The Life, Death—And Afterlife—of Literary Fiction
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Those of you who are reading this essay, let me ask you, right away—is your smart phone next to you? Or is it in your hand? Are you reading this on your phone, swiping up the paragraphs, swipe, swipe, swipe, wondering how far you're going to have to swipe to actually finish this thing? (Just so you know, it’s gonna take a lot of swiping.) Or are you reading on your computer screen, as I've been writing this on mine? I happen to know you’re not reading this in a print magazine. Ha! And ouch!
As you read, is your smart phone or computer or iPad simultaneously acquiring notifications, texts and emails, along with promotions, advertisements and daily venues of news, opinions and games such as Wordle and Spelling Bee, an altogether constant onslaught of information, incessantly demanding that you spend every waking hour of every day focused on this unrelenting digitality that keeps showing up on the screen in front of you, that screen with which you likely indulge in more back-and-forth than you generally do in person with an actual human being, like, say, your husband, wife, son, daughter, brother, sister, friend, lover, boss, employee?
Are you multi-tasking as well, working online, Zooming, Googling, communicating with your fellow employees, but also darting off now and then to your favorite venues (like, maybe, this), and then back to your job, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth?
Another question: when you’re reading a short story (on this same site, for instance) or a novel, do you remain immersed in the narrative, able to stay there for quite some time without going anywhere else? As if you were having sex for fifteen or twenty minutes, maybe even half an hour, unwilling to allow any interruptions? Or as if you had dived into a swimming pool or a lake or a sound or a sea and were floating across the water, staring up at the sky?
Can you read anything at all from start to finish, ie. an essay or a short story, without your mind being sliced apart by some digital switchblade? Without your seeking distraction as a form of entertainment, or entertainment as a form of distraction? Or is all of this just ordinary life in the internet era, with your every thought and feeling and perception being diverted or fractured or dissolved or reiterated endlessly with utter normality in a digitalized world to which nearly all of us are fixated, or might we say, addicted? Did you ever even know a different world?
I did know a different world, at least once upon a distant time. I arrived at Esquire in the late eighties to work with the legendary fiction editor Rust Hills, whose passion for literature arose in him every single morning like daylight. He and I would occasionally drink two or three Negronis at lunch, sometimes at the New York Delicatessen on 57th Street, and talk about the writers and novels and short stories we loved (and hated). Often we met with the writers themselves, and if they were young and didn’t have much money, Rust might slide them across the table a check of his own, just so they could keep scribbling away in their precocious days of writing. Then he and I would happily weave our way back to the office at 1790 Broadway, plop down in our cubicles and make enthusiastic phone calls to writers and agents, our voices probably a little louder than usual. Rust always believed that we could ask anyone for anything. “Let de Gaulle do his own refusing,” he liked to say. Our jobs never felt like work—we played for a living.
The tech world back then seems almost non-existent by comparison to that of this century, even though New York City in the 1980s was economically soaring, having been resurrected from its financial crisis in the mid-Seventies. Yes, cable television had arrived en masse that decade, as had VHSs, Blockbuster movie rentals, dual-cassette answering machines, and far more CDs than the sadly dying vinyl records.
But for all of that, computers were only slowly listing their way into homes and businesses, considered then more like superior typewriters than electronic versions of a personal post office. Back then, we dropped tokens like coins into the subway tolls—no MetroCards to slide through a slot on the turnstile. In those days, rather than staring at their phones, subway riders spent their journey reading books, magazines, and newspapers, with besuited straphangers adept at folding the New York Times broadsheet into an eighth of its original size, and reading the newspaper while holding it in a single hand. Out on the streets, we waved our hands in the air to lure taxi cabs our way. “Uber” would have been considered nothing more or less than an intriguing word from another language. As for “zooming,” well, that just meant we were speeding down the avenue, transported by a wild or exuberant or desperate cabbie. Cell phones had not yet arrived to any significant degree, so pay phones cluttered the sidewalks of the city. At home in our apartments, we still suffered from the expense of long-distance phone calls. And at Esquire, our receptionist, who also worked as the switchboard operator, would connect incoming calls to us. If we missed the calls, she would give us handwritten messages and phone numbers when we came by her front desk. Yes, handwritten.
As for magazines, they were physically everywhere—on our coffee tables at home, in waiting rooms, libraries, airplanes and trains; and being sold at newsstands, bookstores, drugstores and magazine shops that vended only magazines, hundreds of different periodicals, maybe even thousands, including literary journals. Which meant that fiction as a whole, and short stories in particular, were also everywhere to be found. And bought.
