matters in Iran. The Shah’s predecessorsnwere often devoted exponents of thenpyramid-of-skulls school of statesmanship.nKelly perhaps overdoes his theme ofnthe unchanging East. He is apt to reasonna bit too facilely from precedent and tonignore or minimize the impact of thenmodern world on the Middle East andnthe ability of its peoples at least partlynto adapt to it. We are told, for example,nthat the Iranian army has never foughtnwell in the past, and Iran has never had annavy; therefore, Kelly seems to assume,nthey cannot and will not fight now, ornlearn to handle modern weapons. Yetnthe Iranian army has fought much betternagainst Iraq than Kelly and others expected.nAlthough Kelly does presentngood reasons for thinking that the presentnpolicies of the Gulf rulers will notnlead to successful modernization of theirnMarginal PeoplenMargaret Drabble: The MiddlenGround; Alfred A. Knopf; NewnYork.nGilbert Sorrentino: Aberration ofnStarlight; Random House; NewnYork.nby Robert C. Steensmanr’iiVj years ago T. S. Eliot spoke ofnhis generation as “the hollow men . . .nthe stuffed men” in a “dead land … cactusnland.” Now Kate Armstrong, thencentral figure in Margaret Drabble’s latestnnovel, surveys her circle of friendsnand describes them aptly as “marginalnpeople,” a set of confused and meaninglessncharacters who are quite at home innthe wasteland of modern culture as it isnusually portrayed in contemporary Britishnand American fiction.nSuch an appraisal of society’s beauti-nDr. Steensma is professor of English atnthe University of Utah.nChronicles of Culturencountries, he perhaps dismisses the possibilityntoo readily. Unfortunately, hisnarguments for believing that if the MiddlenEast ever catches up with the Westnand Japan it will be as an enemy rathernthan as a friend seem all too sound.nIn the short run, however, Kelly isnabsolutely convincing in arguing thatnthe Saudi regime cannot be depended onnany more than the Shah’s. He also takesna very bleak view of the economic effectsnof the OPEC drain on the West. It isnprobable, he thinks, that the West willneventually be forced to intervene militarilynto prevent the total disruption of oilnsupplies by local conflicts, another oilnembargo or a Soviet threat to the Gulf.nThis is a very unpleasant prospect, andnone that could have been avoided hadnWestern leaders exhibited some nervenand sense in dealing with the Gulf andnthe oil cartel. Dnful people may be heresy in the eyes ofnthe high priests of modern criticism, butnit fits precisely the characters not onlynof Miss Drabble’s The Middle Groundnbut also those of Gilbert Sorrentino’snAberration of Starlight, both of whichnwill probably evoke ecstatic squeals fromnthe critical establishment. In each ofnthese novels we meet people who are, fornthe most part, entirely bereft of anynmoral or spiritual moorings—and whondon’t really care.nMiss Drabble gives us Mrs. Armstrong,nthe journalistic darling of thenmilitant British feminists, a woman nervouslynapproaching middle age (“thenmiddle ground”) and anxiously examiningnthe baggage she has accumulated onnher rise to the top: a divorce, an abortion,na circle of chic friends with toonmuch leisure and too few brains, and anpanting femlib audience which greetsnevery new article with mindless applause.nShe has drifted with the modern current,npouring out her facile piecesnnn(probably just right for Ms., Cosmo orntheir British clones) about “babies andnmenstruation and male-chauvinist pigsnand whole-meal foods and London life innall its tawdry monotony.” But as one ofnher precious friends tells her in a momentnof drunken honesty, she has “annunerring eye for the crap.” True radicalnfeminist that she is, she is convincednthat “every bad thing that’s happenednto me happened to me because I’m anwoman. There’s no point in pretendingnit’s not so.” Whatever can’t be blamednon men must be attributed to childhood:n”No doubt it all had something to donwith the anal phase, whatever that was.nAnd pot training. Wasn’t homosexualitynsupposed to have something to do withnthat too?”nBut despite her successes as a writer,nshe becomes dissatisfied with her life fornreasons which the author never makesnintelligible. She confesses that “Inthought I was a revolutionary, but I’mnnot … I used to enjoy the smell of battle,nbut I’ve got sick of it, I’m really sicknof it. I’m worn out.” Since her privatenlife has degenerated into a series of sournlove affairs with sexual losers, love isnno longer “a journey, an adventure, annessay of hope,” but rather “an infection,na ritual, a drama with a bloody last act.”nHaving made the fatal mistake of thenfeminist in believing that a woman cannfind fulfillment only in a career (even ifnit’s clerking in a five-and-dime) butnnever in family or a relationship with anman, she discovers suddenly that the warnagainst male chauvinism no longernarouses her. She decides what she wants:nNo more headlines, no more underlinings,nno more stories about Womennof Our Times. No wonder those womennin Rowley didn’t fit into a pattern.nWhy the hell should they.’ Enough ofnpatterns. She’d spent enough timenlooking for patterns and trends. Hugonwas right, she’d get nowhere if shenspent the rest of her life forcing thingsninto articles and programmes whennthey didn’t want to be forced. Shapelessndiversity, what was wrong withnthat?n