Midcentury, the best of his later works,ndoes not quite-measure up to USA, it isnstill worth reading. In his perceptive portraitnof actor James Dean (“The SinisternAdolescents”), for example, Dos Passosnwarned us of what was in store for thendeclining years of the American Century.nDean was the paradigmatic alienatednyouth: a rebel without a cause, contemptuousnof all authority, resentful ofnany restraint, pampered, irresponsible.nLess a person than a bundle of uncurbednappetites, he exemplified that insistentnself-indulgence that has infected increasingnnumbers of Americans. Living in anland of peace and comfort, they believenthat the liberties they enjoy are part ofnRoutinely from EuropenMarguerite Yourcenar: Fires; Farrar,nStraus & Giroux; New York.nGiinter Grass: The Meeting at Telgte;nHarcourt Brace Jo vanovich; New York.nby Gregory Wolfen^ome day, I hope Tom Wolfe writes anbook about how literary pseudogiantsnare made. Let’s suppose that a man withnhis grasp of broad cultural movements,nhis insider’s knowledge and his detachmentncan trace the early agonies in thenlonely garret, the first novel discoverednby a talent-spotting avant-garde critic,nthe autograph parties and featurenspreads in glossy weeklies, the oraclelikenstatus of midcareer, the thoroughly researchednretrospectives later. As Wolfenhas shown in what he had to say aboutnpainting and architecture, the art giant isnusually the product of Cultureburg, thatnsmall group of critics, professors, museumndirectors and progressive, upperclassnpatrons who fabricate the Zeitgeistnand present it to the public as the onlynMr. Wolfe is an editor o/HillsdalenReview, currently at Mansfield College innOxford, England.n8nChronicles of Culturenthe natural order of things, dismissingnout of hand any suggestion that the pricenof liberty might be eternal vigilance.nJ ohn Dos Passos died in 1970, deeplynpessimistic about America’s future; henhad learned some hard lessons from hisnradical past. In a time of conservative revival,nProfessors Cantor and Rosen arenpessimistic too, but for very differentnreasons—and they have learned very litde.nNo longer young, they bear the scarsnof a divisive era in our nation’s history, annera that still awaits its master historian.nPerhaps only another chastened formernradical like Dos Passos can meet thatnchallenge. Dnshow in town.nMarguerite Yourcenar, we are told onnthe dust jacket of Fires, is the^rj^ womannto have been selected to the FrenchnAcademy, and an imposing list of hernbooks stands opposite the title page. Thenblurb for Giinter Grass simply takes forngranted the author’s “lasting internationalnfame” from his “quintessentialnpost-SecondWorld Warnovel,” The TinnDrum. Grass is “also a Social Democratnactively involved in electoral politics, andna rousing speaker.” The Seals of Approvalnare stamped clearly and unmistakably.nAnd yet to leave the characterization ofnthese two writers at that would be to donthem an injustice. Not all “literaryngiants” are mere frauds; some are artistsnof skill and sensitivity. Both of thesenwriters possess many of the qualitiesnwhich have distinguished the nationalnliteratures of France and Germany:nMme. Yourcenar displays the old Frenchnpreoccupation with the dark side ofnerotic love, and Grass explores the relationsnbetween past and present, betweennthe health of literature and language asnwell as that of the social realm—interestsntypical of the German mind. But it isntheir adherence to the prevailing culturalnorthodoxy that causes them to be lion­nnnized and makes their art ultimately unsatisfying.nFires, Mme. Yourcenar writes in hernpreface, “is in the form of a collection ofnlove poems, or, rather, is like a sequencenof lyrical prose pieces connected by a notionnof love.” The book is the product ofna “love crisis,” we are told, and betweenneach of the nine prose poems are shortn”notes for a private diary” written duringnthat crisis. Each section is either a narrativenor a monologue based on a characternfirom Greek myth (except for Mary Magdalene);nthese mythical figures serve thenauthor as “props through time” whichnaid in the expression of her notion ofnlove. But she warns us that the charactersnare not bound to their original sources:nPhaedra, for instance, is more Racine’sncharacter than Euripides’. Thus eachnpiece reverberates with historical connotationsnand anachronisms; they arenmeant to mingle freely in a tightnmythical form. And here is where Yourcenar’snproblems begin. The allusive andndisjointed modern style lends itself tonabuse. In Eliot, figures like Tiresias andnCoriolanus are composites whose meaningndepends on multiple connotations.nBut Eliot’s use of allusion is controlled,nand an average literary knowledge of thenBible, Virgil and Dante will suffice hisnreader. The danger, and this is wherenMme. Yourcenar goes wrong, is that thisnstyle can become so obscure that it servesnas a private set of images which havenmeaning only for the author. A work ofnart is a public act and must communicatenits meaning intelligibly. Mme. Yourcenarnacknowledges this when she admitsnthat much of Fires contains “purelynbiographical residues.”nThis private aspect of Fires is directlynrelated to what she calls its “almost excessivenexpressionism … a form of naturalnand needed confession.” In both thenmythical pieces and the diary fragmentsnthe interior experience of some aspect ofnlove is conveyed, but the expressionisticnemotion constandy threatens to distortnthe experience. This is a far cry fromnemotion recollected in tranquility, andnthus little insight into the nature of loven