Untranslatable Concepts and "Great" Men
Some things just make no sense with the language we've been given.
I’m fascinated by the idea that there are emotional concepts that exist in the world, but the English language never was able to neatly package them into words that allow us to convey those feelings to others. I was in Portugal last week (brag!), and I was reminded there of the concept of suadade, which is roughly a sad state of intense yearning for someone or something that is absent. It’s a staple of their music and poetry. It’s a longing that carries with it an assurance that whatever you’re missing could never happen again. It’s a particular mix of melancholy and loss, and, this is important, it has no direct equivalent in English. A word for the light presence of heavy absence. It’s a lot to unpack.
I find it very comforting that no language can contain the full breadth of human experience, and we have to seek to lend terms from other languages to be fully expressive in the full range of emotional experiences. It is, for lack of a better word, very cool that life is so complex and varied that entire states of being, distinct as fingerprints, developed names in some places and not others. Some other words that fit this bill are jaysus when you’re in Indonesia and need to describe an unfunny joke that’s told so badly that you actually laugh. Or in Spain where a mángata is a trail created by the moon’s reflection on water. Or in Russia where a pochemuchka is a person who asks too many questions. How many words are we missing? Why did English never get around to naming these concepts? Am I complex enough as a lifelong English speaker to even be able to feel suadade?
Anyway, just read a couple books about men who yearn for something, but don’t know how to get it. (All fascinating, but in my opinion, none of them actually exceeds past 6 out of 10 on the suadade spectrum.)
THE LIBRARY IS OPEN
The Great Man Theory
by Teddy Wayne (2022)
In a fit of frustration with the world, I instituted a not so firm rule for myself a while ago that if I needed to learn something new, I would seek out a source not written by a cis, white, straight man. I had learned enough from them! I needed to step away from the default mode of society and invest in new learning methods! I eventually eased up on this rule, which was basically impossible to follow - thanks society! There are things you can learn from anyone, even if their grievances are often completely imagined.
Teddy Wayne, for example, is essentially the poet laureate of the plight of the aggrieved cis, white, straight man, and in his exploration of their psyches, he turns the mirror from the protagonist to the reader and then back to the protagonist again. Such is the case with the Great Man Theory, an exercise in cringe and satire and one of the best analyses of how a well-meaning and fragile majority deals with a post-2016 election landscape. (The answer is mostly: not well!) Paul, our antihero (kind of an ironic avatar for great man theory) is a recently divorced but very good father whose job as a professor is downsized into that of an adjunct. As a result, he starts to drive for a ride share company and is forced to move in with his mother. Not ideal. All the while, he is composing his magnum opus, his screed against modern technology called The Luddite’s Manifesto. He is also not just a little bit obsessed with America’s 45th president and how he’s ruining his life and the country. Relatable!
This novel is not what I would call a comfortable read, but it’s a rather incisive encapsulation of the feeling so many of us felt over the past half a decade - a powerlessness as a tsunami of history washes over us and bowls us over. How do we stay afloat? The book ratchets up a cool tension, leading up to an ending that kept me guessing, even if it felt inevitable in hindsight. Let’s just say that if you’re not a huge fan of Fox News, this book’s ending might provide the revenge fantasy you’ve been looking for.
Read this if you like: Political commentary, the plight of man, dark humor, academia, bittersweet realizations.
Trust
by Hernan Diaz (2022)
Benjamin Rask is the combined Jeff Bezos and Bill Gates of his time (the 1920s, to be exact), leveraging his family’s enormous coffers to create more even wealth that buoys him safely over the inconvenient hurdle of the great stock market crash of 1929. He is the stuff of legend. He is the great man that we were referencing a few paragraphs ago in the aptly named great man theory. Or is he? How can we *trust* what history says is true when we weren’t there to witness? Can we even trust the history actually are witnessing at this moment?
Trust is a book about fact and fiction, who gets to tell your story, and what history means. It’s ingeniously structured so that each of the book’s four sections builds on what’s come before it to provide you more information, but simultaneously pulling the rug out from under you and eroding the stability you feel about the facts you’ve been given. It’s less a clunky matryoshka doll of a puzzle than it is a rose gently blooming to reveal more subtle layers - in this case, layers of deception. This is the kind of book that deftly employs non-sexual double entendres for words like bonds, futures, and - the title - trust to make you consider them from financial and emotional perspectives. It is also probably not coincidence that as we get closer to understanding whatever the ultimately unknowable truth is, we center women’s stories more prominently. (Not to be all heteronormative, but this feels like the pretty accurate underpinning of a lot of real life great man stories.)
I’m not going to lie. This book requires patience. I normally hate when people tell me to watch a television show where you have to endure the first 5 boring episodes to reap the benefits of a great payoff in the finale. (Read: Severance, which really was great.) Alas, here I am telling you that you’ll be happy you waded through the beginning of Trust to end up where you did. It’s another uncannily clever part about the book: you have to trust that you’re in good hands.
Read this if you like: Finance, slow-unfolding revelations, plucky feminism, low-stakes mysteries, the roaring 20s.
This Is Why They Hate Us
by Aaron H. Aceves (2022)
Allow me to level set. I read a bunch of LGBTQ+ young adult (YA) literature because it did not exist when I needed it most - when I was a YA. I think YA lit is very important. I think it saves lives, and it’s often much more successful in representing every kind of person in meaningful, authentic ways than literature for general populations. It’s not for everyone, but I find it really valuable to throw in a YA title every couple books to see what the kids these days are up and to see what I missed.
I wanted to highlight this particular book because it is relentlessly horny. As puritanical Gen Z folks take over the internet where young people lurk, I found it fascinating that this book seems to present an antidote to that. Enrique “Quique” Luna is a rising senior, confidently bisexual, single, and ready to mingle during his senior year summer. He’s trying to get over his crush on his perfect best friend by getting under a bunch of guys, since he hasn’t had much experience dating them. The plot of many YA books is often: hijinks ensue, hearts are broken, lessons are learned. That’s what happens here, but with its own unique spin. Quique learns the, ahem, hard way that putting yourself out there can roil up some deep-seated insecurities and adult-level anxieties. There’s a through line of melancholy that feels authentic for someone Quique’s age, but there’s also a lot of joy in witnessing someone realize that he has to figure himself out before he can ever understand other men. (Good luck with that!)
I’m glad this book is out there for younger LGBTQ+ folks. And it’s fascinating from an anthropological standpoint to see a guy who wants to hook up with guys have relatively safe options. (In contrast, my senior year was mostly attending band/chorus practice, watching The Real World, and just generally being a nerdy virgin.) If you want a glimpse into the world of the modern, experimental teen or just like really pretty book covers, check it out.
Read this if you like: MSM, multiple descriptions of tongues, Los Angeles, LGBTQ+ friend groups, happy endings of all kinds.
LIGHTNING ROUND
Why don’t you settle in with what used to be my favorite short story collection of all time? It still might be. I need to revisit.
Maybe you should start a great series that’s like Friday Night Lights, but with hockey in Sweden, as the final chapter gets released this month?
It’s never a bad time to celebrate unruly women, especially if people can see you reading a book with this amazing cover on the title: Too Fat, Too Slutty, Too Loud.
Until next time…happy reading.