Book Review: The Book of Men - Eighty Writers on How to Be a Man

Book Review: The Book of Men: Eighty Writers on How to Be a Manby Colum McCann, the Editors of Esquire and Narrative 4Picador, 2013 If you had to hone in on the essence of manliness, where would you begin? The mind reels with possible essential ingredients. Slime, snails, and puppy dog tails? How about tall and intelligent, with boyish charm to boot? Chewing on this prompt, you’ll find the task intimidating and deeply subjective. The Book of Men: Eighty Writers on How to Be a Man, created by Colum McCann (Let the Great World Spin) and the editors of Esquire magazine, reveals a multitude of perspectives on the matter.Each of the eighty writers contributes a poem or short story, resulting in a fairly mixed bag. Among them is Pakistani writer Mohsin Hamid (The Reluctant Fundamentalist), who leaves readers with merely two sentences:

What did it even mean, walk like a man? Still, Omar was in enough pain to take off his makeup and start trying.

Entries like this emphasize that The Book of Men is whatever readers make of it. Some might contemplate Hamid’s words, asking, “Does Omar walk like a man—and why was he wearing makeup?” Others are equally likely to sit up from bed in disbelief at the sheer lack of effort masquerading as poignancy.In stark contrast, there are submissions like those by Beautiful Ruins author Jess Walter.She writes about Marcus, beginning her short story with “oh that Peter Pan hit-and-run cocksucker.” Marcus is “an immature womanizing douchetool,” which puts it maturely. The resentful narrator, Maggie, wakes up alone, suffering the neurotic backlash of her one-night stand with Marcus, an old flame who made an unwelcome appearance at her father’s wake. Thankfully, the story winds up translating into something more than, “Me sad. Me bring boy home. Boy sex me up. Boy stupid.” In a few short pages, Walter’s entry proves itself enjoyable to both male and female readers.In tackling “how to be a man” it’s expected that various male stereotypes will appear. The corporate male is accounted for, with prose soaked in scotch and J.Crew collars lipstick-stained. As is the grandfather veteran, men like Marcus, and tattooed beefcakes, oozing testosterone. There are also men we don’t expect; ample points are awarded for acknowledging that not all men are born with that extra Y chromosome. Buck Cherry, transgendered male, comes from the imagination of Michael Cunningham (The Hours). Buck has ripped abs, a deep voice, and a vagina. More importantly, Buck is one of the most entertaining highlights in The Book of Men:

You could say Buck insisted that manliness didn’t depend on the possession, or acquisition, of a dick and a set of balls. You could say Buck stands as evidence that maleness, true maleness, isn’t really about genitalia at all. It’s a conviction. It’s a costume that weds itself to your skin, and, ultimately, penetrates your very being. Men. I mean, what are we, anyway?

Generally unimpressive and yet, occasionally intriguing, The Book of Men can be sifted quickly. There’s no suspense, only the leisure of moseying from one curious entry to the next. Pre-pubescent readers beware: nowhere on this journey will you gain insight on how to be a man. I, meanwhile, found the seat left up and fell in—because manliness deserves more than pseudo-introspection done from the can.