centration-camp guards, “brought backnto endure a fate similar to that of theirnvictims.” (Strangely, this odd idea hasnfound many followers among the disease’snsufferers.) He is particularly goodnon the goings-on at Maharishi InternationalnUniversity, in rural Iowa, wherenTranscendental Meditation and “yogicnflying” are among the few subjectsntaught under a tuition-fee schedule thatnrivals Harvard’s. He exposes the unlikelynaccomplishments of “psychic surgeon”nBernie Siegel, now a staple of that bastionnof reason, PBS; best-selling guidancencounselor M. Scott Peck, a masternof the psychology of blaming others fornone’s own flaws; and Lazaris, spiritnmedium or “channeler” to the rich andnfamous, whose followers like to claimncredit for such things as having endednapartheid .by meditating from afarnthrough the spirits of de Klerk and Mandela.n(I’d like to be making this up, butnit’s true.) It almost goes without sayingnthat such men and women are earningnsubstantial fortunes spouting this andnother nonsense, and that their marketnseems infinite.nHeaven on Earth is reportage, not sociology.nD’Antonio offers plenty of usefulnobservations—notably, that the NewnAge is the province of well-heeled, moneyed,nwhite Anglo-Saxon Protestants,nwith few subscribers among the growingnunderclass. In his determination tonbe objective D’Antonio gives repellentnideas more benefit of doubt than theyndeserve, and he deliberately avoids “valuenjudgments.” An unrepentant believernin certain Old Ways, I often foundnmyself wishing that D’Antonio wouldncry, “Balderdash!” or even some strongernexpletive, instead of simply smilingnnumbly at the countless charlatans henhas met along his way. This is a heartlessnworld, and while we all need succor,nthere’s entirely too much suckeringnafoot. D’Antonio might have said asnmuch.nWhat he leaves unsaid remains fornanother book, awaiting which we cannreread Nathaniel Hawthorne’s BlithedalenRomance, a novel that skewers the NewnAge of the 19th century and retains itsnrazor edge today. In the meanwhile.nHeaven on Earth serves very well as ancatalog of current tomfooleries. At thenvery least, it warns us of even strangerndays to come.nGregory McJSlamee is a freelance writernliving in Tucson, Arizona.nOnan AgonistesnbyJ.O. TatenThe Runaway Soulnby Harold BrodkeynNew York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux;n835 pp., $30.00nI’ve been trying to figure out whatnsomebody could do with the thirtynbucks (plus tax) that they’re asking fornHarold Brodkey’s word-processing product.nMy copy was no bargain for free.nYou could buy two pizzas and two sixpacksnand have quite a party for thatnsum. You could wire your sweetie pie annice bouquet by FTD. If movies werenworth seeing, you could buy five tickets.nThere are all kinds of things you couldndo with the money, but the big loss is inntime and energy—time that might havenbeen spent on subgingival curettage ornroot canal work or study of feminist theorynor whatever. Perhaps a mercifullynbrief description of The Runaway Soulnwill show just why its perusal wouldnseem fitting for few others besidesnHarold Bloom, Gordon Lish, KeithnMano, and those who have puffednHarold Brodkey’s “genius.” There arentwo elements of the novel that I cannbring myself to comment on. The firstnis substance; the second, style.nThe Runaway Soul is a highly subjectivenKiinstlerroman freighted withnan elaborate psychological apparatus,na Freudian family romance, and anconcentration of the hero-narrator’sn”growth,” “genius,” consciousness, andnmasturbatory sex life. The orphan WileynSilenowicz, whose adoptive namensuggests both wiliness and Silenus, relatesnsomehow the tangled bafflementsn(he does not or cannot “tell a story”)nconcerning his second family: his fathernS.L., his mother Lila, and his older sisternNonie. These characters each have theirnmoments, their presences in Wiley’s lifenand consciousness; of the three, one inspirednin me a flicker of interest—Nonie,nwho seems to be pathologicallynwicked and hates Wiley, and who appearsnto have killed two other siblings.nMy own hope—that she would terminatenWiley’s interminable “narrative”nby stabbing him to death with a sharpninstrument, by killing him with a revolvernor with a sporting rifle or shotgunnor semiautomatic or fully automaticnweapon, by setting him on fire withnnngasoline, or by squashing him to deathnwith a laundromat—was not fulfilled.nOther characters in the novel include anlover of Wiley’s later years, Ora (a.k.a.nOrra), whom I took to be female evennthough at least one of Wiley’s sexualnencounters with her/him seemed tonend—if that is the right word—in yetnanother of his physical and literary masturbations.nAnyway, Wiley’s homosexualnepisodes with Remsen and Danielnand others are entirely suited to his character,nbeing either literally or essentiallynmasturbatory in those same senses ofnthat word by now extremely familiar tonboth the reader and the explicator ofnThe Runaway Soul.nReading between the lines that arenthemselves unreadable, we may discernnthe elements of a novel that somehownescaped the master’s grasp. There areneven brief glimpses of daylight and ofnthe out-of-doors, as well as of social life,nwhich in other hands would have constitutedna narrative; though even here,nwe would have had to admit that touchesnlike Ora’s father, the literary scene asnembodied in New York cocktail parties,nand a few others, constitute material thatnhas already been treated adequately bynNorman Mailer.nEven granting the genius his donnee,nthere may yet be some slight reservationnabout a prose style that would gag a buzzard.nThe trouble with Wiley-as-narratornis that he writes like Harold Brodkeynon a good day. He seems to have an ungift,nan ineptitude with language thatnhe inflicts unsparingly on his audience:nhe goes for the off-putting word—evennthe wrong sound, not to mention thenunwelcome thought—unerringly. AsnWiley lovably says, “But, for me, isn’t itnself-love that starts the progress towardsnorgasm?” He knows himself: “I sort ofngawp—inwardly.” Ain’t it the truth.nThe following lines, chosen by ansorites Brodeyanae, represent the ineffablenstyle of the revered master: “I don’tnknow of what elements my heterosexualitynconsists. Or my androgyny.” Andnthis paragraph:nIt wasn’t that I was so grand sexually.nI am acceptable sexuallyn(which is actually quite a lot), butnI make a point of it, of being that,nand that doubles the acceptabilitynfor some people, that it is somethingnknown, and that one tries tonbe it. Often, then, I am a littlenbored sexually—that redoubles itnJULY 1992/37n