Vintage Tom Wolfe, The Bonfire of the Vanities, the #1 bestseller that will forever define late-twentieth-century New York style. "No one has portrayed New York Society this accurately and devastatingly since Edith Wharton" (The National Review)“A page-turner . . . Brilliant high comedy.” (The New Republic)
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About the Author
Tom Wolfe (1930-2018) was one of the founders of the New Journalism movement and the author of such contemporary classics as The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, The Right Stuff, and Radical Chic & Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers, as well as the novels The Bonfire of the Vanities, A Man in Full, and I Am Charlotte Simmons. As a reporter, he wrote articles for The Washington Post, the New York Herald Tribune, Esquire, and New York magazine, and is credited with coining the term, “The Me Decade.”
Among his many honors, Tom was awarded the National Book Award, the John Dos Passos Award, the Washington Irving Medal for Literary Excellence, the National Humanities Medal, and the National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters.
A native of Richmond, Virginia, he earned his B.A. at Washington and Lee University, graduating cum laude, and a Ph.D. in American studies at Yale. He lived in New York City.
Hometown:New York, New York
Date of Birth:March 2, 1931
Place of Birth:Richmond, Virginia
Education:B.A. (cum laude), Washington and Lee University, 1951; Ph.D. in American Studies, Yale University, 1957
Read an Excerpt
Prologue: Mutt on Fire
"And then say what? say, 'forget you're hungry, forget you got shot inna
back by some racist cop-Chuck was here? Chuck come up to
"No, I'll tell you what-"
"'Chuck come up to Harlem and-'"
''I'll tell you what-"
"Say, 'Chuck come up to Harlem and gonna take care a business for
the black community'?"
That does it.
It's one of those ungodly contralto cackles somewhere out there in
the audience. It's a sound from down so deep, from under so many lavish
layers, he knows exactly what she must look like. Two hundred
pounds, if she's an ounce! Built like an oil burner! The cackle sets off
the men. They erupt with those belly sounds he hates so much.
They go, "Hehhehheh ... unnnnhhhh-hunhhh ... That's right ...
Tell 'em, bro ... Yo ... "
Chuck! The insolent-he's right there, right there in the front-he
just called him a Charlie! Chuck is short for Charlie, and Charlie is the
old code name for a down-home white bigot. The insolence of it! The
impudence! The heat and glare are terrific. It makes the Mayor squint.
It's the TV lights. He's inside a blinding haze. He can barely make out
the heckler's face. He sees a tall silhouette and the fantastic bony angles
the man's elbows make when he throws his hands up in the air. And an
earring. The man has a big gold earring in one ear.
The Mayor leans into the microphone and says, "No, I'll tell you
what. Okay? I'll give you the actual figures. Okay?"
"We don't want your figures, man!"
Man, he says! The insolence! "You brought it up, my friend. So
you're gonna get the actual figures. Okay?"
"Don't you shine us up with no more your figures!"
Another eruption in the crowd, louder this time: "Unnnnh-unnnnhunnnh
... Tell 'im, bra ... Y' on the case ... Yo, Gober!"
"In this administration-and it's a matter of public record-the percentage
of the total annual budget for New York City-"
"Aw, maaaan," yells the heckler, "don't you stand there and shine us
up with no more your figures and your bureaucratic rhetoric!"
They love it. The insolence! The insolence sets off another eruption.
He peers through the scalding glare of the television lights. He keeps
squinting. He's aware of a great mass of silhouettes out in front of him.
The crowd swells up. The ceiling presses down. It's covered in beige
tiles. The tiles have curly incisions all over them. They're crumbling
around the edges. Asbestos! He knows it when he sees it! The faces they're
waiting for the beano, for the rock fight. Bloody noses!-that's
the idea. The next instant means everything. He can handle it! He can
handle hecklers! Only five-seven, but he's even better at it than Koch
used to be! He's the mayor of the greatest city on earth-New York!
"All right! You've had your fun, and now you're gonna shut up for a
That startles the heckler. He freezes. That's all the Mayor needs. He
knows how to do it.
"Youuuu asked meeeee a question, didn't you, and you got a bigggg
laugh from your claque. And so now youuuuu're gonna keep quiiiiet and
lissssten to the answer. Okay?"
"Say, claque?" The man has had his wind knocked out, but he's still
"Okay? Now here are the statistics for youm community, right here,
"Say, claque?" The bastard has hold of this word claque like a bone.
