In an era of general acceptance of deregulation and privatization, Mr. Spitzer has introduced the world to yet a new form of regulation, the use of the criminal law as an in terrorem weapon to force acceptance of industry-wide regulations. These rules are not vetted through normal authoritative channels, are not reviewable by any administrative process, and are not subject to even the minimal due-process requirements our courts require for normal administrative rule making. The whole process bears no resemblance to a rule of law; it is a reign of force.

...Since Mr. Spitzer wins his cases in the media, where business is now all but defenseless, the best hope is for the American business community to develop its own public voice. The free-market scholarship needed for this purpose is available, though it is rarely availed of in these fights. Too often the corporate defenders conclude, out of ignorance to be sure, that the opposition really has the better case.

But make no mistake: Eliot Spitzer represents, wittingly or not, an attack on the entire corporate free-enterprise system. Clearly we need new or invigorated institutions to defend industries and companies publicly when they come under unwarranted or disproportionate attack. Responsible leaders of the business community should make it a high priority to develop these capabilities before more harm is done.

The story is set in fictional Dupont University -- an environment that Wolfe utterly fails to bring to life for the reader. The scenes of Bonfire -- the bond trading floor, the Bronx courthouse, the midtown co-op -- were bursting with the color and texture of life, the product of both Wolfe's extraordinary research and erudition, and his bravura style. In Simmons, nothing but clichés. Apparently Wolfe did extensive research on various campuses (in fact, I ran into him one evening out here in Silicon Valley during his six months research mission to Stanford) -- but there's nothing in Simmons that you couldn't have cribbed by renting "Animal House."

There are no insights into the cultural or religious conflicts that arise when small-town dirt-poor red state girl Charlotte Simmons is dropped into the fast-money secular world of the children of the Northeastern elite. On his recent book tour, Wolfe has spoken repeatedly of the centrality of religiousness to the red state/blue state cultural divide -- yet this issue simply doesn't surface in Simmons. It is mentioned that Charlotte's family are Baptists, but as she confronts the rampant substance abuse and sexual promiscuity on campus, there is not the slightest element of religious concern in her response. There's really no element of anything, actually, except Charlotte's sheer naiveté and -- de rigueur for a Wolfe character, the concern for her status.

There are no special insights into the motivations or milieus of any of the other main characters, either. The frat boy is just a boozing preppy frat boy. The basketball star is just a basketball star. The scholarly nerd is just a nerd. The politically correct professor is just a politically correct professor. None is larger than life. None symbolizes anything larger than himself.

Wolfe's usual attention to detail fails in Simmons. Has Wolfe simply gotten too old to grasp even the fundamental nomenclature of today's world? He writes of frat boys watching "DVD television" and a girl doing "instant message e-mail." Supposedly Wolfe wrote this book in longhand -- but after years of research, surely he should know what DVDs are and what instant messaging is. Am I quibbling? No -- because these details are precisely what Wolfe brags about getting right, and in the past he always has. Throughout his oeuvre, he has used the accumulation of the details of everyday life to evoke scenes with uncanny realism and vividness. But when the details are wrong, they puncture any realism he might have aspired to.

Wolfe's trademark bravura style falls flat in Simmons, too. There's precious little of the acrobatic wordsmanship for which he is famous -- and what of it there is, is mostly self-plagiarized from Wolfe's earlier works and then repeated endlessly throughout Simmons: how many times are we expected to delight in having eyes called "optic chiasmas" and women's private parts referred to as "loamy loins"?

I don't know what happened here. Maybe Wolfe just decided to phone one in. Maybe he's just getting old. Or maybe he finally found a milieu that was resistant to detailed research (just how much would a drunken frat boy or a corrupt NCAA coach reveal to a 70 year old man in a white double-breasted peak-lapel suit?). Or maybe he just screwed up. I forgive him. He's still my hero. But I'm very disappointed.

Posted by Donald L. Luskin at 1:31 AM | link    

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