Some authors are able to rise to the occasion again and again, churning out novels for decades that are more or less the same quality. This seems especially likely to happen in the realm of detectives – Agatha Christie and Robert B. Parker come to mind. Some authors reach such a terrific peak that they are never able to approach it again, think Joseph Heller and John Irving. I’m not sure where to place Tom Wolfe in this model, but I know where his book “Back to Blood” fits.
I enjoyed “Bonfire of the Vanities” when I was young and vain and I enjoyed “A Man in Full” (a little less) when I was older and a bit more rounded. So I was looking forward to reading “Back to Blood.” It was a mistake, not a peak. I kept telling myself to keep reading, convinced that the plot would come together. I did, but it didn’t.
Unless you are a Cuban American or enamored of Miami, the book is unlikely to appeal to you. And even then it might not because I’m not sure how accurately Wolfe has captured the mood and ethos of Cuban Americans or the city where many of them live.
Too many characters were either introduced but not fully developed or developed but not engaged. The plot was convoluted to no apparent end and included days of intensive micromanagement and months in which nothing was described, though issues remained hanging. There were various forays involving sex and pornography that did little to advance the plot and appeared designed to showcase the author’s knowledge of, for example, public pornography. The denouement was an open door, revolving rather than resolving the various strands of the plot.
For over 700 pages, the author relentlessly relentlessly relentlessly beat his linguistic tic of repetition into my skull skull skull. That theme came through loud and clear — sometimes to emphasize a word, sometimes to provide atmosphere (think background noises) — and always annoyingly annoyingly annoyingly. If more books were written like this, less reading would take place.
Nobody would ever say or write “fewer reading would take place,” however “less” is often used when “fewer” would be more appropriate. People say that they want “less French fries,” and though I don’t believe them, neither do I misunderstand them. Still, it’s not as precise (or mellifluous) as saying they want “fewer French fries.”
“Fewer” should be used with quantifiable things, like French fries or blood cells. “Less” should be used with things that aren’t easily quantified, like mashed potatoes or blood. “More” always works, whether you want more French fries, more mashed potatoes, more platelets, or more plasma.
Something I don’t want more of: Tom Wolfe novels.