For me Theodore Roosevelt's autobiography has exactly this as he recounts his asthma and physical challenges early in life. His is father played a significant part in helping him over come those challenges in a loving way. Something that seems difficult at least for me to imagine in our modern age.
This puts me in mind of a lot of feminist academic philosophy that I read in university, which often noted how much more men tend to see their bodies as either a tool or as simply an unconsidered extension of their ‘selves’, as opposed to women who are forced constantly into an awareness of their body as an object in space which is open to observation. I wonder if an increase in male insecurity is a direct result of considering the body as an object in this way. When I feel best in my body, least insecure, it is because me and my body have become one thing, a purposeful and natural unfolding of agency. When I stop and ‘Look’ at my body however, I begin to feel things which I am sure every woman is familiar with. My crooked nose, the unflattering shapelessness of my arms, my sweaty hands, the placement of a freckle, my height. A body, perhaps, cannot be a marble statue and a vital, breathing thing at the same time. And therein lies our problem. We want to be both a crystalline perfection and a functioning being, and the former is an impossibility.
I agree, Conor. I was thinking a lot about John Berger's Ways of Seeing as I wrote this. And while his focus is on women in art and the effect that's had on our culture, the commentary on men considering their bodies as--as you say-- "extensions of their 'selves'" is all there, too. One of the questions that has emerged for me is whether writing about my own body (either directly or lightly and tangentially) is psychologically a net positive or negative for me. I've assumed it's more positive, a reclaiming of what strangers have noticed since I was at least 12, but attention paid is not always attention well spent.
The other thread I'm really interested in exploring more fully is what does writing about our own body (critically, exultantly, indifferently) do for how we see other bodies? Or rather, does it have an impact on how we see or feel for others?
Thank you for leaving this note-- I especially liked what you beautifully named about your own feelings of what it's meant to stop and look versus just be.
The first thing I thought of was Williams’ poem that he wrote, I believe, after seeing the famous Russian dancers in NYC. Here he imagines himself as a kind of dancer, at least in the privacy of his own room.
(edit) And then there’s Kafka’s “A Hunger Artist”? Let’s see, a sideshow artist whose art is to take himself to the edge of death by starving himself in a cage. And Kafka, an artist with eating disorders. Hmm. (There’s echoes, I think, of this story in Plath’s “Lady Lazarus.”) Or “Metamorphosis” for that matter: traveling salesman whose body is transformed overnight into a vermin.
I'd somehow forgotten about the delightful "Danse Russe"--thank you for this reminder! And I'll absolutely look into "A Hunger Artist". It's autobiographical? Thank you for these, Frank!
Good question. I had always assumed the title (Hungerkünstler) was Kafka’s coinage, but it turns out the compound word and the phenomenon of public fasting date to a 19th century American diet quack:
Kafka was already a follower of another American quack, Horace Fletcher, but whether this story represents a view of himself as artist, I just don’t know. The above link suggests Kafka might have had a real-life model. In my mind the practice is tangled up with a lot of other weird early 20th century stuff (breakfast cereal invention, patent medicines, spring water sanatoriums, naturism, etc.).
Two more recent writers writing about the male body:
Philip Roth, of course, with Portnoy’s Complaint. Or The Breast, Roth’s take on Kafka about a man transformed into a breast à la “Metamorphosis.”
Ross Gay, whose book-length poem about legendary basketball player Julius “Dr. J” Erving is excerpted generously here:
Great examples. Thanks so much, Frank. Ross Gay's writing about his garden almost feels to me like he's writing about his own body. Maybe a stretch and maybe it's just that I adore the tenderness he offers his plants.
Here are a few guesses about that literary silence among male writers, compared to women who take Helene Cixous to heart and "write the body."
* There may be a homophobic undercurrent among cis writers, since men who sing the body electric are often gay (Whitman, Ginsberg)
* A related cause might be that Western men are socialized to see their bodies, and the male libido, as repugnant compared to the female body, which is held up as the object of desire in art, film, and literature. For many contemporary writers, the male body might seem like a tool of oppression (the reason why #MeToo exists) or the literal manifestation of patriarchy.
* Men, more than women, have been the target of the Judeo-Christian dichotomy between flesh and spirit. Men are more often thought, in those circles, to be slaves to the flesh. But both men and women learn, in that culture, to think of the body as corrupt.
* Perhaps it is, as Updike suggests, that the male body has been a kind of default in Western culture, something taken for granted, whereas women have found their bodies problematized from many angles. Conflict drives narrative, so maybe men don't feel like their bodies are under attack in the way that women do, and so there's less to write AGAINST, fewer questions to answer or problems to solve?
As a man I have had to learn to love my body. At the risk of seeming self-serving, I'll share an essay that I think of as a companion to Latham's:
That essay is FANTASTIC. Granted I was hovering from the hallway outside of the gym, but so much of it felt familiar to the glimpses I got. Especially loved this passage: “Gyms simmered with the tension and silence that has long defined male relationships. There were intimate moments when my lifting buddy placed his hands on mine as I struggled to complete a final rep. But we masked those moments with insults and drew our motivation from the self-loathing that pulsed through the grunge and metal of that era.” And grateful for all the points you make above. Can I quote you if I expand this, Joshua?
For me Theodore Roosevelt's autobiography has exactly this as he recounts his asthma and physical challenges early in life. His is father played a significant part in helping him over come those challenges in a loving way. Something that seems difficult at least for me to imagine in our modern age.
Everything about that appeals: another rec from you I must read! Thank you, Steven.
