Does the “20 Under 40″ List Miss the Point? Or, A Totally Depressing but Hopefully Off-the-Mark Thought for Those of Us Already in Our Thirties and Older
Carving by Anthony Santella
Sam Tanenhaus has an interesting essay in the Times Sunday Book Review, on the New Yorker’s 20 over 40 list. He points out that these lists are designed with “futurity” in mind–the promise that these young writers show–and yet, that many writers have already hit their peak by the time they’re 40.
At the time, this anxiety struck some as comical, but history bears Ishiguro out. Even great novelists who endure in the collective memory as Prosperos, long seasoned in their “secret studies,” often performed their greatest magic when they were young. Flaubert was 29 when he began writing “Madame Bovary” (and was 34 when it was completed). Thomas Mann was 24 when he completed his first masterpiece, “Buddenbrooks.” Tolstoy, after a period of dissolution followed by military service, began writing “War and Peace” at age 34. Joyce, who wrote “Ulysses” in his 30s, already had two major works behind him. The late-blooming Proust, his youth idled in Paris salons, was only 37 when he began writing “Remembrance of Things Past.” Even Kafka, the 20th century’s most haunting exemplar of anguished paralysis, was 29 when he wrote “The Metamorphosis” and 31 when he began “The Trial.”
Personally, since I’m 32 and the idea of writing my masterpiece in a year or two is beyond comprehension, I like to think that maybe 40-is-the-new-30 applies here, too. Back in the day, 30 wasn’t all that young. In addition, an awful lot of people had to peak in their twenties or thirties, because they died not long after. Kafka and Proust may have gone on to produce thrilling and even more masterful work, had they lived longer. Fitzgerald barely got to middle age. (And yes, I know, but you never know. He may have sobered up eventually.) Crane died at 28. Nathanael West at 37. And once you go back a little further, you get the Brontes, Keats, Shelley, Rimbaud–dying before 40 was the thing back then.
The list of those, like Woolf, who accomplished more after they went over the hill, is just about as long as the list of those who didn’t. Or at least, it should be, if you factor in early death and its statistical significance to the promise of genius in a way that I would know how to do if I didn’t suck at math. Anyway, I like to think there’s hope for everyone at every age. And the older I get, the more I’ll continue to tell myself that.
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I can’t possibly succeed before 40, because my whole strategy hinges on teaching a couple of generations of students to be interested in the same silly things I obsessively write about. Years later, when they are out in the world with jobs and shopping for books, they will be primed to buy mine. I seem to be stalled on step one, though.
That’s a damn smart strategy. And you forget step 1.5–run a killer, well-respected magazine. Which you’ve got covered.
I think the New Yorker has a definition for “young writer” that is too broad. When I think of “young writer,” I think of someone like Tao Lin, someone who is actually quite young and (fairly) prolific.
Sometimes I think about Buddy Holly, a guy who had an immense impact on popular music and then died before he was twenty-three. I have to admit that I am jealous of anyone who has that kind of ability at whatever it is they do.
Sometimes I feel like I am racing to meet the schedule my idols have put down, but I am too lazy.
Yeah, I have to admit, my definition of young is 35 and under, and it seems like it would be more exciting to take a real gamble and include writers (like Tao Lin, or Blake Butler) who seem promising and are taking some real risks. A few of the writers on that list fit in that category, but most are already stars so the magazine’s not taking much of a risk there.
I used to feel like that about music–I used to be a musician–but I don’t feel the same pressure about writing. Thank god. I used to feel jealous–like I’d rather burn out young and with genius–but now that I’m older, I feel quite happy to have lived past 27, even if I’m not a genius. I’ll take it.
yeah, I’m convinced living is better than genius, amber, you know, if you’re into that sorta thing. case in point: DFW.
Yes. Exactly.
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i used to keep myself on the fitzgerald clock but i’m on the saul bellow clock now. keep it up and i’ll go on the saramago clock. to all failures a new pace.
I love this. I think I need to start thinking like this.
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Y’all ever read this: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/10/20/081020fa_fact_gladwell
I’ve decided I’m on the late bloomer path.
Interesting…me too!
I say there is no race and free will may be an illusion.