Back then, magazines in general, Esquire included, stood rather jauntily in the center of American culture, alongside the towering industries of television, movies, and music. Editors in that era often achieved national renown as editors. And to borrow Marshall McLuhan’s longtime axiom, magazines then were mediums for the message, with literary fiction being one of the prime and abiding messages, as it had been in periodicals for more than a century. In the 1920s, for example, F. Scott Fitzgerald made his living not as a writer who had published The Great Gatsby, one of the greatest American novels to this day, but instead as a short story writer, who was paid for 160 stories delivered in various magazines, most frequently the Saturday Evening Post.
“Decades ago,” wrote the tech and media journalist Simon Owens in 2020, “short fiction was a viable business, for publishers and writers alike.” He cites the ideal venues for short stories as the so-called “glossy” magazines (who calls them that now?) such as Esquire, The New Yorker, Playboy, and The Atlantic, along with what were once known as “pulp” magazines, among them Asimov’s Science Fiction and Analog, all of which benefited from hundreds of thousands, and in some cases, millions of subscribers. I was always impressed as well by Redbook and McCall’s, two popular monthly women’s magazines, both now departed from the print world, which for close to a century routinely published accomplished fiction, including stories by Willa Cather, Edith Wharton, Anne Tyler, and a condensed version of Toni Morrison’s novel Song of Solomon. Even the renewed Vanity Fair, prior to its celebrity obsession when Tina Brown took it over in 1984, devoted itself to extraordinary fiction, at one point buying and printing Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s novella Chronicle of a Death Foretold.
For a while in the nineties, it still seemed to Rust and me and many other writers, editors, and marketers that fiction in magazines would last, well, forever. As would magazines themselves. As would literary fiction, period, anywhere and everywhere. Esquire, The Atlantic, Playboy, The New Yorker, and Harper’s published short stories in nearly every one of their issues. Several of those magazines—Esquire, The Atlantic, and The New Yorker—also put out a summer issue solely dedicated to fiction. I even loved using novelists and short story writers to research and compose nonfiction—John Edgar Wideman, for instance, who wrote a rich, imaginative investigation into Michael Jordan and his influence on race in America, and Denis Johnson, who roamed around the world, reporting on multiple catastrophes, including the civil war in Liberia and the take-over of Afghanistan by the Taliban. Another brilliant fiction writer, Joy Williams, Rust’s wife, fired out dazzling and sarcastically ferocious essays, one against hunting entitled “The Killing Game” (which infuriated hunters who subscribed to Esquire), and another in defense of nature, called “Save the Whales, Screw the Shrimp.”
And yet for all of that, a radical change in the structure of literary culture was already approaching. I remember one afternoon in the early-to-mid nineties when the novelist and short story writer Mark Helprin alerted me that tiny computers the size of transistor radios were heading our way. That we would carry them in our hands, stuff them in our pockets, and even pay bills and receive income through these little, unimaginable instruments. That magazines and newspapers and books might even disappear into or pop out of that miniature machine. How could he have known this? I have no idea. Laptop computers in those days seemed at least as big as briefcases, with office computers the size of altars. I recall saying to him with a bit of a laugh and much more astonishment: “Really? The size of a transistor radio?” It struck me as science fiction. Turned out to be science. Helprin was right.
As was the novelist, so-called metafictionalist, and Johns Hopkins professor John Barth, who back in 1993 declared: “I happen to not be optimistic about the future of literature in the electronic global village.” The only thing wrong with his intuition: the word “village.” It’s not a village anymore, if it ever was; it’s a universe.
At times, the digital universe feels to me like the technological equivalent of a black hole, swallowing everything around it, including the un-digital idiosyncrasy of humans, to the point that we are unable to re-emerge from that hole into a freer, more open constellation. In God, Human, Animal, Machine, the writer Meghan O’Gieblyn, who lost her faith after having been raised as a fundamentalist Christian, has created a fascinating inquiry into the nature and power of informational technology, as if that technology might be a new God, in the process of mathematizing uniqueness, and algorithmizing all of us, whether we are religiously faithful, agnostic, or atheistic. She describes how the Israeli intellectual Yuval Noah Harari argues that we already accept “machine wisdom” when it comes to the recommendation of “books, restaurants and potential dates.” He believes that “dataism” is replacing humanism as “a ruling ideology,” invalidating the conviction that an individual’s feelings, ideas, and beliefs make for a “legitimate source of truth.” According to Harari, “Dataism now commands: Listen to the algorithms!”