"Ain' nobody can eat statistics, man!"
"Tell 'im, bra ... Yo ... Yo, Gober!"
"Let me finish. Do youuuuu think-"
"Don't percentage no annual budget with us, man! We want jobs!"
The crowd erupts again. It's worse than before. Much of it he can't
make out-interjections from deep in the bread basket. But there's this
Yo business. There's some loudmouth way in back with a voice that cuts
"Yo, Gober! Yo, Gober! Yo, Gober!"
But he isn't saying Gober. He's saying Goldberg.
"Yo, Goldberg! Yo, Goldberg! Yo, Goldberg!"
It stuns him. In this place, in Harlem! Goldberg is the Harlem cognomen
for Jew. It's insolent-outrageous! -that anyone throws this vileness
in the face of the Mayor of New York City!
Boos, hisses,, grunts, belly laughs, shouts. They want to see some
loose teeth. It's out of control.
It's no use. He can't make himself heard even with the microphone.
The hate in their faces! Pure poison! It's mesmerizing.
"Yo, Goldberg! Yo, Goldberg! Yo, Hymie!"
Hymie! That business! There's one of them yelling Goldberg and another
one yelling Hymie. Then it dawns on him. Reverend Bacon!
They're Bacon's people. He's sure of it. The civic-minded people who
come to public meetings in Harlem-the people Sheldon was supposed
to make sure filled up this hall-they wouldn't be out there yelling
these outrageous things. Bacon did this! Sheldon fucked up! Bacon got
his people in here!
A wave of the purest self-pity rolls over the Mayor. Out of the corner
of his eye he can see the television crews squirming around in the haze
of light. Their cameras are coming out of their heads like horns. They're
swiveling around this way and that. They're eating it up! They're here
for the brawl! They wouldn't lift a finger. They're cowards! Parasites!
The lice of public life!
In the next moment he has a terrible realization: "It's over. I can't believe
it. I've lost."
"No more your ... Outta here ... Boooo ... Don' wanna ... Yo,
Guliaggi, the head of the Mayor's plainclothes security detail, is
coming toward him from the side of the stage. The Mayor motions him
back with a low flap of his hand, without looking at him directly. What
could he do, anyway? He brought only four officers with him. He didn't
want to come up here with an army. The whole point was to show that
he could go to Harlem and hold a town-hall meeting, just the way he
could in Riverdale or Park Slope.
In the front row, through the haze, he catches the eye of Mrs. Langhorn,
the woman with the shingle hairdo, the head of the community
board, the woman who introduced him just-what?-minutes ago.
She purses her lips and cocks her head and starts shaking it. This look
is supposed to say, "I wish I could help you, but what can I do? Behold
the wrath of the people!" Oh, she's afraid like all the rest! She knows
she should stand up against this element! They'll go after black people
like her next! They'll be happy to do it! She knows that. But the good
people are intimidated! They don't dare do a thing! Back to blood!
Them and us!
"Go on home! ... Booooo ... Yagggghhh ... Yo!"
He tries the microphone again. "Is this what-is this what-"
Hopeless. Like yelling at the surf. He wants to spit in their eyes. He
wants to tell them he's not afraid. You're not making me look bad! You're
letting a handful of hustlers in this hall make all of Harlem look bad!
You let a couple of loudmouths call me Goldberg and Hymie, and you
don't shout them down-you shout me down! It's unbelievable! Do
you-you hardworking, respectable, God-fearing people of Harlem,
you Mrs. Langhorns, you civic-minded people-do you really think
they're your brothers! Who have your friends been all these years? The
Jews! And you let these hustlers call me a Charlie! They call me these
things, and you say nothing?
The whole hall appears to be jumping up and down. They're waving
their fists. Their mouths are open. They're screaming. If they jump any
higher, they'll bounce off the ceiling.
It'll be on TV. The whole city will see it. They'll love it. Harlem rises
up! What a show! Not the hustlers and the operators and the players rise
up-but Harlem rises up! All of black New York rises up! He's only
mayor for some of the people! He's the mayor of White New York! Set
fire to the mutt! The Italians will watch this on TV, and they'll love it.
And the Irish. Even the Wasps. They won't know what they're looking at.
