When Reuben arrives in Copenhagen with his wife Cecile, fresh off a public humiliation, he’s at once mystified and anxious about the relaxed masculinity so many Danes seem to live by. He begins to interview Mikkel, a rambunctious journalist in their shared friend group, so that they can get closer to the truth of being a man, but Mikkel’s half-truths and concerning actions spin Reuben even farther from his senses. Meanwhile, Cecilie’s ex, Jonas, has been diagnosed with a fatal condition, and Mikkel rules over his hospital visits with a suspicious authority. As the two fall further into their separate crises, they begin to wonder if freedom is an achievable endpoint or a dream one must eventually give up on.

Andrew Lipstein’s third excellent novel Something Rotten wonders how far we’ll go when we’re assured of our own convictions, America’s gendered divide, and the nature of truth itself. Who in this tangled web of lies are we supposed to believe, and might the author himself be culpable?

On a cold and beautiful day in Lipstein’s Brooklyn, New York, I talked with him about masculinity, virtue, and how we affect the world.

SAM FRANZINI: So, this is your third novel, and I would say most ambitious and plot-driven. How do you feel about it coming out, and how will it slot in with your other two books?

ANDREW LIPSTEIN: Oh, I thought you were going to ask how it’ll slot in with Trump’s inauguration.

SF: Oh! Well, feel free to answer that as well.

AL: I think [the book] is much more similar to Last Resort in its plot, and it’s more of a social novel. I would say The Vegan was more of an experiment, and it leaned more philosophical.

But on the second point, it’s funny, I actually made a copy-edit this summer, where I called the world they’re living in—the book takes place in 2026—‘post-Trump,’ so I struck that. As I was going through it, I realized, ‘Oh, yeah, maybe he will be elected.’ But, you know, I do still feel like, in a lot of ways, we are still in a ‘post-Trump’ era, in that it all feels fundamentally different from the first time, or a progression of it.

SF: Once Reuben arrives in Denmark and talks with Mikkel, he immediately latches onto him as a figure of contemporary manhood. Was it something about Mikkel, or did it stem from Reuben’s cancellation?

AL: I think both. Mikkel is a very specific type of Danish guy, who isn’t necessarily unique in and of themselves, but he’s a unique character in ways that are irresistible to Reuben—specifically because he offers or represents all of what Reuben found missing in Americans’ conception of masculinity.

SF: His cancellation reminded me of that New Yorker staff writer who got fired for masturbating on Zoom. It’s interesting that Reuben was cancelled for such a stereotypically celebrated, or masculine act—having sex—yet he feels such shame.

AL: You mean that he’s going down on his wife?

SF: Yeah.

AL: Masturbation, in and of itself, is an embarrassing concept. But in Reuben’s case, what he did is in fact a celebrated act—as long as it’s done in private. In this way the dynamics of his cancellation represent what happens when we breach the public-private barrier, and therefore bring to light the contradictions that lie therein. 

SF: I feel like in Reuben’s case, some corners of the internet would venerate him. He’d be a guest on Tucker Carlson.

AL: Oh, yeah, if he wanted to embrace that side of himself. He could be a hero of the right.

SF: I feel like your previous books were about masculinity as an undertone, but this one sets out to get to the heart of it with Reuben interviewing Mikkel. I’m wondering if this was a conscious decision.

AL: When I start writing, if I hit upon an idea that feels wrong in a very specific way, I really love to lean into it. And when I thought about two men talking about masculinity—you instinctively laugh at that. To imagine a book of literary fiction allowing itself to do that … that, for me, was so attractive, that I felt the more impish part of myself wanting to do it immediately. Because if something is inherently taboo, in any way, it’s probably worth exploring. 

SF: Interestingly, this is your first non-Jewish male protagonist, or at least the first time it doesn’t factor heavily into his life.

AL: Yeah, it’s not a big part of the book; less and less, throughout my books, Judaism is a part of it. In this case, Reuben is ambiguously half-Jewish. I think what’s interesting about my own personal experience in Denmark is that there are so few Jews there—there are like 5,000 in total. And for a core component of your own identity to not even exist in a place—it’s not like that part of yourself is even being challenged, where you’re having to defend it, but it just evaporates inside of you. You feel yourself without that concept. People in Denmark, when they meet me, maybe they know my last name, maybe they consider me Jewish, but it’s not really something that has a strong presence in the culture.

