Unconventional Novels About Conventional People
Our take
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.
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This week, my colleague Lily Meyer investigated “what happened to the radicals.” In her article, she was writing about a type of plot shared by several recent books, as well as the Oscar-winning film One Battle After Another. These works follow aging revolutionaries who have given up the fight after being forced into hiding or choosing to raise a family; some have simply grown tired of the struggle. Meyer’s essay reminded me of another common storyline in fiction, one that might seem to trace an opposite trajectory but in fact runs a parallel course. You could call it “what happened to the conformists.”
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In some ways, the rebel-gone-to-seed story mirrors a plot found in some classic 20th-century literature: that of an Everyman who has lost a youthful dream of joyful conformity. Think of Rabbit Angstrom, the antihero of a four-novel series by John Updike—each volume written a decade apart, as the former high-school-basketball phenom witnesses, and experiences, the decline of the middle-class American dream. Rabbit gets married young, settles in a suburb, eventually takes over his father-in-law’s car lot, and claws his way to bland prosperity. He is instinctively patriotic, and also entitled, selfish, and more than a little bit racist. The reader has plenty of reasons to hate him, but they might also grow to love him—partly because Updike paints him masterfully, but also because Rabbit’s journey is so common. Who doesn’t feel on top of the world at 25, and tired and at least a touch disillusioned 30 years later?
The conformist’s journey is described by so many white, male mid-century novelists—Philip Roth, John Cheever, Richard Yates—that it can feel like a story past its prime. But old forms are always ripe for reinvention, and a recent book managed to make this one feel fresh. In a recent Atlantic essay, Isle McElroy called Jordy Rosenberg’s Night Night Fawn “a striking, darkly comic portrait of a mind narrowed by disappointment.”
Barbara, the narrator of the novel, resents her gender-nonconforming child even as he ministers to her in her dying days. McElroy calls the novel, whose author is trans, “autofiction from a sidelong distance”—a story of prejudice told through the eyes of the bigot. Yet Barbara is so much more than a foil; Rosenberg sketches out the life of a woman who dreamed of ascending in status, of moving from working-class Brooklyn to the Upper East Side on the arm of a surgeon. When this fails to happen—and her hopes of marrying off a perfect daughter are dashed—Barbara grows hateful and ultimately delusional. A reader might be tempted to loathe her, but she’s too funny and too sad. And her story, like Rabbit’s, is a universal one: Life didn’t turn out the way she’d hoped it would.
Many of Barbara’s dreams are superficial and retrograde. Her values—including her severe rigidity about gender roles—alienate her from her only child and set her up for inevitable disappointment. A reader can see her loneliness as just deserts but still mourn her losses. Meyer, in her essay, surmises that “the message audiences really want” from ex-revolutionary stories is that “the radicals can’t win.” The solace and the pathos in Updike’s and Rosenberg’s work come from realizing that in many cases, conformists can’t win either.
How Long Can You Live Your Ideals?
By Lily Meyer
Stories about revolutionaries seem to entrance readers and moviegoers alike—especially if they don’t end well.
What to Read
Other Minds, by Peter Godfrey-Smith
A philosopher of science wrote this book, so readers should expect some pretty heavy intellectual lifting, but I promise it is well worth the effort. In Other Minds, Godfrey-Smith—a lifelong, nearly fanatical snorkeler from Australia and, most recently, a scuba diver and a world-class underwater videographer—attempts to understand the inner life of the octopus, not by observing them in captivity or for a short summer in their habitat but from the perspective of a man who’s spent many years observing octopuses in the twists of reefs and along the sea floor. The book goes beyond analyzing their behavior: As a philosopher, Godfrey-Smith considers the nature of consciousness, using the animals’ evolutionary development to theorize about the similarities between their minds and ours. At one point, in what felt like a long, mesmerizing tangent about cuttlefish, I realized I was actually reading an explanation for why animals, including us, die. I was challenged again and again, scribbling in the margins, gasping. If you are going to read one book this year, I’d suggest this one. — Deb Olin Unferth
From our list: Nine books to reset your view of the world
Out Next Week
📚 Attention: Writing on Life, Art, and the World, by Anne Enright
📚 My Dear You, by Rachel Khong
📚 Against Breaking: On the Power of Poetry, by Ada Limón
Your Weekend Read
We’re All Real Housewives Now
By Michael Waters
Just as the Housewives formula has become part of pop culture’s texture, its fuzzy relationship to “reality” has coincided with the ascension of a powerful idea in entertainment: that people’s private lives are inextricable from their public success. That notion has now spread beyond the confines of TV. In a world of fractured attention spans, many public figures are accustomed to mining their personal dramas to stay at the top of their audience’s feeds. No matter that ratings are down across cable; what matters today, as in 2006, is holding on to whoever’s still tuned in.
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