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1 Burnside Literature- A to Z

The Bonfire of the Vanities

by

The Bonfire of the Vanities Cover

ISBN13: 9780553275971
ISBN10: 0553275976
Condition: Standard
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Excerpt

The Master of the Universe

At that very moment, in the very sort of Park Avenue co-op apartment that so obsessed the Mayor ... twelve-foot ceilings ... two wings, one for the white Anglo-Saxon Protestants who own the place and one for the help ... Sherman McCoy was kneeling in his front hall trying to put a leash on a dachshund. The floor was a deep green marble, and it went on and on. It led to a five-foot-wide walnut staircase that swept up in a sumptuous curve to the floor above. It was the sort of apartment the mere thought of which ignites flames of greed and covetousness under people all over New York and, for that matter, all over the world. But Sherman burned only with the urge to get out of this fabulous spread of his for thirty minutes.

So here he was, down on both knees, struggling with a dog. The dachshund, he figured, was his exit visa.

Looking at Sherman McCoy, hunched over like that and dressed the way he was, in his checked shirt, khaki pants, and leather boating moccasins, you would have never guessed what an imposing figure he usually cut. Still young ... thirty-eight years old ... tall ... almost six-one ... terrific posture ... terrific to the point of imperious ... as imperious as his daddy, the Lion of Dunning Sponget ... a full head of sandy-brown hair ... a long nose ... a prominent chin ... He was proud of his chin. The McCoy chin; the Lion had it, too. It was a manly chin, a big round chin such as Yale men used to have in those drawings by Gibson and Leyendecker, an aristocratic chin, if you want to know what Sherman thought. He was a Yale man himself.

But at this moment his entire appearance was supposed to say: “Im only going out to walk the dog.”

The dachshund seemed to know what was ahead. He kept ducking away from the leash. The beasts stunted legs were deceiving. If you tried to lay hands on him, he turned into a two-foot tube packed with muscle. In grappling with him, Sherman had to lunge. And when he lunged, his kneecap hit the marble floor, and the pain made him angry.

“Cmon, Marshall,” he kept muttering. “Hold still, damn it.”

The beast ducked again, and he hurt his knee again, and now he resented not only the beast but his wife, too. It was his wifes delusions of a career as an interior decorator that had led to this ostentatious spread of marble in the first place. The tiny black grosgrain cap on the toe of a womans shoe

she was standing there.

“Youre having a time, Sherman. What on earth are you doing?”

Without looking up: “Im taking Marshall for a wa-a-a-a-a-alk.”

Walk came out as a groan, because the dachshund attempted a fishtail maneuver and Sherman had to wrap his arm around the dogs midsection.

“Did you know it was raining?”

Still not looking up: “Yes, I know.” Finally he managed to snap the leash on the animals collar.

“Youre certainly being nice to Marshall all of a sudden.”

Wait a minute. Was this irony? Did she suspect something? He looked up.

But the smile on her face was obviously genuine, altogether pleasant ... a lovely smile, in fact ... Still a very good-looking woman, my wife ... with her fine thin features, her big clear blue eyes, her rich brown hair ... But shes forty years old! ... No getting around it ... Today good-looking ... Tomorrow theyll be talking about what a handsome woman she is ... Not her fault ... But not mine, either!

“I have an idea,” she said. “Why dont you let me walk Marshall? Or Ill get Eddie to do it. You go upstairs and read Campbell a story before she goes to sleep. Shed love it. Youre not home this early very often. Why dont you do that?”

He stared at her. It wasnt a trick! She was sincere! And yet zip zip zip zip zip zip zip with a few swift strokes, a few little sentences, she had ... tied him in knots! thongs of guilt and logic! Without even trying!

