Being a “book person” doesn’t make you a better human being

Seen in Publishing’s “Everyday Cancellation” report is a devastating read. It catalogues the way in which many in the publishing industry — authors, publishers, agents, freelances — have seen their careers, health and reputations wrecked by bullies claiming to occupy the moral high ground. 

I knew many of the stories already — people (the vast majority of them women) hung out to dry for such “crimes” as objecting to threats of violence against lesbians, tweeting in support of JK Rowling or writing a picture book to celebrate body acceptance. Even so, seeing them all grouped together made me feel incredibly sad. Such sadness will not be shared by the bullies. As some have already made clear, they’re happy to dismiss the report as “whinging” or even not to read it at all. They’re the goodies, you see. Goodies would never destroy lives unless their victims deserved it.

Even without the report, it’s been clear for some time that certain areas of publishing have more than their share of people who delight in hounding others for the most minor infraction, not caring how much damage they do. The rise of gender identity ideology has been a gift to such people, making anyone who dares to suggest that biological sex is immutable and politically salient — which everyone knows it is — fair game. As Aldous Huxley once wrote, “to be able to destroy with a good conscience, to be able to behave badly and call your bad behavior ‘righteous indignation’—this is the height of psychological luxury, the most delicious of moral treats.” Now all one has to do is find someone tentatively suggesting that single-sex spaces serve a purpose, or that mastectomies for traumatised teens aren’t always a good idea. It doesn’t matter if what they are saying sounds reasonable. The “good” thing to do is break them, then accuse them of weaponising trauma should they complain. 

As someone who cares a great deal about books and reading, I’ve found it incredibly alienating and distressing to witness all this. The truth is — and I’m quite embarrassed to admit it now — there was a part of me that always thought being a “book person” made one less, not more, likely to join a raging mob. Once upon a time, I saw the fact that I studied literature — and not just literature in English! — as a mark of my inclusive, open mindset, my interest in other experiences, other feelings, other lives. I’ve since started to fear it’s just those kinds of beliefs that have fuelled the book world bullies. We’re allowed to treat others appallingly because, as book people, we’re naturally thoughtful and empathetic (and anyone who isn’t needs ousting from our inner circle. How convenient to have found a culling criterion that makes “being unkind” a matter of knowing what sex a person is).

There is a humblebrag back story in which many of us bookish types have been known to indulge (god knows, I have). We weren’t popular at school. Perhaps we were unhappy at home. We were uncool, socially inept, mocked for standing out. We retreated into the world of books and lo! This taught us to be better people. We read about those who were different to us and this made us much kinder and more empathetic than our non-literary peers. This makes us best placed to pass on this goodness to others, and root out any badness. 

I am not suggesting that this cannot be true to an extent. Books can and do teach us about difference. But so, too, do direct interactions with people — including those we don’t like, and those whose place in the narrative of our own lives is inconvenient and hard to make others understand. When I think of my own childhood, I know one of the reasons I disappeared into books was because my real-life experiences with a severely mentally ill sibling were so difficult. I often felt surrounded by outsiders who were so, so sure that in my place, they’d be much more self-sacrificing and heroic. I’d ignore them and read books about far-off places and times, in which I’d pity the marginalised victim and feel so, so sure that I’d never be on the side of the persecutors. Indeed, if push came to shove, I’d be self-sacrificing and heroic. Just not in real life, where I already knew things to be a lot more complex.  

There is real value in getting people to understand different perspectives. Nonetheless, there’s a very fine line between actually making people think about how other people feel, and letting them indulge in cost-free, ego-boosting, fantasy empathy. The books that have meant more to me in later life are ones which made me realise I could, very easily, have been on the wrong side, not because of “different times”, but because of who I am. 

We should be very wary of the mindset that sees a self-styled bookish person as a better person

The “trans debate” appeals to fantasy empathisers. In real life, those most affected by the erosion of sex-based rights tend to be working-class and otherwise marginalised women, who tend not to work in publishing. It is easy for those who know they’ll never have to share a workplace changing room or prison cell with a member of the opposite sex to believe that they would be totally fine with it, were that situation to arise. After all, they’ve read The Transgender Issue and Who’s Afraid of Gender? Or maybe they haven’t (I often suspect the worst hounders like the idea of being a person who likes books more than they like reading, let alone thinking about what they’ve read). 

I’m not saying don’t read. Read, lots (if I’ve put myself through Sophie Lewis’s Enemy Feminisms just to make sure I’m not misjudging my political enemies, I don’t see what excuse anyone else has). I think, though, we should be very wary of the mindset that sees a self-styled bookish person as a better person, one who understands the human condition more fully and feels more deeply. As the “Everyday Cancellation” report shows, sometimes that can give bullies the worst kind of excuse.