Thus everybody in Brunei is rich. Thernnative inhabitants of Nigeria are allrnblack. Every man in Israel can handlernan automatic weapon. Surely their objectivernsameness in these important respectsrnneed not result in cardboard flatness,rnpredictable development, or socialrnstereotyping. Well, everybody in NewrnYork is a hypocrite, and Wolfe was artistrnenough to say this in The Bonfire of thernVanities through characters who were atrnonce plausible and memorable.rnTragically for Wolfe’s talent for dissentrnand his reputation as a writer,rnhis new and long-awaited novel, A Manrnin Full, is about an “honest man.” It is asrnthough, for the past 12 years, some invisiblerncritical apparatus, a pneumatic drillrndeep in the bowels of Conde Nast, hasrnbeen droning into his ear about Thackerayrnand Tolstoy; about the perils of literaryrncartooning; about large—perhaps evenrnmonumental but certainly many-dimensionalrnor polyvalent—unpredictable, internallyrncontradictory, lifelike, soulfulrncharacters who ought to populate hisrnnext masterpiece. And, as though grownrndeaf in that one ear, this St. George ofrnNew York with perfect pitch for a lancernhas produced a work which only half-belongsrnto a hme, a place, or a people.rnBack to the 19th century, folks. Lessrnarchetype, more soul. Humanity. Decency.rnHonor. Virtue. Ideals. Such isrnthe author’s new stomping ground in ArnMan in Full. Suffice it to say that a goodrnthird of the novel is taken up by the conversionrnof the “honest man”—a workingclassrnyouth named Conrad Hensleyrnwhen we first meet him—to the philosophyrnof Epictetus, “drawn,” according tornthe author’s acknowledgment on the flyleaf,rn”from The Stoic and EpicureanrnPhilosophers, edited by Whitney J. Oatesrn(1940).” I am not turning up my nose atrnthis bibliographic confession out of sheerrnuncontrollable snobbery, as in fact anrnedition of a book with that title does playrnan important part in the story of thernworking-class Ganymede, wrongly imprisonedrnin Santa Rita with only Zeus tornsummon for consolation. I am citing itrnbecause it reveals the extent to whichrnWolfe’s critical intelligence has beenrnclogged by the selfsame stuff he has garneredrnsuch acclaim for ridiculing, namely,rnculture. And by “culture,” apart fromrnyour average great American novelist’srnabsurd longing to write like Thackeray orrnTolstoy, is meant the inert, downy, staticrnlint of old-world names, deities, and attitudesrnthat is worse than any HarlequinrnRomance rubbish, particularly when it isrnallowed—straightforwardly, reverently,rnand at times triumphantly, as it is h e r e ­torncling to the plot of a novel set in Atlanta,rnGeorgia, in the I990’s.rnAnyway, why Atlanta? Because it is diverse,rncomplex, and unpredictable, that’srnwhy, which is another way of saying thatrnthe author knows as little about Atlantarnas I do. Because, in the mind of any amateurrnnovelist aspiring to culture andrnhaunted by the literary greats of the lastrncentury, Atlanta would be as good arnplace to discover Epictetus as any. I havernnever doubted that Tom Wolfe knowsrnhis New York, his Manhattan, or hisrnHamptons, because he has always shownrnby his writing that there is only one thingrnabout that microcosm that matters. Thernthing may be vast, complicated, oftenrnconfusing, leading as it does to a thousandrnother things, but it is as “immovablyrncentered”—to quote Goethe’s definitionrnof genius—in time, place, and circumstancernas Disney World is in the cartoonist’srnwhimsy, or Israel in a perpetual staternof war.rnAtlanta, by contrast, is to Wolfe arnhouse of many mansions, a veritablernsesame of conjecture where no miraclernis too far-fetched, no social juxtapositionrntoo cmde, no political insight too superficialrnor elastic. Here, at last, he has a freernhand to imagine and describe whateverrnthe hell he wants, so long as it sounds likernThackeray or Tolstoy. Here, he nornlonger has to paint from nature, constrainedrnby the knowledge and observationrnof half a century, and can simply letrnhis imagination soar with the zigs andrnzags of an insufferable plot that culminatesrnin a kind oi7.eus-ex-machina apocalypse,rnan earthquake in the San FranciscornBay area that destroys the jail wherernthe anguished hero prays to his highfalutinrngod. All of this is so preposterousrnand badly executed that even a veteranrnadmirer like myself can only concludernthat the author of A Man in Full is just arnfew gray hairs short of a mid-life crisis, inrnthe usual sense of weakened critical sensibilityrnplus a whole lot of advice fromrnthe wrong people. Reading it is a littiernlike watching Woody Allen in the role ofrnHamlet.rnNot all of the book is foolish, pretentious,rnor shoddy in the same measure,rnhowever. The chapters on the innerrnworkings of PlannersBanc, squeezingrnthe life out of the novel’s deuteragonistrnand other acolyte of Zeus, real-estate developerrnGharlie Croker, are fine and fimnyrnin the good old Bonfire of the Vanitiesrnway. In part, this is so because herernWolfe deploys generic corporate situations,rnsuch as the bankruptcy workoutrnsession with Croker in the bank’s boardroom,rnwhich belong as easily to NewrnYork as to Atlanta, without pausing tornthink whether or not he is writing on thernlevel to which he ought to become accustomed,rnthat of a classic. In fact, almostrneverything in the book that can bernimagined happening in Manhattanrnbears the familiar hallmarks of Wolfe therndissident and Wolfe the intellectualrnthug, in contrast to Wolfe the culturernstooge and Wolfe the classic. Considerrnthe following contretemps, where somernof Croker’s fair-weather friends andrnwould-be clients have just been watchingrnthe insemination of a mare by a prizernstallion in the care of Croker’s stud manager,rnJohnny:rn”Looked great, Johnny,” said Charlie.rn”You guys did a great job.”rnBut his mind was still spinningrnwith Herb Richman, Herb Richman,rnHerb Richman . . . Then herngot an idea. Liberal, liberal. Hernwouldn’t treat Johnny, the conductorrnof the show, like a hired hand.rnHe’d introduce him. Equality,rnequality. Liberal, Jewish.rn”Johnny,” he said, “I want you tornmeet one of our guests . . . HebernRichman.”rnWhat had he just saidl A scaldingrnfeeling swept over his brain.rn”I mean Herb Richman! Godalmighty,rnHerb, I must be losingrnmy grip, I guess—” He lifted hisrnhands helplessly. “Herb Richman,rnJohnny!” He looked about. Everyonernhad heard him. “Jesus, Herb,rnthat must be my Alzheimer’s flaringrnup!” And why had he saidrnJesus rrnI have just counted, and I make it thatrnthe above passage contains 120 words.rnDespite everything deprecatory I havernhad to say in this review against Wolfe’srnnew novel, any writer who can draw a situationrnso cosmically hilarious and convincingrnon a single leaf from a linedrnnotepad is not so stone-deaf that he cannotrnmake a comeback. Besides, as theyrnprobably say in Atlanta, better a wolf withrnjus’ one good ear than all ’em ole hawgsrnwi’ two.rn32/CHRONICLESrnrnrn