They'll sit in their co-ops on Park and Fifth and East Seventy-second
Street and Sutton Place, and they'll shiver with the violence of it and enjoy
the show. Cattle! Birdbrains! Rosebuds! Goyim! You don't even
know, do you? Do you really think this is your city any longer? Open
your eyes! The greatest city of the twentieth century! Do you think
money will keep it yours?
Come down from your swell co-ops, you general partners and merger
lawyers! It's the Third World down there! Puerto Ricans, West Indians,
Haitians, Dominicans, Cubans, Colombians, Hondurans, Koreans,
Chinese, Thais, Vietnamese, Ecuadorians, Panamanians, Filipinos, Albanians,
Senegalese, and Afro-Americans! Go visit the frontiers, you
gutless wonders! Morningside Heights, St. Nicholas Park, Washington
Heights, Fort Tryon-por que pagar mas! The Bronx-the Bronx is finished
for you! Riverdale is just a little freeport up there! Pelham
Parkway-keep the corridor open to Westchester! Brooklyn-your
Brooklyn is no more! Brooklyn Heights, Park Slope-little Hong Kongs,
that's all! And Queens! Jackson Heights, Elmhurst, Hollis, Jamaica,
Ozone Park-whose is it? Do you know? And where does that leave
Ridgewood, Bayside, and Forest Hills? Have you ever thought about
that! And Staten Island! Do you Saturday do-it-yourselfers really think
you're snug in your little rug? You don't think the future knows how to
cross a bridge? And you, you Wasp charity-bailers sitting on your
mounds of inherited money up in your co-ops with the twelve-foot ceilings
and the two wings, one for you and one for the help, do you really
think you're impregnable? And you German-Jewish financiers who
have finally made it into the same buildings, the better to insulate yourselves
from the shtetl hordes, do you really think you're insulated from
the Third World?
You poor fatties! You marshmallows! Hens! Cows! You wait'll you
have a Reverend Bacon for a mayor, and a City Council and a Board of
Estimate with a bunch of Reverend Bacons from one end of the chamber
to the other! You'll get to know them then, all right! They'll come see
you! They'll come see you at 60 Wall and Number One Chase Manhattan
Plaza! They'll sit on your desks and drum their fingers! They'll dust
out your safe-deposit boxes for you, free of charge-
Completely crazy, these things roaring through his head! Absolutely
paranoid! Nobody's going to elect Bacon to anything. Nobody's going to
march downtown. He knows that. But he feels so alone! Abandoned!
Misunderstood! Me! You wait'll you don't have me any longer! See how
you like it then! And you let me stand here alone at this lectern with a
god damned asbestos ceiling corning down on my head-
"Boooo! ... Yegggghhh! ... Yaaaggghhh! ... Yo! ... Goldberg!"
There's a terrific commotion on one side of the stage. The TV lights
are right in his face. A whole lot of pushing and shoving-he sees a cameraman
go down. Some of the bastards are heading for the stairs to the
stage, and the television crews are in the way. So they're going over
them. Shoving-shoving somebody back down the stairs-his men, the
plainclothes detail, the big one, Norrejo-Norrejo's shoving somebody
back down the stairs. Something hits the Mayor on the shoulder. It hurts
like hell! There on the floor-a jar of mayonnaise, an eight-ounce jar of
Hellmann's mayonnaise. Half full! Half consumed! Somebody has
thrown a half-eaten jar of Hellmann's mayonnaise at him! In that instant
the most insignificant thing takes over his mind. Who in the name
of God would bring a half-eaten eight-ounce jar of Hellmann's mayonnaise
to a public meeting?
The goddamned lights! People are up on the stage ... a lot of thrashing
about ... a regular melee ... Norrejo grabs some big devil around
the waist and sticks his leg behind him and throws him to the floor. The
other two detectives, Holt and Danforth, have their backs to the Mayor.
They're crouched like blocking backs protecting a passer. Guliaggi is
right beside him.
"Get behind me," says Guliaggi. "We're going through that door."
Is he smiling? Guliaggi seems to have this little smile on his face. He
motions his head toward a door at the rear of the stage. He's short, he has
a small head, a low forehead, small narrow eyes, a flat nose, a wide mean
mouth with a narrow mustache. The Mayor keeps staring at his mouth. Is
that a smile? It can't be, but maybe it is. This strange mean twist to his lips
seems to be saying: "It's been your show up to now, but now it's mine."
Somehow the smile decides the issue. The Mayor gives up his
Custer's command post at the lectern. He gives himself over to this little
rock. Now the others are closed in around him, too, Norrejo, Holt, Danforth.