This puts me in mind of a lot of feminist academic philosophy that I read in university, which often noted how much more men tend to see their bodies as either a tool or as simply an unconsidered extension of their ‘selves’, as opposed to women who are forced constantly into an awareness of their body as an object in space which is open to observation. I wonder if an increase in male insecurity is a direct result of considering the body as an object in this way. When I feel best in my body, least insecure, it is because me and my body have become one thing, a purposeful and natural unfolding of agency. When I stop and ‘Look’ at my body however, I begin to feel things which I am sure every woman is familiar with. My crooked nose, the unflattering shapelessness of my arms, my sweaty hands, the placement of a freckle, my height. A body, perhaps, cannot be a marble statue and a vital, breathing thing at the same time. And therein lies our problem. We want to be both a crystalline perfection and a functioning being, and the former is an impossibility.
I agree, Conor. I was thinking a lot about John Berger's Ways of Seeing as I wrote this. And while his focus is on women in art and the effect that's had on our culture, the commentary on men considering their bodies as--as you say-- "extensions of their 'selves'" is all there, too. One of the questions that has emerged for me is whether writing about my own body (either directly or lightly and tangentially) is psychologically a net positive or negative for me. I've assumed it's more positive, a reclaiming of what strangers have noticed since I was at least 12, but attention paid is not always attention well spent.
The other thread I'm really interested in exploring more fully is what does writing about our own body (critically, exultantly, indifferently) do for how we see other bodies? Or rather, does it have an impact on how we see or feel for others?
Thank you for leaving this note-- I especially liked what you beautifully named about your own feelings of what it's meant to stop and look versus just be.
The first thing I thought of was Williams’ poem that he wrote, I believe, after seeing the famous Russian dancers in NYC. Here he imagines himself as a kind of dancer, at least in the privacy of his own room.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46483/danse-russe
(edit) And then there’s Kafka’s “A Hunger Artist”? Let’s see, a sideshow artist whose art is to take himself to the edge of death by starving himself in a cage. And Kafka, an artist with eating disorders. Hmm. (There’s echoes, I think, of this story in Plath’s “Lady Lazarus.”) Or “Metamorphosis” for that matter: traveling salesman whose body is transformed overnight into a vermin.
I'd somehow forgotten about the delightful "Danse Russe"--thank you for this reminder! And I'll absolutely look into "A Hunger Artist". It's autobiographical? Thank you for these, Frank!
Good question. I had always assumed the title (Hungerkünstler) was Kafka’s coinage, but it turns out the compound word and the phenomenon of public fasting date to a 19th century American diet quack:
https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hungerk%C3%BCnstler
Kafka was already a follower of another American quack, Horace Fletcher, but whether this story represents a view of himself as artist, I just don’t know. The above link suggests Kafka might have had a real-life model. In my mind the practice is tangled up with a lot of other weird early 20th century stuff (breakfast cereal invention, patent medicines, spring water sanatoriums, naturism, etc.).
Two more recent writers writing about the male body:
Philip Roth, of course, with Portnoy’s Complaint. Or The Breast, Roth’s take on Kafka about a man transformed into a breast à la “Metamorphosis.”
Ross Gay, whose book-length poem about legendary basketball player Julius “Dr. J” Erving is excerpted generously here:
https://lithub.com/be-holding/
Great examples. Thanks so much, Frank. Ross Gay's writing about his garden almost feels to me like he's writing about his own body. Maybe a stretch and maybe it's just that I adore the tenderness he offers his plants.
If there were a canon on this subject, Whitman would surely top the list. And Updike's "The Disposable Rocket" would be its foil.
https://www.brown.edu/Departments/Watson_Institute/Open_Source/John-Updike-The_Disposable_Rocket.pdf
Here are a few guesses about that literary silence among male writers, compared to women who take Helene Cixous to heart and "write the body."
* There may be a homophobic undercurrent among cis writers, since men who sing the body electric are often gay (Whitman, Ginsberg)
* A related cause might be that Western men are socialized to see their bodies, and the male libido, as repugnant compared to the female body, which is held up as the object of desire in art, film, and literature. For many contemporary writers, the male body might seem like a tool of oppression (the reason why #MeToo exists) or the literal manifestation of patriarchy.
* Men, more than women, have been the target of the Judeo-Christian dichotomy between flesh and spirit. Men are more often thought, in those circles, to be slaves to the flesh. But both men and women learn, in that culture, to think of the body as corrupt.
* Perhaps it is, as Updike suggests, that the male body has been a kind of default in Western culture, something taken for granted, whereas women have found their bodies problematized from many angles. Conflict drives narrative, so maybe men don't feel like their bodies are under attack in the way that women do, and so there's less to write AGAINST, fewer questions to answer or problems to solve?
As a man I have had to learn to love my body. At the risk of seeming self-serving, I'll share an essay that I think of as a companion to Latham's:
https://joshuadolezal.substack.com/p/finding-my-new-fitness-family
That essay is FANTASTIC. Granted I was hovering from the hallway outside of the gym, but so much of it felt familiar to the glimpses I got. Especially loved this passage: “Gyms simmered with the tension and silence that has long defined male relationships. There were intimate moments when my lifting buddy placed his hands on mine as I struggled to complete a final rep. But we masked those moments with insults and drew our motivation from the self-loathing that pulsed through the grunge and metal of that era.” And grateful for all the points you make above. Can I quote you if I expand this, Joshua?
Glad it landed -- and sure, quote freely :).
This is so good. I cannot come up with a very coherent comment other than, I’m going to be thinking about this for a while.
Thank you, Camilo! That means a lot from you.
alissa, this was such a fantastic piece. if you ever compile a list of literature around men writing about men's bodies, please do share with us!
It will happen, and I will, I will, Kora!