- Musical Instruments That Nearly Disappeared From History - October 20, 2025
- 28 Must-Read Books Recommended by Nobel Prize Winners - October 20, 2025
- 18 Books That Completely Changed Their Genres - October 20, 2025
When Truth Became the Ultimate Weapon
Picture this: you’re watching Dick Cavett’s late-night talk show in 1980, and novelist Mary McCarthy drops what would become one of the most savage literary quotes ever recorded: “Every word she writes is a lie, including ‘and’ and ‘the.'” She was talking about playwright Lillian Hellman, and those twenty-one words would trigger a $2.25 million defamation lawsuit that captivated the literary world for years. What started as political differences between two brilliant women—Hellman being a Stalinist and McCarthy a Trotskyite—exploded into a courtroom drama that only ended when Hellman died in 1984. Her executors eventually withdrew the complaint, but the damage to both reputations was already done. Many writers and supporters of free speech rushed to Mary McCarthy’s defense, including an heiress who picked up McCarthy’s $25,000 legal defense fees and saved her from certain financial ruin. The irony? During the lawsuit, investigators found errors in Hellman’s memoir Pentimento, discovering that its “Julia” section, which became the Oscar-winning 1977 movie, was actually based on the life of Muriel Gardiner.
The Mentor Who Became a Shadow
Paul Theroux’s account of his 30-year friendship with V.S. Naipaul in “Sir Vidia’s Shadow” gripped readers in a way few literary memoirs ever have. It’s the story of how a promising young writer met his idol in Uganda and spent three decades walking in his shadow, only to be coldly dismissed on a London street. Theroux paused to chat with his old buddy, Naipaul coldly mumbled a grudging response and moved on without stopping. What made this betrayal particularly painful was the intensity of their original bond. Their relationship resembled that between a teacher and a student, a knight and a squire, a sorcerer and his apprentice, a substance and a shadow, an officer and a recruit. Naipaul fostered Theroux from a budding novelist to a respected, much-published author of note, probably for the pleasure of having a disciple. But Naipaul was legendary in his snarky treatment of those he considered fools (most people), his uncompromising critique of places and things, scathing sarcasm and perverse humor, creating scenes of both mortifying and hilarious encounters with almost everyone he met. The friendship’s end came with Naipaul’s remarriage, and Theroux believed Naipaul’s haughty new wife bore much of the responsibility.
The Battle Over Black Literary Soul
During the Harlem Renaissance, two titans of African American literature found themselves on opposite sides of a cultural war. McKay criticized the Harlem Renaissance as catering to white audiences, while Hughes fired back in essays and poems. Claude McKay, the Jamaican-born poet who penned “If We Must Die,” believed the movement had lost its way, selling out Black authenticity for white approval and patronage. Langston Hughes, the movement’s golden boy, saw things differently—he believed in reaching all audiences while maintaining Black pride and identity. Their heated exchanges in literary magazines and public forums revealed a fundamental question that still resonates today: who gets to define what authentic Black art looks like? McKay accused Hughes of being too accommodating, while Hughes argued that McKay was being elitist and exclusionary. The rivalry reflected deeper tensions within the Black intellectual community about strategy, representation, and the price of artistic success. Both men were brilliant, both were passionate about Black liberation, but they couldn’t agree on the path forward.
When French Literary Titans Collided
Goncourt called Flaubert’s Salammbô “pornographic,” while Flaubert dismissed Goncourt as petty and narrow. This wasn’t just about one book—it was about the future of French literature itself. Gustave Flaubert, fresh off the success of Madame Bovary, had spent five years crafting his exotic historical novel about ancient Carthage, complete with detailed descriptions of violence, sensuality, and decadence. Edmond de Goncourt, part of the influential Goncourt brothers literary duo, represented the more restrained, realistic school of French writing. When Salammbô hit Parisian salons in 1862, Goncourt was horrified by what he saw as Flaubert’s indulgent orientalism and graphic content. Flaubert, never one to back down from a fight, fired back that the Goncourts were small-minded bourgeois writers who lacked the courage for true artistic vision. Their public spat divided French literary circles for years, with writers forced to choose sides between romantic excess and realistic restraint. The feud became so intense that former friends stopped speaking, and literary salons turned into battlegrounds.
The Headbutt Heard ‘Round the Literary World
Backstage at the Dick Cavett Show in 1971, an alcohol-primed Norman Mailer head-butted Gore Vidal (it was a favorite move). But that was just the warm-up act. With Cavett as referee, a riled Mailer and a baffled Vidal went 12 rounds over an essay the latter had written in The New York Review of Books in which he lambasted Mailer’s positions on women’s lib and even lumped him in with the violently misogynistic Charles Manson. Vidal had written that Mailer’s analysis of gender politics “read like three days of menstrual flow” and contended that Mailer, Manson, and Henry Miller were men who viewed “women as at best, breeders of sons; at worst, objects to be poked, humiliated, killed.” The television appearance turned into a literary bloodbath, with Mailer increasingly unhinged and Vidal delivering perfectly timed verbal daggers. When Mailer began ranting semi-eloquently about intellectual pollution, Vidal calmly replied, “Well, as an expert you should know about that.” Years later, at a party thrown by Lally Weymouth, Mailer encountered Vidal and promptly flattened him with a punch, to which Vidal, still on the floor, uttered what is perhaps the most immortally apt literary criticism ever: “Once again, words have failed Norman Mailer.”
