Aging radicals trading protest signs for quiet lives

In this edition of Books Briefing, we delve into the intriguing realm of unconventional novels that explore the lives of seemingly conventional characters.

4 min readThe Atlantic
Aging radicals trading protest signs for quiet lives
Illustration by Jamiel Law

In her thoughtful exploration titled “what happened to the radicals,” Lily Meyer delves into the fascinating narratives of aging revolutionaries who have either retreated from their once-passionate causes or pivoted to more conventional lives. This theme resonates across various recent literary works and the Oscar-winning film *One Battle After Another*. However, an equally compelling storyline emerges in the form of the conformist’s journey—an oft-overlooked narrative that mirrors the struggles of these radicals. As Meyer highlights, both groups confront a common reality: the disillusionment that comes with the passage of time and the burdens of societal expectations. The notion that both rebels and conformists grapple with their unfulfilled dreams brings a rich texture to contemporary literature, reflecting a deeper societal commentary on ambition, identity, and the human experience.

At the heart of this discussion lies the character of Rabbit Angstrom from John Updike’s celebrated series, whose descent from youthful idealism to suburban monotony exemplifies the heartache of lost dreams. Readers may find themselves oscillating between disdain and empathy for Rabbit, as Updike expertly crafts a character that embodies the complexities of middle-class life. This duality—where the reader is invited to both judge and understand—creates an engaging narrative tension that is echoed in recent works like Jordy Rosenberg’s *Night Night Fawn*. In this novel, the protagonist, Barbara, navigates her own disappointments and prejudices in a world that does not conform to her expectations. As Meyer points out, Barbara's story serves as a reminder that the pursuit of a rigidly defined success often leads to alienation and despair, a theme that is becoming increasingly relevant in a society that prizes conformity over individuality.

The universality of these narratives is what makes them particularly resonant today. As young adults, including many of us at WSU, face the pressures of aligning personal aspirations with societal norms, the struggles of characters like Rabbit and Barbara reflect our own journeys. The reality is that many of us are learning to balance ambition with community, navigating the expectations placed upon us while trying to forge our own paths. The comfort found in these stories lies in their acknowledgment that neither the radical nor the conformist holds the ultimate key to happiness; rather, both paths can lead to a sense of loss and longing. This shared struggle fosters a sense of belonging, reminding us that we are not alone in our experiences.

Moreover, the resurgence of these themes in contemporary literature invites readers to reconsider the narratives they've internalized about success and fulfillment. As we consume stories that challenge traditional archetypes, we begin to question the notion that our lives must follow a prescribed path. The exploration of unconventional novels about conventional people urges us to embrace our complexities and recognize that growth often comes from discomfort. As we continue to seek out diverse voices and perspectives, we can find inspiration in the imperfections of our own lives.

Looking ahead, the question remains: How will these narratives evolve as society grapples with the challenges of modern living? As we navigate the intersection of ambition, identity, and community, it will be fascinating to see how future authors reinterpret these themes to reflect our realities. Are we witnessing the birth of a new kind of storytelling that embraces nuance and complexity, or will we continue to gravitate toward simpler narratives of success and failure? As readers, we have a role in shaping this discourse, and engaging with these thought-provoking stories might just inspire a richer understanding of our own journeys.

From The Atlantic

This is an edition of the Books Briefing, our editors’ weekly guide to the best in books. Sign up for it here.

Read the original at The Atlantic

Briefing

Source
The Atlantic
Published
April 4, 2026

Related

  • Margin notes are just a conversation with future me.

