Her fixations about men, women and thenworld begin to change as the ennui of hernprofessional success wears away thenscars over the old wounds of her personalnlife.nIronically, she finally learns somethingnabout herself and life, not fromnthe feminists or her liberated friends,nbut from several men who have movednon the fringes of her life. Hugo, an amputeenwriter and friend, teaches her perseverancenand how to move on to newnhorizons when old ones fade. Her sonnMark is everything that feminists denynis possible in a man: gentleness, love,nunderstanding, concern. Most paradoxicallynof all, Mujid, the Iraqi whom Katenand her smart friends have never triednto understand, proves by a simple giftnwhat being human is all about.nThus Kate learns what many womennhave come to realize—that true femininenliberation is to be found outsidenthe narrow inquisitorial orthodoxy ofnthe gospel according to Steinem, Abzug,nMiUett and Greer. Unfortunately thesenare points that we must extrapolate fromnthe novel, for Miss Drabble is contentnmerely to imply (and the point will irritatenmany feminist readers) that thenwomen’s movement is basically flawednin some of its fundamental assumptions.nOne can hope that she will move on tondeal with the implications she has raisednin The Middle Ground.n(jilbert Sorrentino’s Aberration ofnStarlight, on the other hand, is simplynpretentious and hopeless, both as apiecenof fiction and as a statement of any consequence.nTo call it a novel would benmisleading, for Sorrentino obviously intendednit to be an antinovel, in this casennothing more than a formless, incoherentnand tasteless farrago about the sexualnhangups and lecherous incompetence ofna group of—“marginal” would be toonkind a word—forgettable people livingnin a seedy New Jersey boarding housenfor about thirty-six hours in the summernof 1939. More simply, the story concernsnthe clumsy attempts of Tom Thebus,neasily the dumbest salesman in lit­nerature since Willie Loman, to get MarienRecco, a neurotic divorcee, out of hernclothes and into the back seat of his car.nHis attempts to seduce Marie are complicatednby the presence of Billy (herncross-eyed son) and her goatish, foultemperednand bumbling father, JohnnMcGrath.nSorrentino’s story is muddled rightnfrom the beginning (with four pedanticngraphs.nTh us The Middle Ground and Aberrationnof Starlight suffer from failed asrnpirations. Miss Drabble has aimed at anrealistic portrayal of the dissatisfactionsnof an aging feminist, while Sorrentinonattempts to satirize a group of patheticnmisfits. But both realism and satire startnwith a human reference point, and if then”Ahtrrjiion nt Starlis>bl i.s a (ILsciplincd and achieved work, jM’rhap.s Sorrentino’snbi-st iiovi’l . . .”n— The New Repuhticnepigraphs in three languages) to itsnwhimpering close. By means of sexualnfantasies, boring and slangy lettersnwhich tell little, interviews which go nowhere,ndisconnected fragments of dialogue,nand footnotes (yes—footnotes!),nthe author describes, ad nauseam, thensame meager episodes from four pointsnof view. The rapid and confusing shiftsnin perspective, the dislocations in stylenand tone, the redundancy of plot maynvery well define the trendy antinovel,nbut they do nothing for the reader innsearch of a character.nAfter all this literary horseplay,nthere’s really not much left. We’re supposednto laugh at the neovirginal doubtsnof Marie as she fights off the hot-handednTom, at John McGrath as he leers at thenGerman widow, and even at poor tenyear-oldnBilly. But the laughter will notncome. Rather than being funny, Sorrentinonis merely being cruel at the expensenof characters whose lives are as trivialnas the popular songs, fifth-rate poetrynand scruffy thoughts by which theynmeasure out their days.nIf a theme is to be found, it might benhidden in the most profound and stylisticallynstriking sentence in the wholenbook: “Time wounds all heels,” as Marienreminds her ex-husband. Perhaps Sorrentinonintended the burden of the booknto be carried by a final epigraph—“Thenmeanest bloody thing in hell made thisnworld”—but unfortunately this has asnlittle relationship to what happens innthe book as the title and the other epi-nnnrealist or the satirist cannot provide usnwith characters who engage our attention,nevoke our sympathy or invite ournanger, we will remain skeptical. For allnthe good intentions of both Miss Drabblenand Mr. Sorrentino, the people ofnthese two novels are marginal in theirnvitality as human beings and marginal inntheir usefulness to us. But as such theynreflect the world in which their authorsnchoose to set them. •nUuniiiii C^finccrns in American/’•;/.ii/’i. ilii SIIIU1H siipplfnii’iir to l.iuiilvniif^.-ip.iix’is, hds a Iriiiicd th pyi imuiit. “HIT-n”ioTi.ilicx P.naJf.” Ill vvhii’h it tiiini-sht’Sn.XiiiiTK.i uitli momc-iitoiis “tuct.s.”‘ “npini(Mis’n(tnd “rniili.s .icLorLiin>{ to its ownni.ri*i.lir Iini VVt- f.in ri-iid tlicrt’:n(.). I li)H much v,\ ir cosi iMich^rl I aiitliinn’ti. *.iar tif ‘Littlt- 1 lou*.o on rhcnPraii [L’.” if \f Juiiips his witt lor Cindvn(;i.ik.>. .2>n. .tii-i IS iMis i;t nijiiiili>c dlld fournkhiMii-n. I .iiidon accoriliii;; lo din^iiiii IiiMvi-is will h.ivi’ ri» sftflc alnIt’.isi •s’S iiniiuin un his wih- 1 viin innLiMiiiiuiintv pii>pL’ii>. txis.si|ily muchnnutiL.nSiKiiiict, biisint’siiiki’. tnsl.il cic.ii. -‘o iin-n.iiistti’Ril iiui-siions, no duiiht.s, no hcsitatioiis.n11 Miu hjvf S5 million or nioic,ndiiiiipini: .1 will’ doi-s noi pose .im oiht-rnpmlili’iiis Tiic rri’L’ prcs.s m America won’tnlit oii L’o unintoriiicd. [jnMarch/April 1981n