After a year of making headlines for groundbreaking achievements and troubling controversies, it's become nearly impossible to avoid the cult of personality surrounding Elon Musk.
The multi-hyphenate CEO billionaire is undeniably one of the most visible figures in the modern world. He leads multiple companies that could potentially shape society's future; he's a prime example of capitalism's potential after building his own fortune by betting on his hard work and genius; and he maintains a (seemingly) open public persona, interacting with fans and shareholders alike on Twitter in a cool, relatable voice fluent in the eccentric vocabulary of the internet.
Musk, then, is held up by many as a Great Man of this age. He's the type of figure others look to for inspiration and leadership — but he also appears to be tantalizingly accessible to a certain type male admirer. He's the billionaire genius these dudes believe could fit comfortably in their social circle, which in turn means he could even be any of them, under the right conditions. This allows them to project themselves into his successes, creating a potent, unrealistic idol whose shining exterior serves as a mirror to affirm their highest hopes.
The thought process goes like this: Elon Musk likes Rick and Morty? So do I! We could like, totally discuss the finer philosophy and physics jokes together that go over everyone else's heads. Wow. How cool is it that I'm just like the guy who dates Amber Heard and is going to save humanity with Mars colonies!
This type of admiration turns ugly when anyone outside of the fold questions Musk or his work, though, especially if the nonbelievers are women. A few of my colleagues have faced the immutable wrath of Musk's fans online, which comes typically via some nonsensical defense of a billionaire's right to do whatever he wants and variations of the word "bitch." Any doubts of his "Master Plans" (Musk's term) are treated as heretical and personal, since Musk represents both the god they worship and consider themselves to be, deep down.
Every love story is a ghost story
I've seen this brand of toxic deification of a Great Man before. Writer David Foster Wallace has become shorthand for noxious, overbearing men in the literary community, as his legion of male fans project their own self-perceived sensitive, damaged brilliance into the late author.
Like Musk, DFW was a genius but preferred to present a more accessible image to the public, in his case a Midwestern everyman. The author's accomplishments proved, however, that he was anything but normal; his unique postmodern style and monumental 1996 novel Infinite Jest cemented his legacy as one of the most important writers of the 1990s and granted him the dangerous mantle of the "voice of his generation." He was a troubled figure with documented struggles with substance abuse and mental illness, and he ultimately took his own life in 2008 leaving his final work, The Pale King, unfinished.
Even — and most probably, especially — after his suicide, Wallace has been held up by many literary-minded white men as the author to emulate. For most people that seems to mean they'll more easily be able to justify being a dick by playacting the tormented genius, rather than actually reading his words.
This hero worship has turned Infinite Jest into a joke as much as a benchmark, and a recommendation to read DFW's work is for some wary women a warning sign of emotionally stunted misogynists.
Cracks in the façade
All of this isn't to say that DFW's writing is inaccessible to female readers or those outside of the cult, or that Musk's accomplishments can only be appreciated by tech-savvy dudes. The hero worship that surrounds them, however, is overwhlemingly male, and it grows weaker the more you look at it.
Elon Musk's reported anti-union stance, Trumpian remarks about the press, and disdain for public transport are troubling, as is the fixation on DFW's drug abuse and reported violent streak. These issues don't look so bad when viewed through the lens of toxic masculinity, however, where they can be seen as forms of strength and self-determination.
Rolling Stone's breathless profile of Musk last month finally proved that he's truly reached the same canonized status held by Wallace among his admirers. The tone of Neil Strauss's sprawling article presents Musk as an almost mythic figure, who will one day be commemorated with statues on Mars. All the while, the words and actions of the man himself expose a deeply flawed, damaged human being dealing with the fallout of a relationship and a tumultuous period for his business.
That's what always stood out to me about Wallace. As a person, he seemed so distinctly human, and his struggles felt too real to want any part of them. Reading about Elon Musk's heartbreak and impulse for co-dependency gave me the same feeling.
I don't find all of the admiration for these men totally off the mark. The results of Musk's work has been an impressive mix of marketing savvy and technological innovation, and I've read almost all of DFW's work and even have a tattoo commemorating his famous This Is Water commencement address, which he gave at my alma mater Kenyon College.
But at they end of the day, they're both human. Putting them on pedestals above everyone else is limiting and damaging, and emphasizing their accomplishments over all others' silences voices that should be heard alongside theirs.
DFW warned his listeners to be careful what or who they chose to worship in This Is Water. It's time to actually listen up and step away from the altar of the Great Men.