The fact that Campbell might be lying in her little bed my only child! the utter innocence of a six-year-old! wishing that he would read her a bedtime story ... while he was ... doing whatever it was he was now doing ... Guilt! ... The fact that he usually got home too late to see her at all ... Guilt on top of guilt! ... He doted on Campbell! loved her more than anything in the world! ... To make matters worse the logic of it! The sweet wifely face he was now staring at had just made a considerate and thoughtful suggestion, a logical suggestion ... so logical he was speechless! There werent enough white lies in the world to get around such logic! And she was only trying to be nice!

“Go ahead,” she said. “Campbell will be so pleased. Ill tend to Marshall.”

The world was upside down. What was he, a Master of the Universe, doing down here on the floor, reduced to ransacking his brain for white lies to circumvent the sweet logic of his wife? The Masters of the Universe were a set of lurid, rapacious plastic dolls that his otherwise perfect daughter liked to play with. They looked like Norse gods who lifted weights, and they had names such as Dracon, Ahor, Mangelred, and Blutong. They were unusually vulgar, even for plastic toys. Yet one fine day, in a fit of euphoria, after he had picked up the telephone and taken an order for zero-coupon bonds that had brought him a $50,000 commission, just like that, this very phrase had bubbled up into his brain. On Wall Street he and a few others how many? three hundred, four hundred, five hundred? had become precisely that ... Masters of the Universe. There was ... no limit whatsoever! Naturally he had never so much as whispered this phrase to a living soul. He was no fool. Yet he couldnt get it out of his head. And here was the Master of the Universe, on the floor with a dog, hog-tied by sweetness, guilt, and logic ... Why couldnt he (being a Master of the Universe) simply explain it to her? Look, Judy, I still love you and I love our daughter and I love our home and I love our life, and I dont want to change any of it its just that I, a Master of the Universe, a young man still in the season of the rising sap, deserve more from time to time, when the spirit moves me

but he knew he could never put any such thought into words. So resentment began to bubble up into his brain ... In a way she brought it on herself, didnt she ... Those women whose company she now seems to prize ... those ... those ... The phrase pops into his head at that very instant: social X rays ... They keep themselves so thin, they look like X-ray pictures ... You can see lamplight through their bones ... while theyre chattering about interiors and landscape gardening ... and encasing their scrawny shanks in metallic Lycra tubular tights for their Sports Training classes ... And it hasnt helped any, has it! ... See how drawn her face and neck look ... He concentrated on her face and neck ... drawn ... No doubt about it ... Sports Training ... turning into one of them

He managed to manufacture just enough resentment to ignite the famous McCoy temper.

He could feel his face grow hot. He put his head down and said, “Juuuuuudy ...” It was a shout stifled by teeth. He pressed the thumb and the first two fingers of his left hand together and held them in front of his clamped jaws and blazing eyes, and he said:

“Look ... Im all set to walk the dog ... So Im going out to walk the dog ... Okay?”

Halfway through it, he knew it was totally out of proportion to ... to ... but he couldnt hold back. That, after all, was the secret of the McCoy temper ... on Wall Street ... wherever ... the imperious excess.

Judys lips tightened. She shook her head.

“Please do what you want,” she said tonelessly. Then she turned away and walked across the marble hall and ascended the sumptuous stairs.

Still on his knees, he looked at her, but she didnt look back. Please do what you want. He had run right over her. Nothing to it. But it was a hollow victory.

Another spasm of guilt

The Master of the Universe stood up and managed to hold on to the leash and struggle into his raincoat. It was a worn but formidable rubberized British riding mac, full of flaps, straps, and buckles. He had bought it at Knoud on Madison Avenue. Once, he had considered its aged look as just the thing, after the fashion of the Boston Cracked Shoe look. Now he wondered. He yanked the dachshund along on the leash and went from the entry gallery out into the elevator vestibule and pushed the button.

Rather than continue to pay around-the-clock shifts of Irishmen from Queens and Puerto Ricans from the Bronx $200,000 a year to run the elevators, the apartment owners had decided two years ago to convert the elevators to automatic. Tonight that suited Sherman fine. In this outfit, with this squirming dog in tow, he didnt feel like standing in an elevator with an elevator man dressed up like an 1870 Austrian army colonel. The elevator descended and came to a stop two floors below. Browning. The door opened, and the smooth-jowled bulk of Pollard Browning stepped on. Browning looked Sherman and his country outfit and the dog up and down and said, without a trace of a smile, “Hello, Sherman.”