In the past twenty-five or so years, the magazine industry has shrunk in the midst of this “dataism,” particularly in its rendition of literary fiction. Three years ago, Adrienne LaFrance, executive editor of The Atlantic, decided to help devise an online destination for such fiction, short stories in particular, beginning with one by Lauren Groff. “The thinning of print magazines this century,” she writes, “meant a culling of fiction.” The internet, in her estimation (and mine), “makes fairly efficient work of splintering attention and devouring time.” As a result, she concludes that literary reading is “far too easily set aside.”
Simon Owens, the previously mentioned tech and media commentator, could not fathom the economic incentive behind LaFrance’s online venue for fiction. “Short stories don’t generate a lot of traffic,” he writes. In the past, he explains, a writer could make “a middle class living writing nothing but short fiction, and a few did.” Now, he writes, “that’s not the case.”
I often think of how writers, editors, copy-editors, fact-checkers, and even publishers are losing their work just like coal miners in Appalachia have over the last twenty years, with both professions having jobs taken away, seemingly forever, by what has been described in regard to West Virginia, for instance, as “automated technology.”
The power of the internet has not just affected writers economically. It has influenced the very nature of their own creativity. What Will Self, one of my favorite novelists over the last thirty years, calls BDDM—“bi-directional digital media”—is having a severe effect not just on reading, but on writing. Self confesses: “If there are writers out there who have the determination—and concentration—to write on a networked computer without being distracted by the worlds that lie a mere keystroke away, then they’re far steelier and more focused than I.” His vision of the literary future, despite his love for literature (even apparently for e-books), is dark indeed. “If you accept [over the next twenty years] that the vast majority of text will be read in digital form on devices linked to the web,” he asks, “do you also believe that those readers will voluntarily choose to disable that connectivity? If your answer to this is no, then the death of the novel is sealed out of your own mouth.” Writers in this age, he states, are “less imposing” than many of the relatively recent past, which is a “…a reflection of a culture in which literature is no longer centre stage (or screen).”
Given that this new medium is bi-directional and mathematical, and that, to quote Marshall McLuhan once again, “the medium is the message,” literary criticism itself has become dully numerical. Writers and writing tend to be voted upon by readers, who inflict economic power (buy or kill the novel!) rather than deeply examining work the way passionate critics once did in newspapers and magazines. Their “likes” and “dislikes” make for massive rejoinders rather than critical insight. It’s actually a kind of bland politics, as if books and stories are to be elected or defeated. Everyone is apparently a numerical critic now, though not necessarily an astute one. Or even honest. Consider, for instance, Cecilia Rabess’s recent debut novel Everything’s Fine, about a young Black woman employed by Goldman Sachs, who becomes enamored of a racist white co-worker. Six months before the book was even published—and read—members of the digital venue Goodreads, owned by Amazon, blasted the future publication with a flood of one-star reviews, accusing Everything’s Fine of prejudice and racism. Numbers, numbers, numbers, all in attack, rather than a variety of detailed immersions into the actual text, subsequently shared in what we call “writing.”
It’s as if the internet, with its ostensibly forthright venues, has actually turned nearly all of its posters into marketers and up-and-down voters, rather than readers and reviewers. That may be one of the reasons that the publishing and academic world has now become so consumed with propriety in relation to literary writing; otherwise editors, publishers and professors fear that old and new literature, along with themselves, may be treated as viciously as Rabess’s novel.
My perception is that, perhaps because of online mass condemnations, there’s simply too much of an ethical demand in fiction from fearful editors and “sensitivity readers,” whose sensitivity is not unlike that of children raised in religious families who’ve been taught that unless they do everything right, Hell (a longstanding venue of “cancellation”) is their likely destination. That instruction, common in the Protestant South where I grew up, has now—strangely—segued into the secular world of academics and publishing. Too many authors and editors fear that they might write or publish something that to them, at least, is unknowingly “wrong,” narratives that will reveal their ethical ignorance, much to their shame. It’s as if etiquette has become ethics, and blasphemy a sin of secularity.
The power of literary fiction—good literary fiction, anyway—does not come from moral rectitude. Consider, if you will, Harriet Beecher Stowe, who was a morally righteous author in the 1850s and whose famous anti-slavery novel, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, became immensely popular (at least in the North) and in time, a historical version of American sanctimony. Yet, as James Baldwin wrote nearly a century later in his essay “Everybody’s Protest Novel,” it was also “a very bad novel.” For one thing, it praises the enslaved for turning their cheeks, as it were, to be slapped again—or killed—rather than fighting back, a notion of Christian virtue and acceptance that results in brutal suffering and death on an unjust earth that will finally send Uncle Tom out of America to a less violent place known as Heaven. In Baldwin’s words, Stowe “was not so much a novelist as an impassioned pamphleteer; her book was not intended to do anything more than prove that slavery was wrong… This makes material for a pamphlet but it is hardly enough for a novel, and the only question left to ask is why we are bound still with the same constriction.”
