ing each other in the hamlets of Iowa. Itnmay be that Casey’s setting of Iowa,nsuggestive as it is of the quintessentiallynAmerican scene, is the sole redeemingnfeature of his novel.nJ. here have always been more thannenough novelists who are rememberednas “stylists”; D.H. Lawrence is one, JohnnUpdike will probably be another. Theynmake lasting though shallow impressionsnon literature on the basis of their vividnimagery and flowing sentence structure,nbut certainly not on the basis of theirncontributions to wisdom. Conversely,nAlexander Solzhenitsyn’s historical novelsnmay be ponderous in places, but theynexpress a majestically intelligent visionnof the world, that forces itself on thenreader with visceral, rough-hewn eloquencenand power. John Casey, howevernendeavors to be a stylist first, as Lawrencenwas. He therefore writes such lines as:n”Lying in bed afterward, Mac thoughtnthat periods of time once lived throughnbecame spheres set in motion—alteringneach other’s orbits, charged with negativenand positive memory, dischargingnat different rates, obscuring each other,nsome dull and large masses of a somberninfluence, some bright and small,napparently emitting the new ordernof energy . . .”nThat kind of stuff permeates his novel,nand bores his readers. Perhaps the writernof the great American romance ought tonbe allowed some stylistic self-indulgence.nBut Casey wallows in it, and the paragraphsnand pages fly by before Mac hasngotten out of bed. If anything, it detractsnfrom the author’s style, because, as withnany writer, style is an uneven quality.nSooner or later it shifts, and the stylistnmust come back to earth, and get hisnstory moving.nIt is not Casey’s style, however, butnhis story that makes his book cheap andntrashy. Mac and Anya meet, go to bed,nmove in together, and, in the pioneerntradition, head west to Iowa, to join annamateur theatre troupe led by Andrew, anhomosexual who admires Anya’s wit.n16nChronicles of CulturenEnsconced in Iowa, Anya and Macnlive together amid reminiscences of sleazyntrysts of years past. Anya, proceedingnwith her play arranging, sodomizes antelevision director out of artistic frustration,nand finds that “this man . . . hadninitiated her in a way, released a shadowynpresence in her, at a depth far below hernirritation, below her sneering at him,nbelow her laughing at herself, below anynof her ironic amusements.” Mac, cast asna down-to-earth traditional type, revertsnto farming, leaving the ironic amusementsnto Anya and Andrew.nThis goes on, a few plays are produced,nand we are introduced to Peewee, a lostnwaif of Haight-Ashbury caliber, whonquickly gets involved in a menage a trotsnwith Anya and Mac. She does absolutelynnothing for the next one hundred pages,nuntil appearing in a grotesquely pornographicnmovie produced by Mercks, ancollege playboy who encourages Anya tonproduce her film, “Iowa Girl,” her triumphnand the subject of the final chapter.nAfter considerable soul-searching,nthroughout which Anya is tempted bynthe “permanence” she has found in Iowa,nshe gives it up and returns, alone, tonNew York for bigger and better thingsnin filmdom, leaving Mac with the pigsnand chickens. We’re left wondering if henends up following her.nIt may be that the freewheeling sex,nthe farming, and the theatrical projectsnare intended to transform Anya and Macnthe end it’s hard to see what they arensupposed to have accomplished, ornlearned. They, and all Casey’s personagesnare stark, empty caricatures, meant tonrepresent some stereotype of the Age:nAnya, the smart-aleck sophisticated bratnfrom Radcliffe; Mac, the strong, silentnArmy veteran and Ivy League hockeynstar—both lifted, it seems, intact fromnEric Segal. The others, Peewee, Mercks,nand Henniker, Anya’s intellectuallynburnt-out ex-boyfriend, and Tassie, hernold college roommate, jaded by moneynand marriage, are nothing but embodimentsnof familiar modern neuroses.nTheir interaction is on the level of wiseguynone-upmanship, and even Mac andnAnya do little but hurl remarks of measurednsarcasm at each other. All of Casey’snstylistic gifts cannot save them, or us.nThe Americana is injected, to littlenavail, Casey knows the American landscape,nas his endless descriptions of castratingnpigs, rescuing stray cows, andnhouse-building prove. But the story henimposes on it makes it seem weird andnalien. His tale is totally detached from an,setting in time—there’s never a mentionnof who is president or the Vietnam War,nthough one senses that Anya is disgustednby the fact that Mac was in the Army.nWe can only guess at the setting inntime, but the rampant amorality of thenbook, from start to finish, makes it allnfamiliar enough.n”An American Romance is a major work, a finely detailed novel of character andnsensibility.”n— Saturday Reviewn”An American Romance is crafted with an academic’s zeal for ideas .nwrite a feminist novel.’ It looks that way to me.”nCan a mann”Yet Anya’s dynamic overpowers simple generational physics. She is archetypal, notnbourgeois . . . she avoids the career-girl cameo totally, so that, for example, she is ablento .sodomize, heroically, a producer for a favor. This is the frontier spirit attainingnescape velocity.”n— Village Voicenin some profoundly spiritual way. Macncertainly finds satisfaction in becomingnan expert farmer and handyman. Anyandevelops her skills as a director, but atnnn•Ms.nIt is the spotlighting of America thatnis perhaps most painful, if not insulting,nabout Casey’s book. He tells a dreary talenof empty lives, people engaging in un-n