because it's too professionalized, and because nonfiction got quite good. Before him, former up-and-coming author Ted Genoways warned against the "death of literary fiction" in Mother Jones a year before he was accused in national media (perhaps unfairly) of having bullied a former employee at the Virginia Quarterly Review into committing suicide. No less a luminary than Philip Roth made a splash when he said in 2009 that it was "optimistic" to think that anybody would be left reading novels in 25 years; in 2003, David Foster Wallace claimed that "every year the culture gets more and more hostile . . . it gets more and more difficult to ask people to read," which he blamed on the speed of Internet culture, lagging educational standards, and weak demand for "serious books" relative to Europe. Before all of these it was Jonathan Franzen, a novelist known for riffing on the theme of literature's failings—its inability to change anything, its over-intellectualization, and its experimentalism. Then there are creative optimists like David Shields, who expressed the belief in Reality Hunger that novelistic fiction was dead or dying and could usefully be abandoned for new frontiers. John Barth felt similarly about literary realism in 1967 when he wrote "The Literature of Exhaustion."
There is, as well, a history of academics and critics declaring literary deaths: George Steiner proclaimed "The Death of Tragedy" in 1961, Frank Kermode claimed that the paradoxical "fate of the novel, considered as a genre, is to be always dying" in 1965, and Alvin Kernan acted as the mortician at "The Death of Literature" in 1992. For a yet-further expanded scope, see Caleb Crain, who wrote in the New Yorker that not just literature but literacy itself might be endangered.
Without exception, the writers listed above are white men. They are also at least putatively straight, having married women. (Crain, who is gay, is the single exception.)
Surely there are a decent number of straight white men in the world of literature who aren't doom-and-gloom pessimists about its future. But despite wracking my brain and looking through online media and academic archives, I could find no female or non-white writers who have made comparable statements, none who have similarly contributed to this literary despair. Why?
For a possible answer, we can turn to the latest entry in the literature-is-dead genre: Mark Edmundson's "Poetry Slam," which appears in the most recent issue of Harper's magazine. It declaims modern poetry as "weak," written by "courtiers" lacking "ambition" or "fire"; poets today, Edmundson writes, "struggle" to not be "Thinkers." They are not ambitious enough: too "[reticent] about speaking in large terms, swinging for the fence," too timid "to attempt an Essay on Humanity" or to ever dare to hope, like Shelley, that their words could "change the world." At the heart of this claim is Edmundson's belief that poets are currently shackled by a political correctness that prevents them from writing as though they could speak for all humanity—and thus, keeps their poetry from becoming truly universal.
I won't add to the pile of defenses of poetry Edmundson has prompted, which are plentiful, hostile, smart, and devastating. But the undercurrent of chauvinism is troubling and worthy of comment. When Edmundson claims poetry is now "mannered," "soft," and "lovely" when it should strive for "conviction, risk, [and] power," the dichotomy is obviously gendered, with 'female' traits understood to be lacking. Edmundson makes it seem impossible that poetry could be simultaneously lovely and risky, careful and full of conviction, soft and powerful. He's convinced that poets today are sissy, girly wimps; that poets need to get buff.
Edmundson makes it seem impossible that poetry could be simultaneously lovely and risky, careful and full of conviction, soft and powerful. He's convinced that poets today are sissy, girly wimps; that poets need to get buff.
(This subtext is hardly unique to Edmundson, it's worth noting: Genoways expressed a desire that writers "[s]top being so damned dainty and polite"; Franzen once wrote that Alice Munro's "almost pathological empathy for her characters" had the "costly effect of obscuring her authorial ego." David Foster Wallace once defended the practice of writing of long books against feminism, of all things, offering this weird non-sequitur on Charlie Rose: "Feminists are always saying this. Feminists are saying white males say, 'Okay, I'm going to sit down and write this enormous book and impose my phallus on the consciousness of the world.'")