This book has a kind of interesting genesis: Wolfe was one of the 'new journalism' movement's founders, and this was his first work of fiction. It was originally serialised in Rolling Stone. The serialisation could easily account for if not excuse the fact that it's about 200 pages too long, until you discover it was drastically rewritten before becoming a novel. Whoops.
There was a point in the middle where I kind of wished someone would sneak up on me and tear out some pages from the middle, but then, by the end, I COULD NOT stop reading it. At least 10% of that was because I was sick of the sight of it, but I can't attribute all my enthusiasm to that. When you're hungry, and someone hands you a deep friend hunk-of-shit burger you tuck in, unthinking, and then before you know it you're half way through, bad bread forming a difficult ball in your mouth and over-friend bits of fried stabbing you in the palatte. You realise your situation and are disgusted. Craving something nutritious, fresh, crunchy etc, you plow on regardless, until you're brushing crumbs off your shirt and wondering why you feel slightly nauseous. And then it's over, you move on. Why we do this, no one knows. Well: Book, burger, the similarities are obvious.
You know when two really hot people have a baby, and it's hideously ugly? Or when two really athletic people have a baby, and it's a total unco? It was kind of like Dostoevsky and DeLillo had a baby and it was Bonfire of the Vanities: it was neurotic and minute in it's analysis of humanity, but over written and dull, full of stereotypes and contained not one single woman with more than 2 dimensions. Some parts of it are very clever, and funny, and there's no doubting that dude is asking some great questions. And maybe it's meant to get monotonous?
I'd say leave it on the shelf unless you need a doorstop.
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I read this when I was going through my book snob phase, which involved going to the Book Affair second hand bookstore in Carlton lots, buying books that I'd heard were must-reads over the past 20 years (and of course all the journo wankers in my course LUUUURVE Tom Wolfe). You're right, some of it was really interesting, like all the masters of the universe and racial predetermination type sub plots, but meanadering as all hell. This was one book in sore need of an editing compass.
ReplyDeleteAnother case of when journalists write novels that are basically shithouse (see my earlier post on The Imperfectionists).
Helen Garner is exempt from my above comment naturally.
ReplyDeleteExactly! I mean, write books, if you like, Journalist, but don't mistake them for really, really, really long articles. They're different.
ReplyDeleteAlso, was Helen Garner a book writer (technical term) before she was a the other kind? So, you know, totally different story (pun, hilariously, intended).
I thought she was a journo first....but then again she wrote Monkey Grip when she was awfully young (confession: I have yet to read this book, but picked it up second hand in Canberra so is on The List).
ReplyDeleteYet to read Monkey Grip?! That's because you live on the wrong side of the river ;)
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