The Ghosts of Greatness: How “Woke” Culture is Cancelling Classic Literature

A Raw, Unfiltered Look at the Literary Giants We Love—and Why Their Flaws Are What Make Them Great

The Rise of “Cancel Culture” and What It Means for Literature

Cancel culture. It’s a term that’s come to define the cultural zeitgeist, an ever-present force in today’s social media-driven world. It’s the practice of publicly condemning and “canceling” people, companies, or even works of art deemed offensive or problematic by the standards of the moment. But here’s the thing—cancel culture isn’t just about people; it’s a beast that now extends its long arm into the world of literature. And the real question is this: What would happen if we applied this moral purity test to the writers who shaped the world we live in today?

Think about it. What would we do with the literary greats—the Hemingways, the Orwells, the Faulkners of the world—if they were around today, caught in the crosshairs of our “woke” world? Would they survive? Or would their names be tarnished by today’s moral scrutiny, their works buried under the weight of accusations, criticisms, and social justice campaigns?

Let’s start by breaking down cancel culture, not as a buzzword, but as a real phenomenon, one that’s rapidly becoming a litmus test for modern cultural values. It’s not just about “calling out” someone who said something offensive (though that certainly happens). It’s a societal mechanism that demands we police every single aspect of our lives—from what we say to who we associate with, and yes, even what books we read. To not condemn these works is to be complicit in their “harm,” according to some.

But here’s the thing about classic literature: it’s messy. It’s filled with contradictions. It’s often at odds with the values of the present, and that’s what makes it powerful. Literature reflects life in all its complexity—its beauty and its brutality, its tenderness and its cruelty. And yet, when we look at these texts today, we might feel uncomfortable. We might think, “Wait, did Hemingway really just say that about women?” or “Could Faulkner have been more problematic in his treatment of race?”

We live in a world that’s increasingly allergic to discomfort. In fact, discomfort has become the ultimate sin. Being “problematic” has never been more easily weaponized. In today’s climate, a single wrong tweet, an outdated joke, or a controversial belief can lead to public shaming, professional ruin, or—yes—being canceled altogether. And it’s not just about what people do or say in the present—it’s about the ghosts of the past. Those long-dead authors whose works still shape our cultural landscape are now being scrutinized through a modern lens.

Imagine a world where we dug into the past with the same fervor we apply to today’s headlines. What would happen to authors like Hemingway, Orwell, or Faulkner? Would we even recognize them in a world that demands ideological purity?

Take Hemingway, for example. He’s an icon, a symbol of rugged masculinity, and one of the most celebrated American writers of the 20th century. But let’s not kid ourselves—Hemingway’s relationships with women were far from progressive. His four marriages, his portrayal of female characters, his masculine bravado—today, these might be grounds for a full-on social media takedown. If Hemingway were alive today, would his tough-guy persona, his boozy bravado, and his emotionally distant characters be seen as an irredeemable flaw? Would we see a genius whose works defined an era, or would we view him simply as a product of a bygone time, a relic of the past whose views don’t pass the test of today’s moral standards?

And then there’s Orwell. The man who gave us 1984, Animal Farm, and the clarion call for truth in the face of totalitarianism. Orwell is a literary giant, one who critiqued everything from Stalinism to imperialism, from authoritarian regimes to the abuse of power. But Orwell, like all great writers, was complex, contradictory. He was a man who advocated for freedom of speech and individual rights while holding certain views about socialism and imperialism that don’t sit neatly with the modern left. What would cancel culture make of Orwell’s occasional lapses into imperialist rhetoric or his support for the Spanish Civil War? Would we simply dismiss his work because of his personal shortcomings, ignoring the profound impact his writing had on global politics?

And what of Faulkner, the master of Southern Gothic literature? Faulkner’s depiction of race in novels like As I Lay Dying and Light in August is brutal, uncomfortable, and raw. But in today’s world, where issues of race and privilege are under intense scrutiny, would Faulkner’s portrayal of African Americans—often problematic, even if unintentionally so—be grounds for erasure? Would we cancel him because his novels don’t meet the contemporary standard of racial sensitivity? Or would we have the maturity to see that Faulkner, like many of his contemporaries, was a product of his time, yet his work still holds a mirror to the darkest parts of American history?

Here’s the key to understanding this: Cancel culture, by its very nature, thrives on simplicity. It demands absolutes. You’re either with us, or you’re against us. You’re either pure, or you’re corrupt. But literature, real literature, isn’t about simple answers. It’s about grappling with complexity. It’s about engaging with the messy, the uncomfortable, and the flawed. The writers we revere today weren’t perfect people, and their works weren’t born out of a vacuum of ideological purity. These writers engaged with the world in ways that were deeply imperfect, yet profoundly meaningful.

So why does cancel culture have such a problem with this? Why is it so difficult to engage with works of art that come from a place of contradiction and complexity? Is it possible that by canceling these authors and their works, we are in fact denying ourselves the very opportunity to learn from the past?

Canceling the voices of the past may seem like a quick fix. It might feel like we’re creating a more equitable world where everything is squeaky clean, but in the process, we lose the very thing that makes art—and literature in particular—important. The tension. The conflict. The deep, uncomfortable truths that challenge us to grow, to rethink, and to face our own hypocrisies.

It’s in this tension that we find meaning. It’s in the flawed works of Hemingway, Orwell, and Faulkner that we come to understand the complexities of the human condition. If we cancel them for their faults, what do we lose? What do we miss by not confronting the past head-on?

In the end, canceling literature is not just about erasing words on a page; it’s about erasing our opportunity to engage with the messy, difficult truths that make us who we are. And that’s something worth considering before we decide which writers, which works, and which pieces of history we’re ready to toss into the fire of modern-day puritanism.

Hemingway’s Masculinity and Toxic Traits: Would He Be “Cancelled”?

Ernest Hemingway. The very name conjures images of rugged masculinity, the open road, the bloodied battleground, the fast-paced thrill of bullfighting and boxing. He is often revered as one of the greatest American writers of all time, a man whose terse prose, jagged sentences, and unapologetic portrayal of war, love, and loss defined an entire generation of readers. His works like The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, and For Whom the Bell Tolls stand as pillars in the literary canon.

But here’s the thing: Hemingway was no saint. In fact, if we’re being brutally honest, he might not even pass the test of modern-day “woke” culture. If Hemingway were around today, would we celebrate him as a literary genius, or would we tear him down for his deeply flawed views on masculinity, his troubled relationships with women, and his toxic behavior both on and off the page?

To understand this tension, we have to look at the man behind the myth. Hemingway wasn’t just a writer; he was a personality. A larger-than-life figure whose public persona—often carefully cultivated—was just as important as his written words. And it’s that persona, the embodiment of toxic masculinity, that would likely get him canceled in a heartbeat today. He was the epitome of a man’s man: drinking, fighting, sleeping with women, and traveling to dangerous places just for the thrill of it. He was a war correspondent, a lover of adventure, and, in many ways, the original “alpha male.”