Augustus Britton’s 'How to Kill a White Man' | Get Acquainted with the Paradox

Photographed by Steven Perilloux

White Boy Summer has come and gone but, alas, the white boy remains. 2022 may prove to be Lit White Boy Summer—Lit, as in, literary. The prospect of a literary summer may or may not be as sexy, depending on your attention span, or your need to bury your head into one or several books as you waste away poolside this summer.

Fuccboi by Sean Thor Conroe made as big a splash as a novel can make these days, and Jordan Castro’s The Novelist is sure to make waves in its uncannily accurate portrayal of the Internet as we know it. Though not on as many radars, How to Kill a White Man by Augustus Britton, is nonetheless timely, and in good company.

Here we are, Summer 2022, with all the psychic trauma of the last two years still feeding on our nerves as we slog tepidly through the volatile 2020s, wary of the trip mines carefully placed by the four horsemen of the apocalypse. But even without the existential woes of total ecological and economic collapse, American artists are taking pains just to dodge the social mines sure to be there at every turn. With the reactionary James Pattersons of the world writhing in their victimhood all while enjoying yet another spot on the NYT Best Sellers list, sympathy for the white devil is hard to come by.

Even still, it seems the young, white male novelist is getting a shot at redemption, however messy that shot may be, and not without first going through the wringer. Mind you, those hoping for a laundry list of ways to kill a white man may feel betrayed by the obligation to dip into the symbolic and metaphorical, which, of course, the title of How to Kill A White Man is meant to represent. “It’s really a spiritual death if it is any kind of death,” says Britton.

How to Kill a White Man is told in disjointed, open-ended chapters by the narrator, who’s aware of his privilege, yet completely clueless as to how to cash in on it. He ponders his place in a spiritless, tech-strangled, late-stage capitalistic world, navigating online dating, sparse creative gigs, and run-ins with Father John Misty in Hollywood bars.

Is it a novel, a hybrid, or a collection of stories? The autofiction is laid down thick, unapologetically confessional (though sometimes apologetically). This isn’t the sanctioned autofiction you’ll find displayed in Barnes & Noble. It reads as though you happened upon someone’s lost journal in the park and you’re shamefully indulging yourself. You won’t find in public discourse, for instance, his conflicting thoughts on dating a transgender woman in the chapter, “21st Century Love,” that highlight the often-unspoken agony of intersectional dating and the failure just to connect, feel seen.

With a stature of around 6 feet 4 inches and chiseled quarterback features, Britton may have been the poster boy for literary ambition in Jack Kerouac’s day. But in today’s world, Britton (and his narrator) are hard-pressed to prove more beyond the platitudes of bro angst or incel tendencies. Yet Britton pulls it all off by what feels like the skin of his teeth.

Britton-as-narrator is the white, straight, male mask the reader can put on and see the world through. And as for me, a white, straight, male reader, it served as something of a raucous feedback loop, confirming my innermost suspicions of any hope in the world we’ve built. Even the socially favored are looking for a trap door. The mood is a rollercoaster—a chapter featuring 12-year-old Augustus Britton bearing witness to a drag queen being attacked just outside his apartment door, stacked against a chapter about his stint as an Abercrombie model and the colorful cast of characters therein.

The book’s Zen overtones though help center it, like the center of a wheel that is always fixed even as the wheel spins. The narration isn’t without its philosophical musings, observations like, “The sun was out. I reached the Chick-Fil-A. I watched the cars. I noticed how much we are like ants. Back and forth forever,” present a magnification of what poet William Blake referred to as the “minute particulars” of one’s present moment.

The 21st Century is “unveiling itself” before the narrator’s eyes. “A very sad performance, a tired performance, a performance that needed its curtain to come down for good, just so everyone could take a vacation. . .”

There is a self-awareness here perhaps lost on Chet Hanx. A recognition of who and what he is in the eyes of society, his lack of control over that, and his reluctance to simply go along with the current, as is highlighted in the chapter “Bukowski Never Did This” parts 1 and 2. He lives in direct contradiction to his Buddhist or Yogic ideals that get peppered with descriptions of naked lust. He wishes to simply go with the flow while constantly grasping for anything to hold on to. But, as the old Zen proverb goes, “Let go or be dragged.”

This reluctance turns into passive observance which turns into full-blown complicity. “I wasn’t an alcoholic, but it was one of those nights, one of those nights where the chariots would be set ablaze.” The reader may have judgments until they realize they’re implicated too, and there’s no shutting the book closed and walking away now, lest you deny your own complicity.

Better to see it through, ride it out, and bear witness to the horror unfolding. Our salvation lies in our honesty with our own complicity. Does Britton accomplish this? It’s hard to say. But the reader certainly can. There’s only one way to beat the white devil—which resides in us all—to recognize it when it’s glimpsed in the mirror. Not to look away. Not to close the book. But to relax, take it easy, lie back in that chaise lounge, and order another drink under the increasingly warming sun. The book cover alone will turn some heads.

With its glimpses of illumination and stretches of desperate obscurity, How to Kill a White Man is the diary of a young, starved, lost, romantic madman you can’t look away from. It leaves the reader wondering if the purpose of this spiritual journeying is one of seeking or one of escape. As Kerouac, one of the last American mystic/Buddhist writers, put it, “I have nothing to offer anybody, except my own confusion.” Kerouac himself never really made it past the first of the Four Noble Truths: suffering. The pursuit of spirituality never bodes well in America, whether it’s fascistic puritans, suicidal cultists, or those wandering America’s highways and roadside bars seeking Truth. I hope Augustus Britton sees the light.

(How to Kill a White Man is currently available on Amazon and is published by Peace House Publications)