SF: Reuben tells Mikkel, rather earnestly, “When I see Danish men, I think to myself, these are actually men. It isn’t how they look. It’s just that they seem to be, you know, okay with being a man. Gender here feels more natural. It’s like you’re closer to the truth of it.” I’m interested in how much you agree, or if you find yourself thinking something similar. 

AL: I think there are two things that are true and are in direct conflict. One, it’s kind of absurd, in a liberal American milieu, to say, ‘I’m glad I’m a man.’ It’s just not something you would say. It strains so coarsely against the culture. And the other thing that’s true is that in Denmark, if you were to bring up this fact, anyone would point out the fact that that’s fucking absurd. Why couldn’t you say that? For two cultures that, if you squint, are pretty similar, to be able to say a simple statement like that in one and not the other, speaks so much about each culture.

SF: I totally understand Reuben is in the middle of his cancellation, but personally, I think he’s overthinking masculinity. It may be because of a difference between queer or straight men, but I never think of it as often as he does.

AL: I think as a straight man in an overtly liberal milieu, there’s an awareness of tamping down your masculinity in the public sphere. Or at least to just assume that your status and role is to be receptive to others and not put forward your masculinity in any way. And, of course, the more you repress something, the more important it becomes to you. I think that’s why masculinity is so important to someone like Reuben.

SF: Were any of the conversations or habits in the book pulled from real-life Danish people?

AL: Just 95% of them. Mikkel is based, almost one to one, off a friend of mine. Through the years, [he] has made me think a lot more about masculinity between our two cultures.

SF: There’s a clear gender divide between the men and the women, even from the first scenes. Did you ever confer with your wife to learn more about this?

AL: It's something we’ve talked about for a while. There was actually one incident in particular that got me thinking. A few years ago, in Copenhagen, I invited a few of our friends out for a beer, and I had just invited men. The next day, I got a message from one of our friends, a woman, who told me, ‘We don’t do that. That’s weird.’ First off, she was right—I do think over there, there’s more of a culture of not separating by sex. She was right as far as what the ideal is. But I don’t think she was right as far as what actually happens, especially after our friends started having kids, because the experience of motherhood and fatherhood are more different than just the experience of being a man or a woman. 

SF: I loved how much lying you did in the book. As an author, you have to construct a compelling narrative, but I kept feeling blindsided.

AL: I never try to withhold; I feel like there’s something inherently uninteresting about withholding something from the reader that they know they need to know. But what I tried to do was, yeah, blindside the reader, but in a way that they would, later, think about past scenes or characters in a new way. It was also fun, especially because Mikkel as a character is such a wildcard, and someone who you never fully trust anyway, so it was easier to hide or obscure his motivations.

SF: With something like a thriller, it starts with, like, ‘Someone’s dead and you don’t know who.’ Whereas this pulls back different curtains on reality.

AL: I agree with you, but I do think it has the structure of a thriller, where you find out someone’s dead and make sense of it, because as the book progresses, I think the reader—I hope the reader—realizes something doesn’t add up. In that way, they have the ‘what,’ but not the ‘why.’

SF: I underlined this quote: “Virtue wasn’t its own reward; all that counted was reality.” This seems indifferent, yet very true.

AL: What do you mean by ‘indifferent’?

SF: If you want to take an extreme position, it could say it doesn’t matter what you think or how you behave, since truth is fixed. Sometimes I’m okay with apathy, since I’m out of control.

AL: Well, that last point reminds me of the Serenity Prayer—“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” There are certain things, obviously, that we have to be indifferent to. But even in those things, we should not be collecting virtue over our actions that don’t actually impact the world. I see it as very un-indifferent. To only care about how your actions impact the world around you, I think is the most intuitive thing, and yet something that immediately gets lost the more we think about something, and the more we philosophize and debate, we get totally removed from our actual impact on the world.

That line, I believe, finishes a chapter about how the GOP has been so successful in their mission while the Democrats have sort of cashed in their virtue for continually losing but being on ‘the right side of history,’ and to them, this matters more than actually affecting history right now. In that way, the GOP’s approach is actual, not indifferent, and so much more meaningful. If you ignore their values, it’s the right path to take. I actually care about reality, and what’s happening. Being indifferent, to me, means I’m going to take actions that help me build my own identity without actually impacting the world.

