On the plus side, The Bonfire of the Vanities compares well with Balzac's stuff. I mean, the methods are similar. The story follows several very different characters living in New York, and each scene is detailed, particularized, diced, analyzed, painted with a very fine brush. Many layers of New York society are represented, and most situations go beyond merely believable; they're totally authentic, and masterfully so. There are in this book, when all is said and done, no moral messages, no lessons to be learned, just life in New York in the late 'Eighties or early 'Nineties at its most intense, presented as "business as usual." There are corrupt politicians, lascivious prosecutors, moronic members of the jury; Ivy League graduates working the stock market and imagining they are on top of the world; cynical lawyers; less-than-bright policemen; political opportunists; socialites; priests; opera singers; real estate agents with five thousand dollar nails, glossy lipstick, and no moral side whatsoever; rich faithful wives who deserve to be strangled, except it never occurs to anyone to strangle them; mistresses on the make; petty criminals; immigrants; bone-headed journalists and feminists of both genders; racial and ethnic tension - and on and on. It's a lot of fun.

On the other hand, the opus just doesn't qualify as, well, "the Balzac of our time." Not even as the Ball Zack of our time. No scene is picturesque enough to be called cinematographic, and for a novel 800 pages long that's a bit, well, loquacious (on the author's part). The author tends to explain too much, and fits people and scenes together in such a way as to promote, well, his own agenda, leaving the attentive reader no choice but to examine the latter. Upon closer examination, it turns out that Mr. Wolfe's agenda is to show that people in general are vile, selfish, obtuse creatures (without exception); that life in general is a pretty ridiculous affair; and that, when all is said and done, any joy anyone ever derives from living is brief, accidental, and usually comes at the expense of others. To put it plainly, THERE IS NO GOD in this novel. Its an atheist opus, from start to finish; there's neither faith, hope, nor love in it. None. In that sense, it is totally flat.

(I realize I said there were no moral messages in the book. There aren't any. What I just described is a METHOD, not a message).

Literature thrives on extraordinary situations in which characters are inspired to perform extraordinary acts. The element of suprise in Wolfe's novel is purely circumstantial. In his story, people have no free will. (All atheists are determinists more or less by definition, I suppose).

In the past, I've had some interesting experiences related to the publication of this novel. Two years after it came out (in the early 'Nineties, I believe), the news finally reached the Philistines, and by Philistines I mean those representatives of the middle class (and, sometimes, the upper middle class; I have nothing to say about the actual upper class since no one, not even the representatives of the said class themselves, can figure out what the hell they're up to, what it is they do all day, and what their problem is) ... uh ... where was I? ... Philistines ... those representatives of the middle class that once in a while make a lukewarm (half-assed, to put it plainly) effort to appear CULTURED, which, in their view, is about catching a program on the History Channel once in a while and telling others that they're reading "this book, it's actually very good." They never seem to finish that book (whatever it happens to be), for some reason. I mean, they sort of struggle through the first twenty pages, and then skim through the rest, and make plans to read it properly when they visit Aruba next year, or some such. They're always too busy; there's never any free time. One would think that if they stopped being busy for a moment, civilization would just fall apart forever. Anyway, this dude had a copy of "Bonfire" in his briefcase and was telling me (his colleague) how everybody recommended this book to him and all. He was going to read it when he was less busy. He actually DID take it to Aruba with him (there was also a wife involved, I believe). He came back, I believe, without having finished it. A year later he died. He was a good guy, too. Reading just wasn't his thing, as Philistines like to say.

Anyway, when "Bonfire" came out, the hype was considerable, which for me is nearly always a turn-off. And then the movie came out (which, incidentally, was far more politically incorrect than the book, and the choice of actors and actresses was just UNBELIEVABLE; I loved it). So I put off reading "Bonfire" until, oh, I don't know, maybe after 9/11. By that time, home video games had become so popular, crime rates started dropping everywhere across the nation, including New York (for which then-Mayor Giuliani took all the credit, of course; whereas, as much as I hate saying this, if any credit is due, Mr. Bill Gates should be getting most of it. Well, no matter; I mean, we often hear that such-and-such person is the father and mother of this or that genre in literature, or theatre, and that without such-and-such person novels would not even exist; and we invariably forget to mention the medieval German monk who is, in fact, solely responsible for making it all possible (literature, science, and what have you)). Anyway, in the year 2002, when I finally read it, the novel struck me as a bit dated. Not that any issues described in it (with a flourish), social and otherwise, had become a thing of the past. No. They're very much with us still. And yet, the overall emphasis has shifted a little.

The book is constantly balancing on the edge of political correctness, even though it never goes beyond the boundaries, not once. Even so, few other authors would dare show a book that probes so many "untouchable," "sacred-cow" issues to an editor, and few editors would touch a book of this sort with a hundred-foot pole. The advantage of being Tom Wolfe, I suppose, is that after during his few decades of creative aggressive journalism (starting back in the '60's), the man gradually accustomed everyone to the fact that he says outrageous things and gets away with it. The degree of outrage had increased over the years, and today Mr. Wolfe can (I would imagine) get away with saying pretty much anything, because he knows that no one will take it (or him) seriously.

It is worth remembering, while reading this novel, that its author belongs to the glorious school of Southern authors with New York careers: the crux of American literature. God bless.