And yet constriction has become even more constricted at this point of the 21st century, narrowing the fearless explorations that have been inherent in literature. A new American edition of To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woof’s 1927 British classic, to be published this year by Vintage, opens with an apologetic preface proclaiming that the publication is not an “endorsement” of the novel’s “cultural representations or language.” And just like in the 1850s, there are present-day writers—Sally Rooney, Ben Lerner (I remain a fan of his first two novels, but not his third), Celeste Ng, and Emma Cline, to name a few—composing fiction that Becca Rothfeld, in a brilliant essay appearing in Liberties Magazine, describes as “sanctimony literature,” in which the authors endorse and applaud their pious protagonists for living correctly. In contrast to the four novelists cited above, Rothfeld lauds Jane Austen for creating what she calls “morally mottled characters.” In Rothfeld’s view, political and ethical merit are not inherently identical. The truth is, pretty much all of us are mottled, and to immerse ourselves as readers into the complexity—not the clarity—of existence is illuminating. We can feel as close to the characters as we do to ourselves.
For me, good literature investigates morality. It stares unrelentingly at the behavior of its characters without requiring righteousness. The problem these days with a vast amount of fiction (and its criticism) is that morality is treated as if it were mathematically precise, obvious, undeniable, and eternal. It is none of those things. Morality evolves, devolves and evolves again. It is not a rule that comes from outside of ourselves, as when the Ten Commandments supposedly floated down to the top of a mountain into the hands of Moses. That’s fiction, too, folks, as if the Bible were a very good book of magical realism, written by Garcia Marquez. Truth does not have to be literal. It can arrive at reality, dressed in a dream. Paradoxically, fiction is often truer than journalism in regard to the nature of life, even though it is largely invented, aka “fiction.” And genuine morality, as opposed to contemporary etiquette, arises from within us, over time, with thought, with feeling, and, crucially… with curiosity. In Buddhist meditation, for example, curiosity leads to a greater and more generous awareness.
Curiosity, in my view, is also what tends to make for far better fiction, and nonfiction as well. Too many publishers and editors these days seem to regard themselves as secular priests, dictating right and wrong, as opposed to focusing on the allure of the mystifying and the excitement of uncertainty. Ethics and aesthetics appear in this era to be intentionally merged, as if their respective “good” is identical. By contrast, the late, brilliant editor Robert Gottlieb, who worked with Toni Morrison, Robert Caro, Cynthia Ozick, Doris Lessing, and Joseph Heller, among many others, blended himself into the prose and intentions of his authors, supporting and allowing the independence of their freestanding literature. He was an editor-in-chief at the The New Yorker for several years, but never a dictator. He could judge and sharpen the distinctive power of an author’s voice without condemning its unique, often defiant point of view.
In their best moments, writers scribble on their pads and type on their keyboards like children playing with their buddies outside on the street or in the woods or at a park, far away in soul, if not place, from their parents. As the scholar and literary critic Peter Brooks declares in the book Seduced by Story, a beguiling and recent analysis of the nature of narrative, both fiction writing and children’s play “are about the creation of a space of freedom within the inexorable mechanisms of the real. That play, in the case of the successful fiction, delivers us back to reality changed, enhanced, with a greater wisdom in our stock.” Novelists love novels, he suggests, because such literature doesn’t constrain its creation by rules. “Fiction,” writes Brooks, “is playful precisely in its refusal to accept belief systems, its insistence on the ‘as if.’”
Or, as my friend, the novelist Darcey Steinke, says: “I actually think the best writing has paradox and ambiguity built right in. You can’t write without accepting it. Novels are about people that are fucked up!”
Oh, dear literature! Will you die or shrink or practically disappear into a tiny, elitist realm like opera has into Lincoln Center on the Upper West Side of Manhattan? James Shapiro, an English professor at Columbia, has only owned a smart phone for the past year. And yet his literary life has radically altered. “Technology in the last twenty years has changed all of us,” he tells Nathan Heller in a New Yorker piece about the diminishment of English majors in college. “…I probably read five novels a month until the two-thousands. If I read one a month now, it’s a lot. That’s not because I’ve lost interest in fiction. It’s because I’m reading a hundred web sites. I’m listening to podcasts.”
John Guillory, another professor, recently retired from New York University, and the author of Cultural Capital and Professing Criticism, says his fellow academics need to confront “the declining cultural capital of literature in a wildly expanded media universe.”
