381 CHRONICLESnOPINIONSnNew York Writing by Thomas P. McDonnelln”To write simply is as difficult as to be good.”n— Somerset MaughamnThe BonHre of the Vanities bynTom Wolfe, New York: Farrar,nStraus & Giroux; $19.95.nIt is just possible that Tom Wolfe’snfirst novel, The Bonfire of the Vanities,nmay be more important for extraliterarynreasons than for purely literarynones. Of course, there are no purelynliterary reasons for anything, especiallynin the form of fiction, perhaps the mostnmassive impure art form ever invented.nBut to say that this large but strangelynslick hunk of a book may be important,nalmost as if on appearance, is simply tonlocate its possible significance in anbrace of considerations: (1) as an occasionnfor stock-taking on the state of thenAmerican novel today; and (2) as ansymptom of the cultural situation itself.nRoughly speaking, there are twonobvious currents which flow in thenmainstream of American fiction. Onenhas to do with what we recognize asnthe imperishable works of our literature—nin the great fictions, say, ofnHawthorne, Melville, James, EdithnWharton, Willa Gather, Hemingway,nFitzgerald, Saul Bellow — while thenother has to do with those strictlynperishable and peripheral productionsnwhich in any period comprise the bulknof the best-seller listings. In the firstninstance, we have almost ceased tonproduce any fiction of major importance,nand this for the shockingly simplenreason that we have at the samentime failed to produce a new generationnof great readers. Today, indeed,nthe survivors in literacy must exertnthemselves to handle the works of JohnnThomas McDonnell is a free-lancenwriter living near Boston.nJakes, Danielle Steele, and the rest.nThat’s where adult reading is today.nAt this eariy point, it is difficult to gonon without resorting to a basicallynsubjective view and allowing scholarlynobjectivity to slide quietly into thendustbin. In the overview, I can see onlynone aspect in which Tom Wolfe’s ThenBonfire of the Vanities — a marvelousntitle, by the way — may be said to havenany relationship at all to the novel ofnclassical tradition. Gertainly, it has nonrelationship to the great novels as far asnthoughtful and reflective prose is concerned.nThere are no structural pointsnof rest in Tom Wolfe’s self-devouringnfiction, such as can be found, fornexample, in the famous trout-fishingnscene from The Sun Also Rises.nEverything is so full of hype andnsuperficial effects that one might easilynmiss the way The Bonfire of the Vanitiesnis likely to survive what remains ofnour rapidly diminishing century. It is annovel of New York City. The city is thenhero, the heroine, the comic and tragicnfigure of it all. It is indeed the bonfirenof our vanities. All flesh is grass andnburns at last in the consuming fire ofnour vast inanities. The shocker is thatnTom Wolfe doesn’t know it.nAs for literary effects, The Bonfire ofnthe Vanities has perhaps forevernunfocused any image we may still havenof Henry James’s New York as thenprevailing and classical recreation ofnthat particular time and place. Thenterm “literary effects” has ironic relevancenhere insofar as this is the onlynlevel on which Tom Wolfe can competenwith the one and only master ofncivilized prose we have produced onnthis continent and displaced to another.nBut if there is anything that Wolfendoesn’t want to know, it’s how to writennna complex and Jamesian sentence.nAgain, he is the artist of the electronicnimpulse, our laureate of the age ofntelevision who has legitimized the traditionnof trash. In The Bonfire of thenVanities, Tom Wolfe has achieved thenapotheosis of glitz.nI feel that it has been necessary tonsay these things aside from any attemptnto provide the reader with a summarynof plot. The trouble is, the plot isn’t allnthat interesting. It is the author’s retellingnof the myth of Little Red RidingnHood and the Big Bad Wolf (if he’llnpardon the expression) let loose innNew York Gity. Sherman McCoy isnLittle Red Riding Hood, a bunglingninnocent of an investment bankernmaking about a million per year withnthe prestigious firm of Pierce & Pierce,nwho still allows himself to becomenhopelessly victimized by crime, thenlaw, and social circumstance. A voraciousnand composite ethnic minority isnthe Big Bad Wolf that gobbles McCoynalive. The book is on fast-forward allnthe time, without any letup, so thatncharacters and incidents flash by in anmultiplicity of scenes that will nondoubt become easily adapted to a TVnmini-series or to movie screens in ourncement block clinics across the land.nAll the characters — the dull but decorativenwife, the seductive and obligatorynmistress, cops and lawyers, highninvestors as well as the sleazy hustlersnthat infest the city at its lowest levels—nare caricatures of types that the wellconditionednreader and potential viewernwill recognize immediately andnhave no further need to relate to thenuntoward complexities of reality itselfnTom Wolfe’s typographical tricksnare all resplendentiy and tediously displayed:nthe onomatopoeic spellings,nrelenflessly supplied whether the readernrequires them or not, and suchnhomophonics as may even reduce thenword “talk” to tawk. It is difficult not ton