“Hello, Sherman” was on the end of a ten-foot pole and in a mere four syllables conveyed the message: “You and your clothes and your animal are letting down our new mahogany-paneled elevator.”

Sherman was furious but nevertheless found himself leaning over and picking the dog up off the floor. Browning was the president of the buildings co-op board. He was a New York boy who had emerged from his mothers loins as a fifty-year-old partner in Davis Polk and president of the Downtown Association. He was only forty but had looked fifty for the past twenty years. His hair was combed back smoothly over his round skull. He wore an immaculate navy suit, a white shirt, a shepherds check necktie, and no raincoat. He faced the elevator door, then turned his head, took another look at Sherman, said nothing, and turned back.

Sherman had known him ever since they were boys at the Buckley School. Browning had been a fat, hearty, overbearing junior snob who at the age of nine knew how to get across the astonishing news that McCoy was a hick name (and a hick family), as in Hatfields and McCoys, whereas he, Browning, was a true Knickerbocker. He used to call Sherman “Sherman McCoy the Mountain Boy.”

When they reached the ground floor, Browning said, “You know its raining, dont you?”

“Yes.”

Browning looked at the dachshund and shook his head. “Sherman McCoy. Friend to mans best friend.”

Sherman felt his face getting hot again. He said, “Thats it?”

“Whats it?”

“You had from the eighth floor to here to think up something bright, and thats it?” It was supposed to sound like amiable sarcasm, but he knew his anger had slipped out around the edges.

“I dont know what youre talking about,” said Browning, and he walked on ahead. The doorman smiled and nodded and held the door open for him. Browning walked out under the awning to his car. His chauffeur held the car door open for him. Not a drop of rain touched his glossy form, and he was off, smoothly, immaculately, into the swarm of red taillights heading down Park Avenue. No ratty riding mac encumbered the sleek fat back of Pollard Browning.

In fact, it was raining only lightly, and there was no wind, but the dachshund was having none of it. He was beginning to struggle in Shermans arms. The power of the little bastard! He put the dog down on the runner under the awning and then stepped out into the rain with the leash. In the darkness the apartment buildings on the other side of the avenue were a serene black wall holding back the citys sky, which was a steaming purple. It glowed, as if inflamed by a fever.

Hell, it wasnt so bad out here. Sherman pulled, but the dog dug into the runner with his toenails.

“Come on, Marshall.”

The doorman was standing outside the door, watching him.

“I dont think hes too happy about it, Mr. McCoy.”

“Im not, either, Eddie.” And never mind the commentary, thought Sherman. “Cmon, cmon, cmon, Marshall.”

By now Sherman was out in the rain giving the leash a pretty good pull, but the dachshund wasnt budging. So he picked him up and took him off the rubber runner and set him down on the sidewalk. The dog tried to bolt for the door. Sherman couldnt give him any more slack on the leash or else he was going to be right back where he started. So now he was leaning one way and the dog was leaning the other, with the leash taut between them. It was a tug-of-war between a man and a dog ... on Park Avenue. Why the hell didnt the doorman get back in the building where he belonged?

Sherman gave the leash a real jerk. The dachshund skidded forward a few inches on the sidewalk. You could hear his toenails scraping. Well, maybe if he dragged him hard enough, he would give up and start walking just to keep from being dragged.

“Cmon, Marshall! Were only going around the corner!”

From the Trade Paperback edition.

