By Keith Gessen
An enthralling but scathing portrait of younger maturity on the beginning of the twenty-first century, the entire unhappy younger Literary males charts the lives of Sam, Mark, and Keith as they overthink their collage years, underthink their love lives, and wade through the encouragement of the ladies who love and despise them to discover a semblance of adulthood, accountability, or even literary repute. Heartbroken in his college city, Mark attempts to concentration his realization on his graduate paintings at the Russian Revolution, in basic terms to be lured repeatedly to the loose pornography at the library desktops. Sam binds himself to the duty of crafting "the first nice Zionist epic" even supposing he speaks no Hebrew, hasn't ever visited Israel, and isn't a working towards Jew. Keith, extra earnest and simply disillusioned than the opposite , is haunted via catastrophes either public and private--and his lack of ability to inform the adaptation. At each flip, at each one character's misstep, the entire unhappy younger Literary males radiates with comedic heat and biting honesty and indications the arriving of a courageous and trenchant new author.
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Extra info for All the Sad Young Literary Men
They did not say to each other, in the course of a day, fifty words. Talia was a strategic, a territorial, problem: where would Sam be when she was at Spot A; what was Talia’s current liquidity, and did he need to withdraw cash; where was her silver hair clip? Talia had weaknesses, aspirations, wellmapped idiosyncrasies. He would, perhaps, spend the rest of his life with her; that is, if he played his cards correctly, and she also played correctly; there were complications, corrections, concessions.
Certainly. An action so monstrous that, if it cannot be called religious, is nonetheless such in the precise degree to which the hand of God was absent? You bet your ass! He looked around the cafe—no one was staring at him. He had not uttered anything aloud. But beyond that? Was the awful scale of the killing, and the ethnic identity of its victims, part of the post-Holocaust world? Should it be remembered and invoked at all times, in all places— was it really paradigmatic in some profound way?
We might still recover —I might still make a wonderful career in liberal punditry, she could still rejuvenate the Democratic Party—but the success we’d glimpsed, that we had smelled with our noses, in anticipation of which our hands had trembled, our throats made moaning noises, our hearts swelled, was denied us. We might still make it but it would not be for many years, and we would not be so beautiful as we were, and our teeth would not be so bright—and the country, by then, would be in serious world-historical shit.
All the Sad Young Literary Men by Keith Gessen