The Big Puff
THE blurb of this book announces that Tom Wolfe's 'wildly unconventional pieces . . . are Topic Number One in New York literary circles. His prose has the bursting impact of a sky- rocket, showering cascades of metaphor, neolo- gism, hip phrases . . If you don't believe blurbs, well, several very reputable organs from a prominent evening newspaper to at least one of the Sunday heavies have given advance promises, between them, of a whole new interpretation of modern culture and a revolution in linguistic technique.
Mr. Wolfe; we were further told, was a fascinating young man with a Southern drawl and a personality so elusive that his enemies howled 'Communist' and 'Fascist' at him on alter- nate days of the week. Tom Wolfe was the prophet of the New Style, the greatest -and he most; and the publication over here of The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby . was an event of such significance for England that Mr. Wolfe was graciously flying into London for interviews, television appear- ances, and God (or the public relations officer) alone knew what.
And now it has all happened. A pleasant and rather limp young man, who speaks in a pleasant and rather limp voice, has appeared on BBC 3, where he was 'elusive' to the point of articulating nothing at all. The celebrated book, complete with jazzy cover designed by Jonatban Miller and a photograph of Mr. Wolfe (looking rather limp), has also appeared, and turns tout
to contain twenty-two essays, all of which have been previously printed in American magazines and all of which attain to a competent level of journalism. Just that. They are nicely written in a fluent and slangy manner; they have a beginning, a middle and an end. The linguistic revolution is confined to occasional mild audacities of punctuation and the manufacture of words like Teeeeeeeeeeeeeeee' the better to convey the American way of life.
As for the new interpretation of modern cul- ture, Mr. Wolfe's message is that for the first time in history 'the kids' and other proletarian elements 'have the money to build monuments to their own styles . . . custom cars, the twist . . . stretch pants, decal eyes': but all this is only an elaborate way of saying that if you give children money they will spend it on sweeties and toys, and it needs no Wolfe come from America to tell us that.
This is not at all a bad book, as well worth thirty bob as the next in the row. It contains some lively and quite funny descriptions of the American scene—Las Vegas and its electric signs, the Peppermint Lounge, frenetic disc jockeys, demolition derbies, all that. Although we've seen it all before on the pictures, we're delighted to have a talented chap like Mr. Wolfe to write it up for us, and other things being equal we wish him luck. This said, everything is said; so bon voyage, Tom Wolfe baby, and please don't slam the door on your way out.
SIMON RAVEN
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