They're around him like the four corners of a pen. People are all
over the stage. Guliaggi and Norrejo are muscling their way through the
mob. The Mayor is right on their heels. Snarling faces are all around
him. There's some character barely two feet from him who keeps jumping
up and yelling, "You little white-haired pussy!" He keeps saying it.
"You little white-haired pussy!"
Right in front of him-the big heckler himself! The one with the elbows
and the gold earring! Guliaggi is between the Mayor and the heckler,
but the heckler towers over Guliaggi. He must be six five. He
screams at the Mayor, right in his face:
"Go on back-oof!"
All at once the big son of a bitch is sinking, with his mouth open and
his eyes bugged out. Guliaggi has driven his elbow and forearm into the
man's solar plexus.
Guliaggi reaches the door and opens it. The Mayor follows. He feels
the other detectives pushing him through from behind. He sprawls
against Guliaggi's back. The guy's a piece of stone!
They're going down a stairway. They're clattering on some metal
strips. He's in one piece. The mob isn't even on his heels. He's safe-his
heart sinks. They're not even trying to follow him. They never really
tried to touch him. And in that moment ... he knows. He knows even
before his mind can put it all together.
"I did the wrong thing. I gave in to that little smile. I panicked. I've
lost it all."
"Prologue: Mutt on Fire" excerpt from The Bonfire of the Vanities by Tom Wolfe. The Bonfire of the Vanities copyright © 1987 by Tom Wolfe. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Picador and Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Although too descriptive at times times,I was taken by the depth and passion of the narrative and the brilliance of the characters development .Very interesting plot!
Almost two decades after this New York Times bestseller hit the shelves, and only after witnessing author Tom Wolfe on a recent 'Book Talk' interview on CSPAN, did I decide to read 'The Bonfire of the Vanities'. I have not seen the movie of the same name, however, I understand from the interview, that it was 'poorly done.' My 637 paged copy of this trade paperback began with a confusing confrontation between the mayor of New York and a Jesse Jackson-type Black spokesman. But I didn't let that stop me. Prior to its reading, I imagined the book to be about the high life of the rich, and it certainly is, however it is actually more of a richly fleshed-out 'Law and Order' type episode spread over the thirty days during which I consumed it. Ignoring the New York and Southern America dialects spelled out by author Wolfe: 'That's nuthun Shuhmun' (and I'm not certain how necessary those were for a book created to be read silently to one's self) I soon found myself, heart throbbing, in the supple leather seats of a black, two-door Mercedes 'roadster', rocketing up a highway ramp somewhere in the Bronx, and hooked on this finely written piece. Talented authors, whether by design or not, force their readers to forever carry pieces of their story. From Hemmingway's 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' I will always remember the long walk of the captured with villagers on either side, ending with a forced leap to death from the cliff at the end of the path. From 'Bonfire' I will always see in my mind the extravagant parties with the overly gracious hostess meeting incoming guests and guiding them to clusters of 'conversational bouquets', like a gardener planting bulbs next to one another in the freshly turned warm earth of her garden. The author calls the wives of these millionaires, who have starved themselves in the late 1980s fashion of Karen Carpenter, 'X Rays.' If you are searching for a book with a clear cut, warm and fuzzy happy ending, this work, ending with a five-page epilogue isn't it. However, if you are interested a reading that has plenty of twists and turns in the burroughs of New York and visits courtrooms, lawyers, cops, thugs, luxuriant Fifth Avenue Townhomes, bond market trading floors, eleven-dollar-a-drink restaurants, the alcohol-soaked psyche of a tabloid journalist, and the tortured egos of married men who can't keep their pants zipped, all the while painting word pictures that will remain in the frame of your mind for years, read 'The Bonfire of the Vanities.'
Simply stated, the best book I have read. Mr. Wolfe has the ability to put the reader inside the character's head. The initial police questioning of Sherman McCoy had me edgy and feeling the anxiety of the character as if I were the one being investigated. A great read.
Bonfire is an amazing epic novel of the failure of the human spirit. It is truthful,synical,hilarious and brilliant. There are not many characters in this book who are worthy of our sympathy. But perhaps the anti-hero Sherman Mccoy comes closest. For as his world and illusions become shattered; we realize that we are all victims to the sin of vanity. This is one of the greatest novels ever written.
