In the past few years, books have crept onto tote bags, T-shirts, and carefully curated Instagram feeds. Alongside this shift is the rise of what some have dubbed the “performative male”: the guy who reads the right books, displays them just so, and signals intellectual depth as part of his personal brand, primarily as a pick-up tactic. Whether sincere or not, the aesthetic of reading is having a cultural moment.
For me, this isn’t exactly new. Admittedly, in middle school, I would strategically place certain novels on the corner of my desk, titles I knew were popular with boys I had crushes on, hoping they might spark a conversation. In my first year of uni, I dressed as Rodrick for Halloween. I carry a Daunt Books tote bag nearly everywhere, less for conscious branding and more because it’s genuinely practical (though I’m not oblivious to what it signals). And yes, there are many photos of books on my Instagram feed.
However, I would never go so far as to say that these things were performative; they are pieces of my identity. As Judith Butler famously argued, identity itself is not something we simply are, but something we do. Identity, particularly gender, is a series of repeated acts, gestures, and expressions that come to feel natural over time. If gender is performative in this way, then why wouldn’t intellectualism be too? The way we read, display, discuss, and even purchase books can all be understood as part of that performance, not necessarily false, but constructed, reiterated, and socially legible.
Seen through that lens, the anxiety around “performative reading” feels misplaced. It’s not a question of whether performance is happening (it always is!), the more interesting question is what that performance does, what it produces, and who it invites in or shuts out.
What about Book charms?
Still, being immersed in this world has its side effects. I’m constantly targeted with ads for “bookish” products: stickers, mugs, clothing emblazoned with slogans about reading or famous authors’ faces. Most of it leaves me cold. Recently, though, something has caught my attention: a new line of book charms created in collaboration between Coach and Penguin Random House. The collection, titled “Explore Your Story,” transforms well-known novels into miniature, fully readable book charms designed to be worn or attached to bags. Priced at $95, they sit firmly at the intersection of fashion and literature.
The concept is ambitious. The charms are marketed, specifically to younger consumers, as a celebration of storytelling and self-expression, rooted in the idea that books can offer reflection, identity, and connection in a fast-paced, digital world. The collection includes titles like I’ll Give You the Sun, Friday I’m in Love, Untamed, Little Fires Everywhere, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, and Sense and Sensibility. There’s also a curated cast of public figures associated with the campaign, lending it further cultural weight. In fact, on the Coach Website, the cast’s profiles appear before the actual products.
Should we buy into it?
Personally, I don’t see myself purchasing one. The price point alone makes it a hard sell, and I’m not entirely convinced by the concept. Why strain my eyes reading these when I could just buy or borrow the actual paperback? But I also want to resist the urge to dismiss it outright.
There’s an easy critique here: the commercialization of reading, the reduction of literature to a fashion accessory, the transformation of intellectual engagement into aesthetic performance.
These are valid concerns, especially given the long and complicated history of reading as a marker of class, education, and cultural capital. Crucially, literacy is shaped by exclusion along lines of race, gender, and socioeconomic status.
But there’s another side to consider. We are, by many measures, facing a literacy crisis. Reading for pleasure is declining, attention spans are shrinking, and long-form engagement with text is increasingly rare. In that context, does it really serve us to gatekeep how people come to books?
If turning reading into a fashion statement gets more people interested in literature, is that entirely a bad thing?
I’ll admit not everyone who buys one of these charms will go on to engage deeply with the text it represents. Some will treat it purely as an accessory, a marker of identity without substance behind it. But again, Butler’s framework lingers here: performance is not the opposite of authenticity. It is one way authenticity is produced. Repetition can create reality. A person who begins by performing “being a reader” (carrying the tote, wearing the charm, posting the photo) might, over time, become one in a more substantive sense.
What concerns me more is the way we respond to that performance. Calling out “performative males” or anyone perceived as engaging with intellectual culture superficially might feel satisfying, even justified. Do I roll my eyes a bit at men drinking matcha and reading bell hooks and then turning around and calling their ex a psycho? Yes. But their overall dismissal risks reinforcing the very hierarchies it claims to critique. It suggests that there is a “right” way to be intellectual, a standard that must be met, and that those who fall short should be dismissed.
If the aim is to develop genuine interests in reading and other intellectual pursuits, we can’t shame them for starting in the “wrong” place. We can’t mock them for engaging with books through fashion or aesthetics if that’s what initially draws them in. That kind of gatekeeping echoes older, exclusionary models of academia. Models, might I add, that have historically marginalized many people.
Instead, there’s an opportunity here. If someone purchases a book charm because it looks cool, that’s a starting point. If they post about books because it fits an aesthetic, that’s still engagement. The challenge, and the responsibility, is to turn that surface-level interest into something deeper, to create conversations that encourage people to actually read, reflect, and connect with the material.
Ultimately, I find myself less concerned with whether someone’s interest in books is “performative” and more interested in what that performance might lead to. In a cultural moment where attention is fragmented and reading is increasingly undervalued, any movement that brings books back into the public eye has potential.
Yes, we should critique. Yes, we should question the commercialization of literature. But we should also be careful not to shut down avenues of engagement simply because they don’t look the way we expect. If a tiny, $95 book charm can spark even a handful of people to pick up a novel and read it, really read it, then maybe it’s doing more than we give it credit for.