SF: And what’s your take on that—identity-building without impact?

AL: It’s vapid, it’s meaningless. It’s fashion. Telling others that you’re on the right side of history while affecting nothing, to me, is no different than fashion. Having opinions about something that doesn’t affect anything except your own opinion of yourself and how others see you… how else would you describe clothing? I think someone who is accidentally more impactful to people’s lives [in a positive way] but in retrospect is on the wrong side of history lived their truth and was a better person than someone who fought with their heart and soul to try and do the right thing and ended up affecting no one.

SF: I won’t reveal too much, but in the novel, a journalist bypasses some ethical practices in order to force a larger truth, and you mention that by ignoring integrity he had actually done something good. I thought this was a clever reframing, and I’m interested to see if you thought his actions were somewhat justified.

AL: I don’t think he’s being the best journalist, but I think he’s being the best person. If you’re only judging yourself as a journalist, there are very refined values like truth-telling that you have to match, even if it means not affecting the world. [The journalist] doesn’t. But your question was whether he was justified, and I think it depends on your conception of truth. If you think truth is how you impact the world—what’s the difference between a world with you in it and not?—I think they were justified. If your idea of truth is more, can you write down what you said or did on paper and ask someone if it’s true or false, then no, they’re not justified.

I think there are multiple definitions of truth, just as there are multiple definitions of some of the most important words of our modern moment — ‘democracy,’ ‘freedom,’ even ‘feminism,’ right? All of these words, we have a habit of stuffing as many meanings as we possibly can into them so we can avoid actually talking about what we mean without the word. ‘Socialism’ is another one. I think most of America would want a socialist country if you ignored the word ‘socialism.’ I think ‘truth’ is just like that. To ask if someone was justified in doing something because it was more ‘truthful,’ that doesn’t mean anything without a clarification of what, exactly, you mean.

SF: Do you agree with the realization Reuben comes to, that freedom is in his mind, and he’s imposing his own limits on himself?

AL: I think it’s very easy to blame culture for however you feel constrained. One thing that’s super interesting about being in another culture is you feel the middle ground in between, and that space sure does feel a lot like freedom. You realize that there are two ways of doing things, and so it follows that you can decide to do neither. I feel like the older I get, there’s nothing I cherish more than this idea of freedom. Whether that’s freedom of my own mind, freedom to be who I am, freedom to not care what other people think. Freedom to not even see myself from the outside. That also comes with getting older, I think, and being more established in your life and body and mind. But I’d say Reuben’s realization is something I at least aspire to.

SF: So you’re not there yet?

AL: If I was totally free, I’d be naked right now.

SF: I just bought this sweater; I would keep it on.

AL: That’s a pretty free sweater. You don’t wear that if you’re somebody’s servant.

SF: America, one character says, “is obsessed with sin and salvation. This is the reason you have no harmony, no center, no concept of a single truth.” Talk to me a little bit more about this idea.

AL: I think that passage is echoed later on in the book in Reuben/Cecilie’s head, describing when she first came to America and noticed how obsessed Americans were with the Constitution. It’s so fucking weird. Why do we care so much about this document again? I think the fact that we need such an objective and obvious source of truth in America comes from the fact that we are so heterogeneous—in a great way, obviously. It's why you can make the case for America being the greatest country in the world—our diversity, in every sense of the word. That’s something Denmark lacks. But this desire for some sort of truth that can be written down and understood, and our obsession with the law is so intense, that I think it must come from what makes America unique: having so many different opinions and ways of being.

SF: With sin and salvation, too, everyone’s obsessed with morality, it matters so much if you’re a good person.

AL: I think that in America, we often talk about people being good or not as if goodness exists on a sliding scale. With 0 being, whatever, Hitler, and 10 being, what’s her name, the Pakistani girl who was shot?

SF: Malala! I’m writing about her right now, actually.

AL: She’s the North Star. But I think that sort of one-dimensionality of morality is important for Americans because we disagree about so much, and as long as we can say this person is good or bad, then that serves as the cohesion we need. Otherwise, if we don’t have that, we’re just infinite stars in space. And that can be really fucking scary.