I have read this book three times over the last 11 years, and I find something new everytime. Being in the securities industry, I enjoy the description of the trading floor of Pierce and Pierce. Also, I liked the scene where Sherman stumbles in trying to explain to his daughter what he does for a living, but his wife describes his job as a bond salesman as one who collects 'golden crumbs'. I hope someday to describe better to my child what I do for a living better than Sherman did! Another memorable scene is the party one with the Golden Hillbilly opera singer. Along with Wolfe's latest, A Man in Full, a modern American classic.
A Fantastic, but very frustrating story, this novel epitomizes New York City in the 80s in a saga of racial and socioeconomic conflict. The story follows the lives of several individuals who are connected to a highly publicized and politicized hit-and-run case. A car belonging to Sherman McCoy, a successful, womanizing Wall Street broker and Park Avenue resident, hits a black man in the Bronx. While the man is in a coma, a Harlem preacher seizes the opportunity to advance his political agenda, enticing District Attorney, Abe Weiss, and Peter Fallow, a tabloid journalist, to become involved. The prosecuter jumps at the opportunity to publicly take down the socialite, Sherman, in the name of social justice and equality. All in all, it is an allegorical view of society that is still relevant today, illustrating the dire effects that occur when selfishness overtakes one's life and goals for oneself. The only drawback to this book is its length, it is more than 600 pages, but the action never ceases.
This is, by far, the most wicked of social satires that I have read so far. Wolfe's world in The Bonfire of the Vanities is a delicious clash of wealth and poverty, prejudices and avarice, sex and scandal. It seems like the perfect movie for the self indulgent 1980s. There is not a single likable character in the entire story. Everyone is on their way to being corrupted by greed. Greed for money, greed for power, greed for what they don't have. In their worlds the grass is always greener on the other side of Central park, the other side of the marriage.Bonfire of the Vanities takes a single incident and illustrates the domino effect one wrong turn and one bad mistake can have. Sherman McCoy is an unhappy Wall Street bonds man who is having an affair with the wife of an aging billionaire. He isn't supposed to be with her, she isn't supposed to be with him - a typical scenario for the story. So, when they take a wrong turn and end up lost in a bad section of the the Bronx their car strikes a black teenage boy, possibly killing him. They argue their way out of going to the police, convincing themselves it didn't happen the way each of them think. Deciding not to tell is their downfall.When the political Reverend Bacon hears of this "accident" from the mother of the victim the racial significance of the event is not lost on him. Witnesses claim the driver was white so he pushes alcoholic journalist, Peter Fallow, to pursue the story. Peter's piece about a black youth who was the victim of a hit and run sends the media into a frenzy. Soon Bronx District Attorney Abe Weiss, up for re-election, is out for blood. He knows this is the perfect platform for garnering votes: hang the hit and run driver whatever it takes. Larry Kramer, assistant D.A., does exactly that with barely any evidence: an undamaged car, an eyewitness, and Sherman McCoy's reluctance to cooperate.
The story is fantastic, but what makes the book so superb is Wolfe's ability to capture the time and setting in which the stories take place in so successfully and articulately; this one being the dynamic times of NYC during the 80's.So while you're enjoying an entertaining story, you're also learning about culture and society during a dynamic time in history, all through the quirky and creative words of Tom Wolfe.
