The most recommended toxic masculinity books

So, a totally underrated, amazing writer and poet. I don’t know much about poetry. I was told by a friend to read this book and I’m so pleased I listened to her. Love the poems in here as some really spoke to my soul, my heart. Beautiful, relatable, powerful, original, heartfelt, heart-warming. I mean I could list adjectives until the cows come home people! Any book which helps women to understand and inspire them on how to grow and become happy in what is sometimes a world full of toxic masculinity gets my thumbs up, esp when it doesn’t read like a feminist on a power rant!! Read it, you can thank me on Instagram after.

I always get pissed off when I hear some guy ranting that feminists are anti-male. In fact, I think feminists are the most pro-male humans on the planet: in spite of 8,000 years to prove the contrary, they believe that men can be peaceful and loving, and can be equal and equitable partners with women. Liz Plank is one such woman. Her book shows exactly that.

I first read this book as a student in the 1990s, and it has always stayed with me, becoming more and more relevant as time has gone by.

Covering films like Rambo: First Blood Part II, Red Dawn, and Top Gun, magazines such as Soldier of Fortune, weekend paintballers, the NRA, and the foreign policy (mis)adventures of the Reagan and Bush administrations, alongside the activities of various white supremacists, Gibson’s book is a wholly enlightening account of the ongoing appeal of guns, violence, paramilitarism, and what we would now call “toxic masculinity” in American life.

There’s a long history of books about mental illness that regard the subject as though it exists in a bubble—something that impacts a single individual, or maybe a family, but is otherwise disconnected from broader social and political realities.

Ben Lerner’s semi-autobiographical novel hit me somewhere deep in my chest because it does precisely the opposite. With a mounting sense of dread, his book explores psychological disturbance and the attempts to treat it as phenomena rooted firmly in our world, and all the messy smaller worlds within: worlds of privilege, misogyny, and xenophobia, to name a few. I still think about the last chapter often.

The primary setting is a hunting club in New York’s Adirondack Mountains that caters to rich and powerful men who secretly call themselves the Lost Boys.

Evie grew up nearby, and now, as an art restorer living in Paris, is remembering traumatic experiences involving club members. She returns to her childhood home to settle the matter and the action begins. The plot is multi-layered and the true nature of the characters is often a mystery, all of which appeals to me.

I also like the accuracy of the Adirondack setting (it’s where I grew up) and how the club itself captures the spirit of the areas Great Camps. But a favorite aspect is the fact that the author, a man like myself, so obviously detests the toxic masculinity of the Lost Boys. I applaud that.

Sal Vidon just misses his mom.

It’s a timeless story of a kid healing, but with a twist where Sal can pull things out of alternate dimensions.

He navigates the weirdness of his abilities with a grace and humor that is as refreshing as it is endearing. It’s hard not to root for this troublemaker with a heart of gold.

Not to mention, the book has a seriously great main character counterpart to Sal in Gabi Real. 

Now that both of my kids have enrolled in college, I often wonder: What if I hadn't raised them as most of the conventional suburban Chinese parents did? What if I had indulged in drinking, partying, writing poetry, and eloping with crazy artists? Would I have ruined them?

The idea of the road not taken drew me to Sink. Look at the dysfunctional household Joey grew up in: "all his family's problems...crack + angry man." But thanks to geek culture's interconnected worlds and ability to diminish the economic disparities between different social groups, Joey grew up with self-awareness, confidence, and discernment.

This book proves that society has an incredible resilience to overcome the deficiency posed by individual irresponsible parents.

“He was at once The Evil and The Exorcist.” Considering the date of publication, a very modern account of grooming, toxic masculinity, and the objectification of women. Feeling deserted by family and friends, a bored boarding school girl entertains herself by sneaking out of the grounds after dark. One night in the woods she encounters an older man who claims to be an artist and invites her back to the workshop where he creates suspiciously lifelike dolls. Apparently oblivious to the fact he spouts creepy comments like “the craftsman must feel the willingness of his material” and undeterred by rumors of young girls going missing in the neighbourhood, our heroine embarks on a doomed (and vaguely BDSM) relationship with the stranger. An unforgettable novella about living dolls and manipulative relationships. 

Barrowcliffe is a humorist, but reading his autobiographical account of playing D&D in the United Kingdom in the 1970s, you realize humor is a way of coping with tragedy. 

This book contains fascinating descriptions of the early history of D&D outside of the United States. Barrowcliffe is also adept at articulating what exactly is so compelling and fascinating about D&D. Most importantly, this book portrays the brutal culture of toxic masculinity that often existed around this game in its first decades. 

Gen Z players may be shocked by Barrowcliffe’s account of how players treated one another.

In this memoir disguised as a novel (or novel disguised as a memoir), the shy and socially awkward Cole, of mixed Chinese and white American parentage, struggles to hold down a job as an imported beer salesman in China’s Changsha while pursuing his only romantic hope, a female scam artist who bilked him out of thousands of dollars. In a parallel narrative, friends and family in the Bay Area shed more light on the hapless anti-hero during his stints back home. One wonders how the author and protagonist could ever be the same person and how Carroll was able to gain the distance and objectivity to pen the narrative at all, much less with such skill. We sense that the fictional bulwark is resorted to as a defense against the author’s merciless deconstruction of himself, right down to the sexually fraught, agonizingly ambiguous ending. This is not a feel-good redemption… show more.