    This is an edition of the Books Briefing, our editors’ weekly guide to the best in books. Sign up for it here. The margins of my books are filled with handwritten annotations such as “Absolutely not” and “STOP IT!!!!” and “girl get UP.” These are not necessarily critiques of the story; some are expressions of high praise. Several of my favorite titles are full of characters who utterly vex, agitate, and perturb me. I know I’m not alone in this; my colleague Lily Meyer, in a recent Atlantic essay, found Andrew Martin’s Down Time, a novel full of irritating people, to be a useful reflection of the society we live in. I agree with her, and I’ll go a step further: Let books be annoying. First, here are four new stories from The Atlantic’s Books section: A novel about women who trade one kind of captivity for another “Intensely southern and only faintly Jewish” Sondheim’s confessions “A Friend Gifts Me a Paper Bag of Honeycomb,” a poem by Nina C. Peláez Characters—in both fiction and nonfiction—should be as exasperating as people can be. As Meyer writes, “Annoying characters let us admit that we might be annoying too.” I’m on record praising Alison Bechdel for letting the main character of her long-running comic strip, Dykes to Watch Out For, be a huge, neurotic drag. I’m also moved by memoirs that neither valorize nor sanitize the author’s bad behavior. “Own your mistakes!” I might scribble in gel pen. I like watching a person make a bad decision and fully recognizing why they’re doing it. This register of writing feels especially human. Some novelists make their characters so annoying or self-absorbed that the reader can only cringe; although I appreciate biting satires, this isn’t exactly what I mean to celebrate. I really adore a book that has affection for its difficult characters. I recently read Daniel M. Lavery’s forthcoming novel, Meeting New People, about an older woman named Barbara—and Barbara is a pill. Yet you can tell that Lavery likes her despite everything, and you can imagine why someone (someone with the same personality traits, perhaps) might like her too. At least Barbara hopes so. She’s on the hunt for a new best friend, having burned through nine different ones over the course of her life thus far. We can see, from the first chapter, why Barbara’s most recent bestie, Susan Montgomery, is done with her: Barbara is deeply opinionated about petty things. She can be brusque and grating, especially with her son and her young co-workers. At the same time, her discernment (especially when it comes to the culinary arts—she is a talented home cook who works at a deli) is frequently sharp and delightful; her judgments render her unique and robust. I might not be cut out for the role of Barbara’s 10th best friend—she would have a lot to say about my weight—but I loved reading about her. That’s the thing about books. If Barbara, or another character, is making me bang my head against the wall, I can just close the novel and move on with my life. But sometimes I like to salt my days with a person who simply grinds my gears. I might yell aloud to the empty hall; I might text everyone I know about a character’s foibles and idiocy (and tell them to read the book too). I’ve been known to, infrequently, throw my reading material across the room. Or I might just blacken more margins. Writing “I HATE THIS” inside a book can be another way of saying “I love you.” Illustration by Haley Jiang The Seinfeld Theory of Fiction By Lily Meyer Annoying characters let us admit that we might be annoying too. Read the full article. What to Read Lords of the Realm, by John Helyar That sports are big business is hardly news, but Helyar’s book shows just how much the story of professional sports is truly that of organized labor—and how ugly things can get. Lords of the Realm is a classic profile of the relationship between the men who own baseball teams and the men who play for them. The book covers more than 50 years of history, beginning in the early 20th century and ending on the eve of the 1994 strike, which famously canceled the World Series. Again and again, Helyar illuminates undeniable connections between the people who ran baseball then and the people who still do. In this sport, he demonstrates, rich men with family money have long attempted to hold down working-class players, many of them men of color, who have only a few years of earning power—and he then explains how the players’ union built itself up out of self-protection before engaging in regular, protracted battle. Though the book is now more than 30 years old, it could not feel more relevant: Baseball’s current collective-bargaining agreement expires after the 2026 season, and yet another labor fight over a potential salary cap (something the union has fought for decades) is brewing.  — Will Leitch From our list: Seven books that will change how you watch sports Out Next Week 📚 Ghosts of Fourth Street, by Laurie Hertzel 📚 Phases, by Brandy 📚 Son of Nobody, by Yann Martel Your Weekend Read Illustration by Akshita Chandra / The Atlantic When Claude Met Claude By Matteo Wong Earlier this month, San Francisco’s de Young Museum unveiled its newest exhibition, “Monet and Venice,” which is dedicated to the impressionist painter’s beautiful and meditative canvases of the floating city. And Anthropic, perhaps having seized on a marketing opportunity, is one of the show’s lead sponsors. Through tomorrow, visitors are able to partake in a temporary “interactive experience” that Anthropic set up in a room adjacent to the galleries. Essentially, the AI firm turned two typewriters into interfaces to chat with Claude. You type in a question about the exhibition, and Claude, based on information about Monet that the museum provided, such as exhibit labels, punches out an answer onto the same sheet of cream cardstock. Read the full article. When you buy a book using a link in this newsletter, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic. Sign up for The Wonder Reader, a Saturday newsletter in which our editors recommend stories to spark your curiosity and fill you with delight. Explore all of our newsletters.