The Modernist Cage Match
Stein dismissed Ulysses as “a museum piece,” while Joyce, reportedly unimpressed with Stein’s modernist prose, never responded. This was the ultimate battle over who would define experimental literature in the 20th century. Gertrude Stein, holding court in her famous Paris salon with her collection of Picassos and Cézannes, believed she was the true pioneer of literary modernism with her repetitive, consciousness-streaming style. James Joyce, meanwhile, was revolutionizing literature with his complex, multilayered masterpiece that took seven years to write. When Stein dismissed Ulysses as old-fashioned despite its experimental techniques, she was essentially claiming the modernist crown for herself. Joyce’s silence spoke volumes—he was notoriously sensitive to criticism but chose not to dignify Stein’s attack with a response. The rivalry split the expatriate literary community in Paris, with writers like Hemingway and Fitzgerald caught between two camps. Both were undeniably innovative, both were redefining what literature could be, but their approaches were fundamentally different: Stein’s was intuitive and repetitive, Joyce’s was intellectual and encyclopedic.
The American Humor Wars
Twain found Harte lazy and morally lax; Harte thought Twain was vulgar. What started as a promising collaboration between two of America’s greatest humorists turned into one of literature’s messiest breakups. Mark Twain and Bret Harte had been friends during the California gold rush days, both writing for San Francisco newspapers and sharing a love of satirical humor. But when they tried to collaborate on a play called “Ah Sin” in 1877, their personality differences exploded into open warfare. Twain, the self-made man from Missouri, was appalled by what he saw as Harte’s aristocratic pretensions and work ethic. Harte, the more sophisticated Eastern writer, was disgusted by Twain’s crude humor and shameless self-promotion. They collaborated once, disastrously. Twain later wrote savage letters about Harte, calling him a fraud and a deadbeat who borrowed money and never paid it back. Their feud represented a broader shift in American literature from genteel sentimentalism to rougher, more democratic humor. Twain’s victory in this battle helped establish the vernacular voice as the authentic American literary style.
The Academic Feminist Fracture
Atwood accused Hamilton of misrepresenting her views on feminism in academic critiques. This wasn’t your typical literary spat—it was a battle over intellectual property and interpretive authority. Margaret Atwood, already famous for “The Handmaid’s Tale,” found herself in an unlikely feud with Canadian academic Roberta Hamilton over how to read feminist literature. Hamilton had written scholarly articles analyzing Atwood’s work through a feminist lens, making claims about the author’s political intentions that Atwood felt were completely wrong. What made this particularly interesting was that both women were on the same side politically, but they disagreed fundamentally about who gets to control the meaning of a text—the author or the critic. Atwood’s frustration boiled over when Hamilton continued to cite her work in ways she felt were misleading and academically dishonest. The dispute highlighted the growing tension between creative writers and academic critics, especially around politically charged topics like feminism. Hamilton defended her right to interpret literature independently of authorial intention, while Atwood insisted that critics had a responsibility to represent her views accurately. The feud became a case study in Canadian universities about the ethics of literary criticism.
The Satirical Smackdown of the Century
Pope made Cibber the mock-hero of The Dunciad, and Cibber replied with his own mocking prose. Alexander Pope’s decision to crown Colley Cibber as the king of dunces in his literary satire was one of the most brutal takedowns in English literature. Pope, the master of the heroic couplet and savage wit, originally had a different target for his epic poem about stupidity and bad taste. But when Cibber, the actor-playwright and Poet Laureate, dared to criticize Pope in print, he sealed his fate as literature’s most famous dunce. The Dunciad portrayed Cibber as presiding over an empire of bad writers, hack journalists, and cultural vandals—essentially making him the anti-hero of English letters. Cibber, however, refused to go quietly. He fired back with “A Letter from Mr. Cibber to Mr. Pope,” a surprisingly witty and effective counterattack that mocked Pope’s physical deformities and pretensions. The exchange became legendary in 18th-century literary circles, with other writers taking sides and adding their own contributions to the battle. What started as literary criticism became personal warfare, with both men using every weapon in their considerable arsenals of wit and invective.
The Bullet-Riddled Book That Shocked Literature
It’s been 30 years since Richard Ford shot bullet holes through Alice Hoffman’s novel after she gave him a bad review. In retaliation for her criticism, Ford shot a hole through her latest book and posted it to her, with Ford saying “Well my wife shot it first. She took the book out into the back yard, and shot it.” The review itself wasn’t even that harsh—it was actually full of backhanded compliments like “Mr. Ford’s admirable talents, which include an extraordinary ear for dialogue and the ability to create the particulars of everyday life with stunning accuracy … are not well served in a novel given to abstract analysis.” But Ford’s reaction was so extreme it became literary legend. When Alice Hoffman slated his 1986 novel The Sportswriter in The New York Times, Ford’s wife, Kristina, bought a copy of Hoffman’s novel Fortune’s Daughter and put a bullet through its centre, then Ford took the rifle and followed suit, posting Hoffman her book with two bullets lodged inside. When someone once mentioned Ford to Hoffman, she became apoplectic: ‘If you know anything that he’s done or said that’s illegal, you should call the police, and I seriously mean it. I don’t want to discuss him.’ Ford defended himself by saying “people make such a big deal out of it – shooting a book – it’s not like I shot her.” The incident became a cautionary tale about how personal and dangerous literary revenge can get.
What would you have guessed could turn a simple book review into an act of literary violence?
Besides founding Festivaltopia, Luca is the co founder of trib, an art and fashion collectiv you find on several regional events and online. Also he is part of the management board at HORiZONTE, a group travel provider in Germany.
