The Bonfire Of The Vanities (2001) - Plot & Excerpts
I hope Tom Wolfe has gotten so laid because of this book. I hope women have put down this book, thrown on some lingerie, and walked over to his apartment – unless Wolfe is gay, in which case, I hope men have done the lingerie thing. I hope women (or men) invented a time machine to travel back in time and lay young Tom Wolfe because of this book. I hope Tom Wolfe has gotten anybody he’s ever wanted – x-ray, lemon tart, girls with any shade of lipstick imaginable, men with impressive sternocleidomastoid muscles. Anybody! Not that I’m recommending everyone start stalking him. Consent first, of course. But, I wish on Tom Wolfe a lifetime supply of sex and ice cream because of this book. I’m pretty sure he’s gotten it, but just in case, my wish is out there. The idea of writing such a beautiful book kills me. How does it happen? How does someone put something this perfect together? And I don’t even want to know. I just want to read it over and over again, mystery intact.This book made me scream and gasp and stop, sit, and stare. This is one of the audios I listened to while I walked to work, so the neighborhoods of Eugene had the dubious privilege of waking to my shrieks and hysterical cackling for many mornings in April because of Tom Wolfe. Towards the end, I had to listen in private, so that my sobbing wouldn’t embarrass the neighbors or lead to a meltdown at work. Mixed results.Wikipedia told me that Wolfe modeled his writing after Thackeray and Dickens. It seems so obvious after you say it, but rather than realizing that, I just kept thinking, I've never read anything like this before. It was something entirely new to me. And it is because it is a book that feels so current and urban, while it clearly has classical structure and the involved plotting of Dickens and Thackeray. When I started, I thought it would probably be too dick-lit for me because it was clearly shaping up to be so hardboiled and because I think of Wolfe being in a whole gaggle of male authors who want to talk about how tough it is to have a penis and be so emotionally unavailable. Boo hoo. I have very little attention for that type of thing. But, this, this. This was wonderful. And it was dick-lit, but it was not in the least self-indulgent. It was even cruel, it looked so hard, and so carefully, at masculinity and cowardice. But, the structure of the plot was like a machine, just in the way that the plots of Thackeray and Dickens are. I could feel the sweat and grease of the writing process on the page, or, rather, hear it in the audio track. This book lives in the foundries of humanity; it is crafted from the fires and steel of the human heart. For the most part, this book looks at three horrible men and how their egos and senses of puffed-up worthlessness control and destroy their lives. There are a few brilliant recurring themes in the book that I could not love more – the white whale, the Masters of the Universe. This book actually uses He-Man as a recurring metaphor to this beautiful moment where a character, steeped in his own awesomeness yells out in his head, “I have the power!!” So, so, so, so, so, so, so wonderful.And the courtroom scenes!! Oh, the courtroom scenes. Devastating swoon over those. They made all the hairs on my body stand on end. How can a person describe what happens in a courtroom? Like THIS! This book is what happens in courtrooms. This book is what happens in criminal justice. It got everything just right. The belts and shoelaces, the defendants demanding rights, the defense attorneys running in late because they were in another courtroom, the hot jurors, the underpaid DA. And oh my god, Kramer’s sternocleidomastoid muscles! Remember that?? It made me die laughing every time that came up. I swear to god there is a DA like that in Lane County. And the part where Martin and Goldberg have to give Sherman his rights. Oh my god. So wonderful. And Judy.So, I have nothing insightful to say about this book because . . . just read it. Practically the minute I started reading it, it made me think of a dear friend of mine because of its urban steel and fire, so I will say something about that association because I can clearly only swoon and sigh and flail about when it comes to the book itself. Like the men in this book, there is something strikingly normal about my friend when you first meet him. He is white office shirts, a neat haircut, and clean hands. He is success: a house in the suburbs, two blond children, and a wife who, with a stern hand, makes the family take annual pictures in matching clothes. And then you talk to my friend and find out that he is an evil genius, who has an opinion about everything and a hilarious story about everyone he’s ever met. But, you also know that the suburban thing, the normalcy, is true, too. The layers of his personality include fire and steel, and also funfetti cake, white office shirts, and Kraft singles. I think this book captures something of that kind of layered humanity in Sherman’s office decorum, American aristocratic habits, and bloody knuckles. It shows Kramer’s powerful sternocleidomastoid muscles with his shopping bag and running shoes, Peter’s head in an egg and landing of the white whale, Reverend Bacon’s noble speeches and greedy maneuverings. I think what I’m trying to say is that it struck me recently, probably at least partly because of this book, that the characteristics we show the world are us, and are not us all the same. None of us are inherently suburban or aristocratic, but our choices to appear those ways reveal something about who we actually are, who we are in the caves and recesses of our souls. Sherman is equally the shallow, self-involved Master of the Universe and the jungle fighter, but he is neither of those. My friend is urban fire and steel, and he is suburban success, and he is neither of those. Wolfe writes the show of humanity in a way that hilariously stages the show, and then digs and hammers into the caves and fiery core of who people are beyond it. Are we the dog trained to fight or the social x-ray in a party hive? The little girl sculpting a rabbit or the little boy commanding an office? Yes and no to all of that. Who we are is something different entirely, but always there, underneath the show - the force behind it. And the way Wolfe builds it all and then tears it all apart - I would never ask so much of a writer, but I am so glad this exists.