There’s even anxiety that artificial intelligence might make human writing superfluous. The Italian writer Italo Calvino, one of my favorite novelists (read The Baron in the Trees!), foresaw this in a lecture he gave way back in 1967, entitled “Cybernetics and Ghosts.” He laid out questions that strike me as astonishingly prescient, given the recent attempts of AI at composing literature. “Will we have a machine capable of replacing the poet and the author?” Calvino asked during his speech. “Just as we already have machines that can read, machines that perform a linguistic analysis of literary texts, machines that make translations and summaries, will we also have machines capable of conceiving and composing poems and novels?”
The answer, as Calvino likely already knew, even though he died at the age of 61 in 1985, is: You betcha. A couple of years ago, a former Esquire colleague of mine, Adam Fisher, relayed to me a poem composed by AI. It wasn’t that good, but it wasn’t that bad, either. It probably would have gotten a solid B in an MFA program.
Will readers like us therefore need to become the literary equivalents of the Amish, living peacefully and slightly outside the technological world? Can reading and writing literature become our version of riding in horse-drawn buggies cantering peacefully down a car-jammed highway? Or do we simply need to accept new forms of art, whatever they might be, as when Bibles were first printed by the Gutenberg Press back in 1455, and a new bright vision arose from reading?
Not long ago, I was waiting in a long line to the cashiers at the Barnes & Noble bookstore by Union Square in Manhattan, lugging a stack of books and magazines that I was about to buy. Just ahead of me stood a lovely, dark-haired woman, probably in her forties or fifties, also carrying a stack of books, who pulled a flip phone out of her coat pocket, opened it for a second, then flipped it back shut with seeming delight. I fell in love with her instantly. Yes, she was beautiful, and I didn’t mind that, but it was the flip phone that made me want to ask her out, to sit with her in a bar or coffee shop, discussing the similar nature of our particular universe, and then to subsequently marry and share a digitally-free—or at least digitally-modest—life.
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Her flip phone made me believe I already knew her. That she also loved reading literary fiction (the books she was lugging implied that, too, including Haruki Murakami’s short story collection First Person Singular, which I was also buying). That she appreciated direct contact with humans, talking and listening in physical presence, not just staring at a phone in the midst of humanity. That there was a calmness in her, and strength as well. In my view, she had either rebelled against smart phone obsession or never succumbed to it in the first place. I’m reminded of a wonderful line from Lola Shub, a high school senior from Brooklyn, quoted by Alex Vadukul in the New York Times last December in an article about young Luddites: “When I got my flip phone, things instantly changed,” she said. “I started using my brain.”
My own brain decided to hide my intermittently-smart Samsung phone in the back pocket of my jeans and wondered what to say to the flip phone woman. In the end, however, I said nothing. Instead, I smiled at a little kid, also hauling a stack of books, who just came running into the line ahead, and then leaning against that very woman. The boy grinned back at me. I went up, bought my books and magazines, stuffed them in my knapsack, took them home, sat down on my favorite chair, turned off my phone, and began to read.
Outside my window, a big moon sailed slowly across the sky above New York City. It felt like my head was its own moon, albeit somewhat smaller, peacefully floating over Murakami’s story “Cream.” The very process of reading in itself is a generous, enriching form of solitude, meditational in fact, but it is also a calm instigation of independence, and maybe even an ongoing incentive for intellectual revolution. It allows a reader, especially in this digital age, to think more freely rather than being dictated by aggressive algorithms. Murakami’s recently-published stories also made me realize how fiction at large, and short stories in particular, remain as exhilarating as ever, the embodiment of an infinite variety of visions and voices, and powerful alternatives to the standard nature of the current mind, regardless of whether literary fiction is now harder to find, publish, promote, and write in this era of digital dictatorship.
Twenty-five years ago, I wrote and published the following paragraph in the introduction to an anthology I edited called Why I Write, that features original essays by 28 fiction writers, including Denis Johnson, Joy Williams, Darius James, Mary Gaitskill, Ann Patchett, and David Foster Wallace:
The very act of reading literature, the anticommunalism of it, the slow drift into reverie, the immersion into the charismatic black-and-white grids of the page—all of this emphatically unplugs us from that other grid, that beeping, noisome electronic grid that attempts to snare us in a web of reflex, of twitch and spasm. Does this make the pursuit of literature a Luddite maneuver, with all the shadowings of melancholy and futility attendant on such rebellions? I suspect that to the contrary, passionate reading will become a form of permanent opposition…
I feel this way now more than ever. And I suspect I will for the rest of my life. Will you?
Will Blythe is the author of a New York Times bestseller To Hate Like This is To Be Happy Forever. A former literary editor at Esquire, he quit the magazine in protest to a last-minute cancellation of a novella by David Leavitt that included scenes of gay sex.
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