#Reviewing my previous Reads, #Overrated Books To Roast:
If there’s one thing history teaches us, it’s that utopian blueprints often make excellent kindling. Socialism and Man in Cuba is a prime example: Che Guevara’s earnest but hilariously delusional attempt to reinvent human nature with nothing more than revolutionary fervor and Marxist duct tape.
Forget economics, forget logistics, forget that people like, you know, need food and toothpaste—Che is here to tell you that with enough ideology and enough sugarcane chopping, the Cuban worker will evolve into a glowing new species: the “New Socialist Man.” Picture Homo sapiens 2.0, but hungrier, smellier, and convinced that endless sacrifice is actually a personality trait.
The essay is less a political program than a motivational pep talk delivered in a bunker. Che’s basic premise? Material incentives corrupt. Salaries, promotions, comfort—these are capitalist traps. True revolutionaries should be motivated purely by conscience. In other words: “Comrades, money is fake. Passion is real. Now get out there and build socialism with nothing but good vibes and a machete.” It’s basically a spiritual TED Talk with fewer PowerPoints and more malaria.
The illogicality deepens when you remember the context. Cuba at the time was already wobbling under ration cards, shortages, and Soviet dependency. But Che’s response to this misery is… to double down. Don’t worry about not having meat, soap, or electricity, he says—true communists surpass such trivialities!
Hunger? That’s just your selfish bourgeois stomach talking.
What you really need is to cultivate revolutionary zeal so pure that it nourishes you in place of calories. Call it socialism’s first “breatharian diet.”
And the man didn’t just theorize; he practically canonized self-sacrifice as the highest revolutionary virtue. Work long hours for no pay? That’s noble. Renounce family ties in favor of The Cause?
Glorious. Never complain?
Heroic. Essentially, he wants Cubans to live like medieval monks—except instead of God, they worship Fidel. Imagine a nation of unpaid interns, all trying to out-sacrifice one another in a cosmic competition of misery. “Oh, you worked 14 hours without lunch? Cute. I cut cane until my hands bled and then wrote a love letter to Marx on the back of a ration card.”
The irony, of course, is that Che himself was puffing on imported cigars and enjoying a position of authority while demanding everyone else become ascetic worker-saints. It’s the classic revolutionary flex: “Do as I preach, not as I puff.” Meanwhile, Castro endorses this whole sermon like the Revolution’s hype man. If Che is the ascetic guru, Fidel is the carnival barker, shouting “Step right up, sacrifice your individuality, and win a glorious seat in the utopia that never arrives!”
Che’s writing reads like a cult recruitment pamphlet. Individuality? Suspicious. Personal ambition? Dangerous. Dissent? Counterrevolutionary. Happiness? Only if it photographs well for the propaganda poster.
You can almost hear him whispering: “You are not special. You are not unique. You are the Revolution.” It’s the same psychological sleight of hand every cult uses, from Jonestown to NXIVM: strip away identity, demand total loyalty, then insist that the resulting void is actually enlightenment.
And what did Cuba actually get for all this spiritual sugarcane mysticism? Not saints of socialism, but shortages, black markets, censorship, and wave after wave of people literally risking shark attacks to escape on rafts.
The “New Man” didn’t materialize; instead, the Cuban hustler did—a resourceful figure who could survive off ration cards, barter, and whatever trick the state hadn’t yet outlawed. In fact, if you want to see the true New Cuban Man, look not to Che’s manifesto but to the guy who figures out how to turn a Russian Lada into a fishing boat.
Roasting this text side-by-side with Soviet “New Man” propaganda is like watching two competing infomercials for miracle products that never work. The Soviets promised to create the perfect collective worker who would joyfully build communism in steel mills while whistling patriotic tunes. Instead, they got alcoholism, absenteeism, and jokes about standing in line for bread.
Che promised the Cuban version—selfless cane-cutters who live off conscience alone. Instead, he got people smuggling Marlboros, pirating Beatles records, and dreaming of Miami. The only real New Men produced were black-market entrepreneurs and sardonic comedians.
Even stylistically, Socialism and Man in Cuba is a slog. Che writes with all the warmth of a dentist’s waiting room and all the clarity of a fogged-up bathroom mirror.
The essay is packed with vague exhortations, like “We must create a new consciousness,” and “Revolutionary man develops in socialist society.” Translation: nothing concrete, just vibes. It’s as if Che thought if he stacked enough slogans together, reality itself would bend. Spoiler: it didn’t.
The biggest roast, though, is existential. Che genuinely believed human nature could be rewritten by ideology. That with enough pressure, people could be turned into altruistic saints. But history shows otherwise. People don’t stop wanting comfort, freedom, love, or joy just because a manifesto says so.
Trying to suppress these desires only breeds hypocrisy and quiet rebellion. The black market becomes the real economy, sarcasm becomes the real literature, and eventually the Revolution becomes a punchline whispered in long queues.
If The Motorcycle Diaries was Che’s Instagram—romantic shots of sunsets and motorcycles—then Guerrilla Warfare was his cosplay manual, complete with jungle chic and DIY traps. Socialism and Man in Cuba, however, is his TED Talk: inspirational slogans, zero practical solutions, and an unshakable belief that vibes can feed a nation. In reality, it’s less “New Man” and more “No Man”—no man with full shelves, no man with free speech, no man with an exit visa.
So where does that leave us? With a text that is part holy scripture, part self-parody, and entirely unworkable. A book that reveals not so much the brilliance of Che as the dangerous simplicity of utopian thinking. It’s almost sweet, in a tragic way: Che really thought he was mapping the soul’s evolution. But in practice, his blueprint produced misery dressed up as virtue. The “New Man” never walked the earth; what walked instead were the hungry, the censored, the disillusioned, and the fleeing.
Che wanted to sculpt a new kind of human being out of ideology. Instead, he gave us proof that human nature is stubbornly resistant to manifestos. And that’s the ultimate roast: the Revolution tried to make saints but ended up making hustlers.
Maybe the real “New Man” is the guy selling black-market cigars under a Che poster.
Give this book a pass. .