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GDuperreault, December 26, 2012 (view all comments by GDuperreault)
This was one of the few books I've read because of the chit chat around it. The movie, which I felt had potential but which I thought was ultimately a directorial failure, was the final element that brought me to pick this book up. I was curious at how the movie failed and needed to read the book to see if my impression that it was a directorial failure was accurate or not. My reading that book did not answer that question with any certainty because BotV has become one of the touch stone books marking me as an outsider to the society within which I live. Its award winning popularity is a complete mystery to me. Poorly written, it has uninteresting characters and characterization espousing a heavy handed superficial morality -- sort of. My few observations of Wolfe in book interviews did not in any way dissuade me that he is an overrated wind-bag, filled with ego and hubris and little of what I would consider critical intelligence. It struck me that he was an apologist for American hegemony both domestic and foreign.

So, with that in mind it was with surprise and even fascination that I read a Tom Wolfe encomium of American domestic practices under Reagan get severely castigated by Noam Chomsky. In his satirically way, Chomsky basically puts Wolfe's social commentary into the ranks of the rantings of a delusional apologist for the greed-based policies that successfully impoverished the majority to the benefit of the very few. So, in a perversion of a 'proper' book review, here is a taste of Chomsky chastising Tom Wolfe -- note, I hadn't even heard of Chomsky before reading BotV:
...
What the [economic] "paradox" [in 1992 of a 'Weak Economy but Strong Profits'] entails for the general population is demonstrated by numerous studies of income distribution, real wages, poverty, hunger, infant mortality, and other social indices. A study released by the Economic Policy Institute on Labor Day, 1992, fleshed out the details of what people know from their experience: after a decade of Reaganism, "most Americans are working longer hours for lower wages and considerably less security," and "the vast majority" are "in many ways worse off" than in the late 1970s. From 1987, real wages have declined even for the college educated. "Poverty rates were high by historic standards," and "those in poverty in 1989 were significantly poorer than the poor in 1979." The poverty rate rose further in 1991, the Census Bureau reported. A congressional report released a few days later estimates that hunger has grown by 50 percent since the mid-1980s to some 30 million people. Other studies show that one of eight children under 12 suffers from hunger, a problem that reappeared in 1982 after having been overcome by government programs from the 1960s. Two researchers report that in New York, the proportion of children raised in poverty more than doubled to 40 percent, while nationwide, "the number of hungry American children grew by 26 percent" as aid for the poor shrank during "the booming 1980s "... one of the great golden moments that humanity has ever experienced," a spokesman for the culture of cruelty proclaimed (Tom Wolfe Boston Globe February 1990).

The impact is brought out forcefully in more narrowly-focused studies; for example, at the Boston City Hospital, where researchers found that "the number of malnourished, low-weight children jumped dramatically following the coldest winter months," when parents had to face the agonizing choice between heat or food. At the hospital's clinic for malnourished children, more were treated in the first nine months of 1992 than in all of 1991; the wait for care reached two months, compelling the staff to "resort to triage." Some suffer from Third World levels of malnutrition and require hospitalization, victims of "the social and financial calamities that have befallen families" and the "massive retrenchment in social service programs" (Boston Globe September 8, 25, 1992). By the side of a road, men hold signs that read "Will Work for Food," a sight that recalls the darkest days of the Great Depression. (Year 501: The Conquest Continues p280-1).

I am being a little mean here, I fully acknowledge. But in the few Wolfe interviews I saw, I found myself becoming angry that a bad writer was being heralded as a visionary and truth seeker to be paraded by the media in their campaign to mis-represent the extent of income polarity and impoverishment that is the direct result of American policies that are benefiting very few, but doing so to a staggering degree(less)
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Product Details

ISBN:
9780553275971
Author:
Wolfe, Tom
Publisher:
Bantam
Location:
Toronto ;
Subject:
General
Subject:
Fiction
Subject:
City and town life
Subject:
General Fiction
Copyright:
Edition Number:
Bantam ed.
Edition Description:
Mass market paperback
Series Volume:
1459
Publication Date:
19881101
Binding:
Paperback
Grade Level:
General/trade
Language:
English
Illustrations:
Yes
Pages:
704
Dimensions:
6.85x4.17x1.22 in. .73 lbs.

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