Ove la recensionista si rianima e decide che potrebbe ancora diventare qualcuno.Ok sono pronta:prima guardate questa foto.http://i874.photobucket.com/albums/ab...Ora questa.http://i874.photobucket.com/albums/ab...Ora quest’altra.http://i874.photobucket.com/albums/ab...Chi è l’intruso?Troppo difficile? Ok, cercherò di rendervi il gioco più facile.Un attimo che mescolo le carte. Non guardate eh?Ok, potete girarvi. Prima foto:http://i874.photobucket.com/albums/ab...Adesso guardate questa:http://i874.photobucket.com/albums/ab...E infine questa.http://i874.photobucket.com/albums/ab...Ripeto: qual è l’intruso?Qual è quel signore che probabilmente altro non sa fare se non contare le sue carte di credito, e l’unica penna che ha preso in mano, è quella d’oro massiccio che tiene nella tasca interna della giacca, per firmare gli assegni del suo coiffeur? Qual è quell’uomo che probabilmente passa le giornate in piscina assieme alle conigliette di Playboy mentre il maggiordomo gli legge impassibile il giornale? Qual è quell'uomo che pensate abbia più probabilmente un jet privato? Bravi!Quello con la faccia da dandy, esatto! Quello con l’atteggiamento radical chic, quello con l'aria dell’uomo che i soldi non fanno la felicità, ma figuriamoci la miseria! Giusto? Quello che se gli passate davanti, solo a guardarlo vi sentireste degli straccioni, nevvero?Ebbene quest’uomo qui (vi prego dategli un’ultima occhiata)http://i874.photobucket.com/albums/ab...ha scritto qualcosa. Ma non la lista della spesa, non un racconto, non una poesia. Non l'elenco dei Picasso e dei Lichtenstein che ha in casa.No cari miei, quest’uomo è riuscito a scrivere un libro possente, portentoso, universale, che ha un titolo altisonante come quell’altro che gli assomiglia tanto scritto da Thackeray. Ebbene questo damerino vestito di bianco, con la puzza sotto il naso, ha scritto “ IL FALO’ DELLE VANITA’ ”.Ora, a me piacerebbe davvero parlarvi della trama, di come questo ometto usi la penna, di quanto l’immedesimazione coi personaggi sia empatica; di quanto poco onore faccia al libro l’omonimo film di De Palma, che ha un doppiaggio che fa rimpiangere il cinema muto; di come si respiri a pieni polmoni l’atmosfera della New York anni ’80; di come fino ad oggi, fossi convinta che per leggere avvincenti gialli giudiziari fosse necessario comprare qualcosa di Grisham; di come per fortuna il libro non sia uscito nell'era degli Indignados; di come nello spazio fra l’ascesa e la caduta di un uomo ciò che fa la vera differenza è l’ipocrisia di chi lo circonda; di come certe scene siano talmente scenografiche che pensi che mister Puzza sotto il naso sia vissuto per decenni nel Bronx; di quanto sia possibile morire dentro prima che fuori; di quanto la vergogna da sola, sia capace di muovere il mondo; di quanto il senso di colpa sia dietro di lei a sostenerla quando nota un suo cedimento; eppure non ve ne parlerò, giuro che non lo farò: lascerò che sia il libro a catapultarvi in questo sublime affresco della società americana. E vi assicuro sarà un'esperienza memorabile. Da passeggiata sui carboni ardenti e brividini per la schiena.A voi chiederò invece solo tre minuti di raccoglimento per omaggiare il trionfo del combinato disposto tra il detto: “Le apparenze ingannano” e “L’abito non fa il monaco”.Quindi, buffoni di tutto il mondo unitevi a me. Non tutto è perduto. Un giorno, nonostante le nostre recensioni da “burlesque”, nonostante le nostre vite parodistiche, nonostante l’attitudine a trasformare ogni giornata in un enorme passo falso, in realtà siamo delle persone serie. Forse da vecchi scriveremo persino un libro. E un giorno tutti, ma proprio TUTTI saranno costretti a riconoscere che siamo personcine a modo. Speriamo magari mentre siamo ancora in vita come Wolfe. Che sarebbe meglio.
What do You think about The Bonfire Of The Vanities (2001)?
