Boredom, Sex, and Murdern”… knew every quirk within lust’s labyrinthnand were professed critic in lechery. “n—Ben JonsonnE. L. Doctorow: Lives of the Poets:nA Novella and Six Stories; RandomnHouse; New York.nNorman Mailer: Tough Guys Don’tnDance; Random House; New York.nCracks are appearing in the idol ofnhigh culture fabricated by thenVictorians. Matthew Arnold eloquentlynexpressed the vision of the educatednperson who joins moral commitmentnwith breadth of vision and transcendsnthe narrowness of religion and thenshallowness of pure aestheticism. Thisnideal of harmony, overtime, hardenedninto a petty orthodoxy—antiphilistinengestures against the beliefs most peopleninherited. The educated liberal couldnfeel assured that his enlightened positionsnand his seriousness about art as ansurrogate religion (another, less happy,nfeature of Arnold’s thought) both guaranteednhis superiority over the benightednmasses and would also findnvindication in history.nSigns of wavering belief, however,nhave been appearing for some timennow. New ideas are not fitting into thenprescribed modes, making the correctnritualistic gestures hard to enact withngrace. Even within the temples of art,nquestions arise about the civilizingnvalue of learning and literature, asnintellectual skepticism begins to devournits parents. Two recent novels,nwithout exactly meaning to, show thencracks in the once complacent view ofnthe world, as the void left by thenrepudiation of the past exacts its pricenon the makers of culture.nAt a publication party for a NewnYork writer (one of the “poets” of thencollection’s longish tide story) a boozynauthor confronts Doctorow’s narratornwith a lugubrious question: “Tellnme … is there a writer here whonreally believes in what he is doing? DonRobert Geary is head of the Englishndepartment at James MadisonnUniversity.n10/CHRONICLES OF CULTUREnby Robert F. GearynI? Do you?” For the narrator the awkwardnmoment passes, but for the readernthe question lingers after he finishesnthis blessedly short, banal, first-personnglimpse into the mid-life crises overtakingnthe narrator and his literarynfriends. What depresses the reader isnnot the simple suspicion that Lives ofnthe Poets represents a successful author’snattempt to cash in on his namenby putting out a handful of fairlynopaque short stories and a semiautobiographicalnreflective narrative atn$15 for the batch. Pecuniary itches,nlike occasional bad books, are commonnenough even in good writers.nWhat sinks the spirits is the lack of anynnnserious vision, however askew ornflawed, in the 60 pages of musings thatnconstitute the book’s final section.nEven a hastily done book can tellnmuch about an author: Doctorow’snlatest suggests narrative skill withoutnany corresponding range of insight.nEven at best, the mid-life tribulationsnof Manhattan literati are a subjectnboth insular and sad. Will thennarrator return from self-imposed separationnand rejoin his fastidious wife ofn18 years in suburban comfort, abandoningnthe bohemian chic of the Village?nOr will he take off with a cool.npromiscuous Eng. Lit. prof half hisnyears? Will he, after a lifetime ofnaccomplishment, sink slowly into dereliction?nThe last possibility seems unlikely,ngiven his testy self-possessionnand detachment. Neither of the firstn