Peter Minot.” There are serious theologicalnimplications in all this which denToledano has chosen not to face, dependingninstead upon instinct whichncomes pretty close to superstition.nJ. he design for the novel is clever;nthe structure provides appropriate opportunitiesnfor Peter Minot to recreatenthe past of the protagonist, de Toledano’snessential problem as a novelist isnthat he is self-conscious as the giftednamateur is, watching himself write,ntrying hard to be professional. Tirednwitticisms and tiresome obscenities arenpresented as if they were just discovered.nWhen given a choice, he alwaysntells rather than shows. Hence, DevilnTake Him is a very talky book. I havenno objection to talk, of course, but talknis tiresome when it substitutes for thendramatic action which gives energy tonthe orchestration of platitudes whichnliterature is. He is an excellent observantnreporter trying to be a novelist. Hisndevices are almost reportorial, as if thendogma of induction is a substitute fornBoring from Within*nAndy Warhol and Pat Hackett: POPism:nThe Warhol 60’s; HarcourtnBrace Jovanovich; New York.nby Gordon M. PradlnA few years back Andy Warhol allowednthe Museum of American FolknArt in New York City to exhibit hisnextensive collection of Americana.nUpon entering the museum, viewers discoverednthat Warhol had dictated thatnhis goods be strewn about, as thoughnhurriedly thrown in the corner of someone’snattic. Here a stack of primitivenpaintings lined up against the wall; therena pile of quilts, folded up to conceal theirnworkmanship and design; on a shelfnDr. Pradl is professor of English Educationnat New York University.n^ ^ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _nChronicles of Culturenthe creation of imaginative structures.nNone of the characters are believablyndimensional in the way that is importantnto the creative intuition. Paul is impossible,nand Peter is a bore. They talk andnact because the author is pulling thenstrings.nConcepts, not percepts, interest denToledano. His thrust is solely ideological.nThe novel will be of interest onlynto the reader who enjoys the play of ideasnreflected off a flat surface. Some personalnpassion urged de Toledano to writenthis book. What it is, however, comesnthrough only obliquely in Part II, thenautobiography Paul tells us he will nevernwrite. The use of the first person in thatnsection encouraged me to suspect that anbetter novel was lurking in the otherwisenmannered structure de Toledanonchose to use.nIn reviewing these two novels, I findnmyself in an odd situation. The giftednprofessional has nothing to say to me.nThe amateur has something I think Inwould like to hear but he has not foundna way of saying it. Dnpieces of pottery jumbled together; innthe middle of the floor a carousel horsenturned on its side—wherever onenlooked, one confronted some crowdedngrouping, whether baskets jammed oneninto another or hooked rugs tightlynrolled up together. All the pleasure ofnresponding to individual works of artnhad suddenly disappeared.nIn all likelihood, it was meant tonfrustrate our expectations in such a waynas to make a grand statement about ournhypocrisies as museum-goers. How foolishn—it seemed to say—to have held suchna value system that we would actually desirena careful look at aged artifacts. Whatnwretched artistic sensibilities we mustn*The reviewer will not be offended by thosenreaders who prefer to skip to the final paragraphnand thus get immediately to the heart of thenmatter.nnnall have. We now can see, thanks to Mr.nWarhol’s exhibit’s bold and contemptuousndeclaration, that it’s only so muchnjunk that we have been admiring allnalong. Imagine—our ideals of refinedntaste and the sanctity of the individualncreator and responder have merely beennillusions forced on us by those up tightnand elitist cultural brokers of the past.nAt last we are all free to splash our ownncans of paint against the sprawling canvasnof life.nRubbish. We must not acquiesce tonthe relativistic position that lets the chicnavant-garde voices of liberal culture justifynany outrage. We must reassert thenmystery of art and its centrality to shapingnand refining our responses to experience.nWe must not allow defeatistnviews to be forced upon us, views thatnclaim that “significant form” inspirednby the muse is nothing more than thengarbled sounds a tape recorder plays backnafter having inadvertently been leftnrunning at someone’s cocktail party.nThe parade of characters and eventsnthat comprise POPism, Warhol’s newnautobiographical account of the 60’s,nrepresents yet another assault on decencynand normal values. Posing as theninnocent with his disarmingly chattynstyle, Warhol gradually reveals hisnsaprophytic relationship to the commercialnculture he pretends to mock.n”Value” in art is reduced exclusivelynto monetary terms and the hype of thenPR man: “So you need a good gallerynso the ‘ruling class’ will notice you andnspread enough confidence in your futurenso collectors will buy you, whether fornfive hundred dollars or fifty thousand.nNo matter how good you are, if you’rennot promoted right, you won’t be onenof those remembered names.” No pretensenhere; it’s all out on the table asnWarhol leads us on yet another journeynof self-promotion.nXopism, of course, is no more thannWarhol’s serious refusal to take anythingnseriously. Reaching back instinctivelynto his roots as a commercial artist, Warholnseeks, with the aid of the literaln