È inutile.Devo arrendermi all'idea che le frasi da retrocopertina abbiano cominciato ad azzeccarci con una frequenza insolente. "Una grande commedia umana" trionfa saccentemente nella didascalia de Il falò delle vanità senza che io riesca a trovare cavilli per smentirne la veridicità.Una commedia umana, una sfilata tragicomica (molto tragica e molto comica se si hanno ancora energie per ridere) di tipi-umani, tanto chirurgica da essere agghiacciante e magnifica al tempo stesso.E se diciamo commedia, diciamo Dante e diciamo viaggio infernale, perché di un viaggio infernale ci parla con sadico gusto anche il nostro Tom Wolfe - detto l'Impietoso - che ci accompagna lungo gli spasmi gli stridii le infimitá del nostro Tempo, addirittura anticipando l'inferno fra i vivi.Qui non si salvano nemmeno i bassotti.(A questo punto, mi chiedo: se siamo tutti - ma proprio tutti - così bassamente...umani, non saremmo forse tutti, e dico tutti, semplicemente umani?)P.s. ho qualche problema con il finale (frettoloso?), ma non mi sento per questo di mettere in dubbio, di scalfire tutta la perfezione diabolica che lo precede.
—Stefania T.
I have to admit, I was skeptical of this book before we started reading it. The jordabekcer-book-club choices are always great, but we've been heading down this path of picking only 500+ page books that we wouldn't otherwise read. Maybe they haven't all been that long, but it appears that they will be in the near future.I guess the thinking is, "If I have to wait 1200 pages of The Stand, 700 pages of Bonfire of the Vanities and 600?+ pages of The First Tycoon, then my pick had better be worth it 'cause it's gonna be a while before I get to pick again. (My next book choice is Gandhi's autobiography - 527 pages. Happy birthday Mr. Gandhiji. I'm writing this on Oct. 2nd.)So, I was skeptical - but once again it turned out to be really good. I mean, REALLY good. It took about 4 chapters for me to get into it, but it picked up at chapter 4.*Possible Spoilers - No more so than the inside flap though. Well... maybe a (*pinches fingers*) leeetle more*So, quick synopsis - Sherman McCoy makes millions selling bonds. He's a jerk, and he has a short temper. While he's out cheating on his wife he gets lost in the Bronx, thinks he's going to get jumped, flees and probably hits one of the kids he thinks is attacking him and his mistress. Yep... he's made all kinds of mistakes. So, the highly publicized and politicized hunt for McCoy is on.I can't say I found a single character redemptive at all. Maybe Campbell... but she was 6. And maybe Henry Lamb, but he didn't have much of a chance to prove that he was really a scum-bag at heart. I'm sure had he been given that chance, we would have learned he wasn't the honor student after all.Well done Jordabecker... well done indeed.
—Philip
Mental and good fun. Just like New York imagines itself to be. But New York is just annoying."Vulgar, but not as vulgar as Louis Vuitton, thought Sherman.""He gave the boy a wide-eyed smile of such warmth and love, it caused Kramer to swallow""If you consciously envisioned something that dreadful, then it couldn't possibly take place, could it ... God or Fate would refuse to be anticipated by a mere mortal, wouldn't He ... He always insisted on giving His disasters the purity of surprise, didn't He ...""The telephone blasted Peter Fallow awake inside an egg with the shell peeled away and only the membranous sac holding it intact. Ah! The membranous sac was his head, and the right side of his head on the pillow, and the yolk was as heavy as mercury, and it rolled like mercury, and it was pressing down on his right temple and his right eye and his right ear. If he tried to get up to answer the telephone, the yolk, the mercury, the poisoned mass, would shift and roll and rupture the sac, and his brains would fall out.""Like more than one Englishman in New York, he looked upon Americans as hopeless children whom providence had perversely provided with this great swollen fat fowl of a continent. Any way one chose to relieve them of their riches, short of violence, was sporting, if not morally justifiable, since they would only squander it in some tasteless and useless fashion, in any event.""but the Brits hung on every word with rapt and beaming faces, as if he were the most brilliant raconteur they had come across in the New World. They chuckled, they laughed, they repeated the tag ends of his sentences, like a Gilbert and Sullivan chorus.""Kramer felt embarrassed for the boy, who appeared to be deep in the book. The title was The Woman in the Dunes. As best as Kramer could make out from the cover, the author's name was Kobo Abe.""As soon as he said 'conscience,' he realized that every guilty man talks about his clear conscience.""Despite everything, Sherman was pained to learn that he had been a dud at the Bavardages'.""in short, he was learning for himself the truth of the saying 'A liberal is a conservative who has been arrested.'""The Protestants were split up into such a crazy bunch of sects nobody could even keep track of them all. It was all very pagan and spooky, when it wasn't ridiculous. They were all worshipping some obscure Jew from halfway around the world. The Rockefellers were! The Roosevelts even! ... You could joke about the Wasps, and he often did so with his friends, and yet they weren't so much funny as creepy."
—David
