Eclectic Trains

I really enjoyed this and have been meaning to read it for a while. I saw the film a long time ago but had forgotten most of the essential details. (If I remember correctly the film was critically panned on release but I can't quite remember why). Nevertheless, the shadow of the eponymous film still cast itself on my imagination and it was difficult not to picture Tom Hanks whilst Wolfe captured the journey of his "anti-hero", Sherman McCoy (possibly not a strictly accurate term in this context, I admit). The same thing happened to me last year with 'Tess of the d'Ubervilles' and Natasha Kinski. Damn that Polanski!

It was by chance that the book I read two books before 'The Bonfire of the Vanities' (TBotV) was Dickens's 'Hard Times' and, as Wolfe explains in the introduction to this his debut novel, TBotV is his attempt at to write a great city novel with the depth and ambition as those created by nineteenth century novelists such as Charles Dickens. In fact his Introduction to TBotV, entitled 'Stalking the Billion-Footed Beast', is a fascinating study of realist and non-realist novel writing trends in the twentieth century and how in 1987 he was attempting to write a broad realistic novel about New York which was completely out of step with the more non-realist - even magical realist! - writing trends of the time. If I was a lecturer teaching students about the history of novel writing then they would all have to read this introductory chapter (and the rest of the book of course). Tom Wolfe simply critiques the "write about what you know" approach to writing as being too narrow and warns young writers that this approach can lead to the cul-de-sac of believing that the "only valid experience is personal experience".

I haven't got loads to say about the book itself right now except that it was an amazing read. If his aim was to capture the city of New York at a particular post-war moment (the late 1980s) where politics, finance and personal morality were all at their over-inflated, twisted and seething apex then he more than matched his original ambition. Unlike Dickens he dispenses with any need to have a character (or two) that are unadulterated or morally pure and instead we have characters that are very human and believably corrupt. Sherman McCoy is Wolfe's master creation, however, and in fact he is a Master of the Universe - a Wall Street bond-trader who collects enough substantial crumbs from cake makers of the world economy to afford, at a push, what passes for the high life in NYC. McCoy's tortuous journey from being the most respected and highly remunerated trader at investment-banking firm, Pierce & Pierce, (with a Park Avenue apartment, wife and daughter to boot!) to being accused of perpetrating a hit-and-run on a young black honor student, is told by Wolfe in a such painful psychological detail you might be forgiven for thinking that the story was written in the first person but no, he still manages to move between his other New York characters occupying their minds en route.

It is twenty-five years since the book was published and it still feels very relevant. The distorting and destructive impact of the politics of race and an economy over-reliant on the crumb-collectors of Wall Street are clearly still playing themselves out, if I can be forgiven a rather large generalisation. At the end of the book I was rooting for McCoy to win and perversely enjoyed the thrill he was getting from his crazed lashings out, but this, I'm afraid, is where Wolfe leaves his audience: thrashing around in the carcass of a truly outstanding city that can suck the soul from its downtrodden, huddled masses and sometimes even its most privileged inhabitants. Bleak? Certainly. An irreversible fate? I don't think so.


The Bonfire of the Vanities by Tom Wolfe
My rating: 4 of 5 stars



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15/04/2008 [13:04] I took a beautiful train journey in stunning spring sunshine from Swindon to Cheltenham, today. I passed a long village that clung to a mild ravine where villagers waved at my passing train and children played without adults in open play areas. (They were probably hiding behind trees and conspiring in my fantasy). The next stop was Stroud and I think the village I passed was Briscombe (at least that was a name I gleaned from a pub sign). [19:18 - Googlemapped it on my return journey: it's Brimscombe].

The sight of south-westerly facing cottages all hewn from Cotswold stone and reflecting this magnificent light took my breath away. My spreadsheeted schedule for an up and coming video shoot in Cheltenham could distract me no longer.

The city versus country debate, which I often joke about with my friends, came to mind. Country folk still to this day complain about the speed and general hustle and bustle of London and we City folk say we would die of boredom in the country. There is certainly posturing on both sides. Very few people want self-enforced isolation and vice-versa, none of us enjoy feeling cramped and caged in.

I love both but play the partisan city dweller with some conviction. I grew up in the country and left home when I was 19 to see what England's city could offer me. There was no plan but Nottingham, Brighton (still a town when I lived there), Manchester and finally London have not put me off.

For now the countryside is a visit, an adventure playground, a brief visit to my past and a magical place.

Back to that spreadsheet...

[19:27] I arrived in a sun-drenched Cheltenham and left in a puddle (but not right up to my muddle. That was Gloucester wasn't it?). However, in between a productive recce and a meeting at HQ, I was informed of the full impact of last year's floods. Workers had to work from home whilst electrical went down whilst noisy, smelly diesel generators made life miserable for the colleagues who had to stay with the ship (probably the IT support desk).

The journey home from Cheltenham was in some ways even more evocative than my trip up. The train's tannoy system was on the blink and the ticket collector's mild-to-thick sub-continental announcements were greeted with hoots of laughter from the kids in the carriage. We adults didn't join in for fear of misinterpretation (all right I chuckled). "The train will shortly be stopping at FARToud..." (read Stroud).

The waving adults and playing children were now all inside and my new favourite ravine (might be just a valley) offered a different side. The valley floor had a steam - I apologise now if you are a small river - that cut a path between small collections of still water that might be ponds but felt slightly less manicured than your usual village pond. The moist, still evening just hung in the air. I was being asked to go and explore but 60 MPH of steel and glass weren't going let that happen. I hopelessly snapped with my superlowres BlackBerry camera. Gave that up.

[20:12] The light has gone. I am not on a plane where I could turn my reading light off. The efficient fluorescents stop me from looking into the dark density of the countryside. But the Brimscombe enticement is behind me and the moment has passed.

Back to the Goldberg Variations...

[20:35] It's raining in London. Where's my umbrella? Back on the bench at Cheltenham Spa railway station - that's where! 3 umbrellas down in 2008. That'll be 9 by December at this rate. Would it be too much to ask for umbrella manufacturers to make me and unbreakable and lossless umbrella.

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