Table of Contents
David Mamet is a giant of American theater, known for his sharp dialogue and Pulitzer Prize-winning plays like Glengarry Glen Ross. However, his views on the American literary canon, the education system, and the very purpose of art are as provocative as his scripts. In a candid conversation with Shiloh Brooks on the "Old School" podcast, Mamet dismantled the pedestal upon which many celebrate authors like Sinclair Lewis, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and J.D. Salinger.
For Mamet, the appreciation of literature is not about academic consensus or moral improvement; it is a raw, subjective experience rooted in personal taste. From his rejection of "remedial" schooling to his defense of the "philistines" in Main Street, Mamet offers a contrarian masterclass on reading, writing, and intellectual independence.
Key Takeaways
- The Library over the Classroom: Mamet considers the Chicago Public Library his true alma mater, viewing formal schooling as an impediment to genuine curiosity.
- A Critique of the Canon: He argues that celebrated authors like Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, and Salinger are often "writerly" rather than authentic, prioritizing style over substance.
- Re-evaluating Main Street: Upon revisiting Sinclair Lewis’s classic, Mamet views the protagonist not as an enlightened reformer, but as a condescending "busybody" imposing her will on decent people.
- The Subjectivity of Taste: Mamet rejects objective standards in art, arguing that "good taste" is simply what an individual likes, and anything else is an imposition of authority.
- Art vs. Propaganda: He contends that the purpose of art is to evoke emotion (laughter, tears, shock), not to "fix" the audience or engineer social change.
The Chicago Public Library: An Alternative Education
Mamet’s disdain for institutional education began early. Describing his time in the Chicago public schools, he recalls an environment where teachers were out of touch and the curriculum was uninspiring. After refusing to engage with the simplistic "Dick and Jane" readers, he was placed in remedial reading classes—a label he found ironic given his voracious appetite for books outside the classroom.
His real education took place in the stacks of the Chicago Public Library. Cutting school to wander the aisles, Mamet discovered the lost art of browsing. Without algorithms or curriculum lists to guide him, he would pull books from the shelf at random, reading a few pages to determine if they spoke to him. This method led him to the Midwestern realists who would shape his worldview.
"I fell in love with the Chicago writers including the lesser-known ones like Frank Norris and Robert Herrick... they were talking about the actual streets in which I grew up... it was my introduction to literature was the literature was actually guys and women writing about a life that I recognized rather than a life that they imagined and called it writing."
This distinction—between writing about recognized life versus "imagined" writing—forms the core of Mamet's literary criticism. He values the gritty, authentic voice of the Chicago renaissance over the polished, "writerly" prose of the East Coast elites.
Deconstructing Main Street and the "Busybody" Heroine
A significant portion of Mamet's critique focuses on Sinclair Lewis’s 1920 novel, Main Street. While the book is traditionally read as a satire of small-town American narrow-mindedness, Mamet offers a revisionist interpretation. He argues that Lewis is not a particularly talented writer, describing the work as a "romance novel" structure populated by cardboard figures designed to stage the author's sociological grievances.
The Defense of Gopher Prairie
The novel’s protagonist, Carol Kennicott, is typically viewed as a cultured woman trapped in the backward town of Gopher Prairie. Mamet, however, sees her as a "supercilious busybody." Kennicott arrives in the town with a degree in library science and a desire to "improve" the locals—critiquing their architecture, their parties, and their lack of sophistication.
Mamet draws a parallel between Kennicott and modern liberalism, arguing that her desire to uplift the town is actually a form of arrogance. He defends the townspeople, comparing them to the taciturn, hardworking farmers he knew while living in Vermont. To Mamet, the townspeople are carving a living out of the harsh prairie, and their refusal to adopt Victorian aesthetics is not a failure of character, but a difference in priorities.
"She never stops to think about what whom do I want to help? What's going to be the cost? What happens if I fail? And how do I gauge my success? She wants to turn everything into colonial Williamsburg... It’s not her neighborhood, it’s her house."
The "Gentle Fascism" of Objective Standards
Mamet’s critique extends beyond Sinclair Lewis to the broader concept of "good taste." He recalls a high school teacher telling him, "Good taste is what I like." Mamet adopted this as a liberating philosophy, rejecting the idea that there is an objective, Platonic standard of quality that one must appreciate to be considered educated.
He argues that asserting an objective standard for art often leads to "gentle fascism," where institutions—be they schools, critics, or curators—tell individuals they are wrong or stupid for their preferences. Whether it is Salinger, Steinbeck, or kale, Mamet believes no authority has the right to dictate personal enjoyment.
The Curator vs. The Audience
Mamet distinguishes between the commercial theater and the non-profit or subsidized art world. In his view, commercial theater is honest because it relies on "getting asses in the seats." If the audience is bored, the play fails. Non-profit theater, supported by grants and subscriptions, often falls into the trap of curatorship, presenting art that is "good for" the audience rather than art that genuinely moves them.
He argues that the concept of the "curator" implies that the expert knows more than the observer. Mamet rejects this, suggesting that curators often maintain their positions by intellectualizing "garbage" to appease wealthy patrons, rather than championing work that resonates with human experience.
"It's not the job of art to improve us... It’s the job of dictators to improve us... It’s the highest achievement of drama to take [the audience] out of themselves, not to toss them back on their own ability to be critical."
Writing, Truth, and Influence
Despite his harsh words for many American literary icons, Mamet’s standards for what constitutes "good" writing are precise. He despises "expositional" writing in drama—playwrights who have characters explain their inner thoughts or motivations. He likens great drama to a football game: the player isn't thinking about their motivation; they are simply trying to catch the ball. The action defines the character.
He advises writers to avoid excessive research, quoting his friend Shel Silverstein: "When you do research, all you're doing is reading something by somebody who didn't do research."
The Pantheon of Greats
When pressed on who actually makes the cut, Mamet points to Shakespeare as the undisputed master, admitting that while he can imitate or improve upon most writers, Shakespeare leaves him in awe. In the American tradition, he champions the "Chicago School"—writers like Theodore Dreiser and Frank Norris—as the point where American literature truly ceased to be a European imitation.
Conversely, he labels Charles Dickens as the writer he "can't stand," and maintains that Hemingway was a genius, despite the mixed legacy of his contemporaries. Ultimately, Mamet’s literary worldview is one of fierce independence: read what you like, ignore the critics, and never let an institution dictate your taste.
Conclusion
David Mamet’s perspective serves as a call to intellectual self-reliance. By rejecting the "assigned reading" of life—whether that be the literal books in a curriculum or the accepted social values of the elite—he advocates for a more rugged, personal engagement with the world. Whether one agrees with his assessment of Main Street or his dismissal of Steinbeck, Mamet’s core argument remains compelling: authentic taste cannot be taught, it must be discovered.