I absolutely loved this book. I can't count the number of times I laughed out loud. This was my first Wolfe, but I'd heard he is a gifted prose writer. That is absolutely true. I was trying, over the course of reading this book, to think of how I would describe Wolfe's prose, and the only word I could come up with was "crackling." The words just leap off the page and come at you at a rapid-fire pace. Here's an example:The fever began to rise again. Suppose something did get in the papers ... even a hint ... How could he ever put the Giscard deal together under a cloud like that? ... He'd be finished! ... finished! ... And even as he quaked with fear of such a catastrophe, he knew he was letting himself wallow in it for a superstitious reason. 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 ...Wolfe is also great at writing characters. Every single one of the characters in here, with the exception of some of the people we only see in passing, have their little back stories and quirks. That's one of the reasons this novel is so darn long; it takes a lot of time to draw up as many characters as Wolfe does. The one thing I found with this book, though, is that it was a lot like War and Peace for me, in that I didn't really like any of the characters, and I wasn't really sure who I was supposed to like. I didn't like Sherman at first, mostly because he seemed like a spoiled rich guy who was cheating on his wife. But, as the story progressed, I grew to feel sort of sorry for him, but all that pity ended near the close of the book.I started out liking Larry Kramer, but quickly sunk in my eyes for a number of reasons, including cheating on his wife and trying to pad his case to make himself look good. I can't stand when characters are unfaithful to their partners. It bugs me in fiction because it's something that bugs me in real life, so I think that's one of the main reasons I couldn't actually like either Sherman or Larry.One of the things I found really interesting about this book was that every character of a minority persuasion seemed to be a stereotype. I know Wolfe was going for capturing the milieu of New York in the 1980s, and that atmosphere included a lot of prejudice and racial tension between whites and blacks (Not to mention the racial tension is key to his plot), but I think some readers could easily be turned off by the stereotypical nature of a lot of the characters. Personally, the stereotypical characters just made me really, really frustrated because they were just so... annoying ... that I couldn't stand it when they came into the picture.The character in particular I'm thinking of is Reverend Bacon. He is a preacher who takes the racial cause into his own hands, often blowing situations and facts out of proportion to get noticed. He leads such a vehement campaign against the Bronx District Attorney because he says that the office (Populated by white men) is ignoring the case (In reality, there's basically no evidence to go on for a really long time) that the DA's office, once they finally get Sherman into custody, holds him up as a whipping boy. Sherman's attorney makes certain deals with one of the assistant DAs -- Deals such as quick processing when Sherman's arrested, which are fairly common from what I know of the law -- but those deals are thrown out the window simply because the DA is up for reelection in a highly minority area and he knows that he must pander to the people. I guess, looking back on it, I could say that it's a combination of Bacon's accusations and the DA's political desires that made me mad. I guess that's what Wolfe was going for the whole time. Hmm...I have to say, though, that the character that I wanted to throttle the most was Peter Fallow, the British tabloid writer. As a former journalist, I tend to get pretty riled up when I see fictionalized journalist
Great story. Tragic; but nothing written by Wolfe is too tragic. Ironic. Funny in a way...I guess that's the point. Politics + class warfare in the "big apple."
Wonderfully dry satire
I'm surprised to read the other reviews about how this book is stuck in the 80s when it was written. Substitute the dark rosewood, green marble floors and shiny brass with travertine tile, granite countertops and silver in the McCoy apartment, and keep the entire plot and characters (without the shoulder pads and big hair) and it would be compleltly believable in 2010. Wolfe gave a glimpse into the life of Park Avenue that we now see on reality shows. They may seem like charactitures from an outsider's perspective, but as McCoy shows it all seems like reality when one is in the hive and constantly isolating oneself from the majority of society. Some things have changed, of course. For one, I've walked down the Grand Concourse in the Bronx so it has been cleaned up from the Gibraltar and wagon train scenes Wolf depicts. There are some great observances of the people/government of New York. I loved the way he showed how the "chow" (criminals in the bronx) fed the system and how these crack dealing kids in the projects kept thousands of government workers with a job. His description of the press/media and how they encite people to mob/demonstrate/riot is spot on (look at the recent town hall meetings this year to see that this is still a relevant topic). Overall, a good book that I'd recommend.
A page turner, insightful, wise, funny - plot, characters and dialogue all skillfully done - a brilliant novel from a brilliant writer.
Highly compelling writing and an interesting look at some of the reigning societal practices of the time. Fascinating stream-of-consciousness writing really puts you inside the head of whoever is in play. Really pointed out many racial issues in post-modern New York in a non-clichéd manner.
Very amusing tale of the rise and fall of an investment banker told against a backdrop of many other new york stories -- cops, DAs, criminals, etc. Highly recommended.
man...it took me forever to finally finish this book, but I am so glad I finally did. Wolfe hit the mark with his candor and wit, tackling issues of race from perspectives that are unexpected and intelligent.
An entertaining satire on racial politics in the 80s. The book's popularity suffered unduly from the backwash of criticism from a poor movie version.
First-rate mind candy. Life since reading it has presented a multitude of opportunities for revisiting Wolfe's metaphor of the "big swinging dicks." They appear in all walks of life, evidently - not just on Wall Street.
A big, fun novel of Crime and Punishment. A satirical look at the rich and the poor and what happens when they come together.
Contemporary literary classic that is a joy to read.
Broke down and dove straight in to tangle a bit more with me nemesis . . . fiction. :/
You will not look at the news media the same after reading this book. Because of the recent racial uproar I am reading the book again.