on the level of: “Near the end of hisnlife he will be able to do whatever henwants with his time, civilization andnnature having lost interest in him.”nThese we are expected to swallow as thenwisdom of a man who has led a rich,nfull life. But Simmons’ character leadsna life utterly banal and unoriginal, andnhis trite soliloquies reinforce that convictionnat the close of every chapter.nFor Simmons’ attempt to take a newnstylistic tack does not disguise the factnthat he has created a caricature, andnthat the theme and movement of hisnstory are threadbare and worn. His isnthe story of contemporary man: sophisticated,nnarcissistic, sexually primitive;nwithout faith or humility. In a word, ancipher, as a novelist, and a satyr.nOimmons writes to intrigue; the rushnof chapters about boyhood is an impatientnprelude to his solemn setting forthnon marriage and art, on love and loneliness.nThe dreary anti-Catholicism atnthe outset, though, is a dead giveaway:nSimmons means to present his credentialsnto the modishly agnostic editorsnat big-league publishing houses as sufficientlyndisdainful of Roman collars.nThe nuns of his childhood are supersti-nof things, an alcoholic. It is there, notnat all subtle.nOur protagonist outtalks a Jesuit onnthe existence of God, and marries anCatholic woman, who becomes a shrew/nhussy/ultraprude. He leaves his familynwith scarcely a nod, free, then, to “havenmany affairs.” And that, except for thenextra pages, is the whole of it. The restnis a catalogue of quaint remarks aboutneluding old age and the appearance ofnbeing a fool.nIt is too easy to be mesmerized bynSimmons’ approach to the idea of freedom.nIt is simple and direct, and couldnbe capsulized thus: “I did what I wantedndespite the hypocrites around me. Theynare fools if they don’t act the way I do.”nHe wants to come across not so much asnthe he-man personification of the Playboynsales pitch, but as a courageous individualist,nblazing new trails andnsetting new standards for a benightednworld. These are not standards of behaviornbut of rationalization. He speaksnto his readers, disparaging regret; therenis nothing he has done that he wouldnnot do again. This is the second surprisenof the novel, that, after the surpassingnmiserable life Simmons describes, henassures us it was rich and worthy.n”Self-knowledge—not happiness—is the issue here, and the hero’s pursuitnof it is uplifting.”n—Newsweekntious fools, unless they leave the Order,nin which case they are like “Sister Noelitan. . . who taught the fifth grade;neveryone thought this was great goodnluck. She left the Order the next year.”nBut Mother Ecclesiastica, the oldestnnun in the school, was “brown andnwrinkled, and once whipped him andnanother boy with a cat-o’-nine-tails.”nThe lay instructor, again, is “bright andnpretty.” The consistency of bigotrynis almost surprising, beginning with:n”His eight years at St. Ursula’s GrammarnSchool coincided with the depression”n(small “d”), to the friend, Robert,nwho spurns a pretty girl to become anpriest, then as if by the natural ordern101nChronicles of CulturenThis is Simmons’ confusion. His valuesnare reducible to the dilettante’s wellturnednphrase, and no more. Self-esteemnand a “sophisticated” knowledge of thenworld sum up what is important to him;nwhen old age puts them out of reachnhe will satisfy himself by inventing newnwisecracks and idiosyncrasies.nBut the novel is also full of unplumbednsadness. It is obvious that Simmonsnactually thinks this way; his characternis really supposed to be admirable, wise,nand chic. The author’s carefully craftedntone of pathos and nostalgia is a frontnfor envy; Simmons wishes his book werenautobiographical, and seems to believenhe has created a character and a waynnnof life his readers would want to emulate.nIn his mind, it is worth it even tonbe thought of as a fool, since only commonnpeople think him one, people likenbarbers and women and employers. Because,naccording to Simmons, his manin-charge-of-his-lifenreally knows thentruth about life. The truth is himself,nand nothing and no one else matter.nX. his kind of preoccupation with selfnis not new in literature. What is probablynmost striking about it in Wrinkles,nthough, is that Simmons coats it withnromance, grafting onto his characternthe requisite virtues of any swashbucklingnman-of-the-world: intellect, virility,nobjectivity, and tolerance, a compositenof Zorba the Greek, Jake Barnes, andnEmerson—a veritable Renaissance man.nHe stands above mere mortals in hisnsmug knowledge of himself, ordainednby his own penetrating insight into life,nto travel through the world unappreciatednand unadmired by others. Simmonsnthus willingly dwells on his character’snhuman flaws and faults, which are tonbe thought insignificant when measurednagainst his eloquent, though irreverentnvision of the world.nIf Simmons had made his protagonistna sheet metal worker or a bank tellernor a travel agent, his novel might havenbeen fascinating, or at least absorbing.nOf course it wouldn’t be as titillating,nfor steel workers and tellers aren’t ordinarilynthought to get away with as muchnas novelists. But no, Simmons makesnhim a writer, as Herzog was, and NicknAdams, and Stephen Dedalus, and lately,nT. S. Garp. Writing about writers is angenre itself, and great and mediocrennovelists have availed themselves of itnbecause it affords so much opportunitynfor aimlessness qua freedom in thenstorytelling. That something poignantnand artistic will emerge from a booknabout a writer is an assumption oftennmade quite without reason. WithnWrinkles, it is a substantive sign thatnSimmons never intended to say anythingnoriginal, but to pack up his cliches andnclimb aboard the bandwagon for a fastn