Tom Wolfe was once asked if the novel is dead. He replied that it's not quite dead, but it's on life support. He thinks the biggest problem with modern novels is that the novelists don't bother to do adequate research on their subject. How can one write a novel about India, for example, if one has never been to India? In Bonfire of the Vanities, Wolfe has done the research and has created an exact representation of modern city life in America, complete with politically self-serving DAs, civil rights demagogues, and pompous gold-coast dandies.

Wolfe is obviously a keen observer of detail. This skill combined with his mastery of the reportorial style of writing make for a great novel, and a great expose' of the hustlers and opportunists that use the system for their own self-interest. I think of him as a modern-day Sinclair Lewis, who once said that he never passed judgement one way or another, he just reported what he observed. Since most of us have probably never been in a high-rise apartment on Park Avenue or a housing project in the Bronx, it's interesting to read Wolfe's detailed descriptions down to the type of wallpaper and table centerpieces. All of this works to pull the reader into the scene, the only excess possibly being his proclivity for over-reporting clothing styles. Wolfe shows his love of clothing by using esoteric terms that probably have no meaning to the average reader.

Wolfe's scenes are so realistic the reader can imagine himself being in the action. I felt Sherman's fear in the Bronx jail cell. I felt his shame when lying to his wife about his relationship with Maria. The characters and dialog are so real, even though the reader may not live in that social milieu he can identify with the situation. The action moves at a rapid pace. Wolfe doesn't get bogged down with excessive narrative. He lets the characters speak for themselves--truly the mark of a great novelist.

I love the way Wolfe has the Brits comment on Americans. It's refreshing to see ourselves from another perspective. How funny it is to hear Peter Fallow complain about our "ridiculous country" and our lack of social graces, all the while sponging off of rich Americans at every opportunity.

This book is timeless. I read it for the second time recently and found it as enjoyable as the first. At the end I felt myself wishing for several more chapters. Bonfire of the Vanities should always stand as one of the best examples of American literature by one of our greatest writers.

Jean Auel's first book was excellent, beautifully written and well researched. Her second book was interesting and entertaining, but a bit far-fetched as Ayla became Supergirl. In her third book, The Mammoth Hunters, Jean Auel serves up a pathetic mix of fantasy, feminism, and science fiction.

If it weren't for the love scenes, which are nothing less than pornographic, this book could be classified as children's fantasy. Ayla is transformed into Wonderwoman, a medical genius able to cure any sickness or ailment with her holistic herbal approach. A convenient plant is always available for Ayla to use in her magic potions. She avoids pregnancy by taking some herbal remedy used by the Neanderthal women.

The author cares more about feminism here than history. In the summer camp, the ultimate tribunal is the Council of Sisters. There is a council of brothers, but that apparently is more like a petit court trying only misdemeanors. Only women can be trusted with the really important stuff. Each tribe is jointly ruled by a headwoman and a headman. The headwoman being just as, if not more, important in the hierarchy. Their god is a woman--Mut, The Great Earth Mother. At the mammoth hunt, which finally occurs in the last few chapters, the first killing spear is thrown by a woman. This is Jean Auel's perfect feminist utopia, but it is not history, not even pre-history.

Chapters 19 through 30 could be condensed into one. They spend the winter in the earth lodge doing nothing. Jondalar and Ayla stop talking but they really love each other, they just can't seem to get it together. Meanwhile, Ranec courts Ayla and Ayla submits, having been trained by the Clan always to submit to men sexually. The book grinds down to an excruciatingly slow pace for no good reason. We know Ayla's going to dump Ranec in the end for Jondalar, who Auel has changed from the brave, spear-making hunter in Valley of the Horses to a lovesick weakling who can't seem to put togther a sentence as simple as, "Ayla, I love you." Auel's frequent and puerile references to sex as "Pleasures" are most annoying.

Jondalar leaves the Mamutoi after summer camp, not wanting to see Ayla wed to Ranec. Ayla realizes she must have Jondalar and sends Wolf the Wonderdog to fetch him back. Wolf does his job, and our lovers find themselves as the formerly communicationally-challenged Jondalar starts using language of love worthy of Shakespeare.

I can only recommend this book to high-school girls looking for a teenage romance with a twist. It is not serious literature, and Jean Auel should not be trusted with history.