themselves, which can be no betternthan the books authors and pubhshersnmake available, is the quality of manynof the reports of books during thosenfirst years, which are the work of thenClub’s judges and staff. ChristophernMorley’s report on Dashiell Hammett’snThe Thin Man, to mention anstriking example, is not literary “hype”nbut serious criticism. It lets the readernknow what to expect: “It is told entirelynin crisp, blunt, sometimes brutal, dialogue.nIt is done with remarkable skill.n… It comes uncomfortably close tonthe realities of New York murder: sordid,ngrim, steeped in alcohol.” Hisnreview of a very different kind of book,nEvelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited,nis literary criticism on a high leveln— judicious, beautifully written, itnhelps the reader to understand thencircumstances and deeper meaning ofnthe story. An essay by RandolphnChurchill, “Captain Evelyn Waugh,”nis equally satisfying—“His favoritennovelist,” we are told, “is Trollope. Henhas never read Gone With the Windnand never will. He cannot drive anmotorcar. He would prefer to receive anknighthood than to have his book selectednas the book-of-the-month.”nThere are other distinguished reviewsnduring those early years of the Club,nseveral by Christopher Morley, CliftonnFadiman’s review of Graham Greene’snThe Heart of the Matter. But I wasnparticularly impressed by DorothynCanfield Fisher’s review and sharpncriticism of John O’Hara’s Appointmentnin Samarra and the fact that itnwas sent to the members of the Club atnall, because it seems clear that it wasnwritten to induce them not to buy thenbook. “The point is,” Mrs. Fisher tellsnher readers, “… that it is one ofnthose books with no great inherentnimportance which sum up a literaryntendency. Ever since the war, onenschool of fiction has been pushingnfarther and farther toward what theyncall honesty. ‘Honesty’ for them is andenial of any important springs ofnhuman action except alcohol and sex,nand the use of bald outspoken vocabularynin calling attention to the usuallynnot-mentioned functions and organsnof the human body. … It will bencalled a picture of life, and so it is, anjazzed up picture of a singularly unimportantnsection of life.” It is probablynjust as well that Mrs. Fisher didn’t livento experience some of the more recentnselections of the Club, those, for example,nby John Irving or John Updike,nor E.L. Doctorow, whom Bryan Griffinnaptiy describes in Panic Among thenPhilistines as “a popular writer of rathernsmutty political novels.”nBooks by such writers as John Updike,nJohn Irving, or E.L. Doctorownare not the only selections during recentnyears, but they take a prominentnplace in the book under review andnmark a sharp contrast with the characternof the books selected in earliernyears. Irving’s The World According tonGarp is reviewed by Mordecai Richler,n”the Club’s demon judge from Canada,”nas he is described, who is givenncredit for helping “to introduce Irvingnto the reading public.” Garp, Mr.nRichler tells us, “is a loopy novel ofninspired anarchy.” Garp and his wife,nHelen, “have two adorable children.nThey love each other. Carp provesnvulnerable to pretty baby sitters, andnHelen, an English professor by thisntime, indulges in a meaningless affairnwith one of her students. Bizarre incidentsnproliferate. So does rape. Sondoes murder. So does emasculation ofnHelen’s lover.” But however sordidnand demeaning all this may be, thennovel is redeemed, we are assured, “byna disarming tenderness and a largentalent that announces itself on practicallynevery page.” One other book bynJohn Irving, The Cider House Rules, isnreviewed in the history. The fact thatntwo of the 60 books chosen to representnthe history of the Book-of-the-nMonth Club are by John Irving saysnsomething about the esteem withnwhich he is presently regarded amongnthe Club’s authors. Whittaker Chambers’nWitness, by way of contrast,nwhich was a selection, is not mentionednin the history, although John P.nMarquand, in the Club’s report to itsnmembers, praises it as ” . . . the bestnexplanation yet to be presented of thenCommunist mind and the Communistnclimate” and concludes, “Thenbook was not written as literature, butnliterature it is of a high order.”nJohn Updike’s The Witches of Eastwicknis reviewed by David McCullough.nHe describes the three “witches”nas “blousy suburban retreads of thenthree classical Graces. Not that theirnlives are all that graceful. Their franticnlove affairs may remind seasoned Up­nnndike readers of the bed-hopping wivesnin his earlier novel Couples, since, asnhe puts it here, ‘being a divorcess in ansmall town is like playing Monopoly;neventually you land on all the properties.'”nThe reviewer comes to no particularnconclusion about the book, nornrecommends it beyond mentioningnthe “frank sex scenes,” and concluding,n”John Updike has given us anwitches’ sabbath to remember.”nConsidering my rather slight firsthandnacquaintance with Updike andnIrving, it may appear presumptuous ofnme to make any generalizations aboutnthem, but the temptation is irresistible.nAlthough not a seasoned TVwatcher,neither—we don’t even ownnone—I am prepared to make the statement,non the basis particularly of Updike’snOf the Farm and Irving’s Garp,nthat such books are written for peoplenwhose mental horizons are stronglyninfluenced, if not determined, by television.nThere is no coherent development,nonly a series of more or lessnunrelated incidents. Everything is describednin great detail so that nothingnin the way of participation is demandednof the reader, who is treated as anviewer and nothing more.nA review of the history of the Bookof-the-MonthnClub necessarily becomesna review of the Book Club itselfnWhen Harry Scherman first launchednhis project, I remember, the objectionnwas raised that it would have the effectnof standardizing the taste and readingnhabits of all those thousands of BooknClub members in every part of thencountry, receiving and obedientlynreading the monthly selection chosennfor them by a small group of judges innNew York. Al Silverman, in his introduction,nmeets this objection by pointingnout that the members of the Clubncan, if they wish, order the monthlynselection, but they may also choosenfrom a large group of other books. As anmatter of fact, in whatever fashion thenBook Club operates, the reading habitsnof the whole country, or at least ansubstantial part of it, are largely determinednby a small group of people innNew York, whether or not they helpnselect books for the Club—the people,nthat is, who write the reviews thatnappear in the New York Times, thenNew York Review of Books, The NewnYorker, Publishers Weekly, or the LibrarynJournal. It is the opinions of thisnAPRIL 1987/23n