Tom Wolfe astounds me whenever I read him, and I am reading him again, now. He is, perhaps, one of the most gifted writers of this generation. Wolfe writes about the depth and surface of human experience. People too often, and mistakenly, talk about Wolfe’s interest in status. That’s there, of course, but Tom Wolfe can write with insight and sensitivity about the soul, about spirituality, and the conflict of spirituality with the contemporary world and its vapid secularity–giving all their own voice.
Sometimes it is difficult to recognize the shining stars in the age in which they live. For instance, Norman Mailer was a sensation in his day, but I don’t think anyone will be reading him for much longer, if anyone still is. Tom Wolfe will continue to be read for generations because his novels are engaging, profound, artistic, and bespeak truths about the human condition that are timeless.
Tom Wolfe’s work has received mixed critical response. Some prominent authors of the generation preceding him panned him. I don’t know what gets into critics’ heads, sometimes. You often see hubris and arrogance in them that makes them think that they have an Olympian voice about everything beneath them from their lofty height. Hemingway once said he thought he should break the jaw of one critic every year. Wolfe’s works surpass the accepted authors preceding him who panned him. Wolfe will live on while they are forgotten.
Wolfe delights, engages, paints realistic characters, realistic situations, and comments on the vital issues of human existence. I am casting this criticism out into the cyber-world as enthusiasm which must find voice, and as a recommendation to anyone who hasn’t yet been touched by this abiding artist.
David Fekete 