A Man in Full [Englisch] [Taschenbuch]

Dieser Titel ist in englischer Sprache.
Seit er 1972 seinen Klassiker, den Essay "Why They Aren't Writing the Great American Novel Anymore" veröffentlichte, hat Tom Wolfe seine schriftstellerischen Präferenzen laut und deutlich vorgebracht. Für den Musterknaben des New Journalism ist Minimalismus eine Pleite, wenn nicht gar eine Folge von Mutlosigkeit. Die wahre Aufgabe des amerikanischen Schriftstellers sei es, große Romane über gesellschaftliche Beobachtungen zu produzieren -- von der Sorte, die Balzac auftischen würde, hätte er sich ins Viagra-Zeitalter hinübergerettet. Wolfes Manifest hätte einen arroganten Klang, hätte er es nicht bereits 1987 mit The Bonfire of the Vanities geschafft. Nun, mehr als ein Jahrzehnt später, ist er wieder da mit einem zweiten Roman. Ist der "Mann in Weiß" seinen eigenen Ansprüchen gerecht geworden?

In vielerlei Hinsicht müßte die Antwort "Ja" lauten. Wie sein Vorgänger ist A Man in Fulleine Großleinwand-Arbeit, in der eine Vielzahl von Figuren an der gefetteten Stange des gesellschaftlichen Lebens hoch- beziehungsweise (rasch) an ihr herunterklettern. "In einem Zeitalter wie diesem", erinnert uns eine der Figuren, "im ausgehenden 20. Jahrhundert, war gesellschaftliche Stellung alles, und sie zu erringen, war das Schwierigste, was es gab". Wolfe hat ganz gewiß den Schauplatz geändert. Statt auf New York konzentriert er sich hier auf Atlanta, Georgia, wo der Kampf um Revier und Macht durch Südstaatenanstand zumindest leicht patiniert ist. Die Handlung dreht sich um Charlie Croker, einen egomanischen Südstaatler mit einem im Zerfall befindlichen Immobilienimperium am Hals. Aber Wolfes Aufmerksamkeit konzentriert sich genauso stark auf zwei Nebendarsteller: einen im sozialen Abstieg begriffenen Familienvater, Conrad Hensley, und Roger White II, afroamerikanischer Anwalt bei einer renommierten Kanzlei. Was diese Nebenhandlungen letztendlich zusammenführt -- und einen Feuersturm des Rassenhasses in Atlanta auszulösen droht --, ist die angebliche Vergewaltigung einer Debütantin durch Georgia Tech Football-Star Fareek "The Cannon" Fanon.

Eine detaillierte Inhaltsangabe der Handlung wäre natürlich in etwa so lang wie ein durchschnittlicher minimalistischer Roman. Nur soviel sei gesagt -- A Man in Full ist voll von der Sorte hervorragender klassischer dramaturgischer Elemente, wie wir sie von Wolfe inzwischen erwarten. Eine Wachteljagd auf Charlies 29.000-Morgen-Plantage, ein Wichtigtuer-Abend im Sinfoniekonzert, eine politisch geladene Pressekonferenz -- der Autor setzt diese Szenen zusammen mit einer Freude, die sich rasch auf den Leser überträgt. Das Buch ist darüber hinaus sehr, sehr komisch. Die Anwaltskanzleien, wie die vornehme, erfolgreiche Fogg Nackers Rendering & Lean, könnten direkt von Dickens stammen, und Wolfe läßt sogar seinen Nebenfiguren, wie den Berufshinterwäldler Opey McCorkle, lebendig werden: In wahrer Opey-McCorkle-Manier erschien er zum Abendessen mit kariertem Hemd, karierter Krawatte, roten Filzhosenträgern und um seinen Schmerbauch einen großen, alten Ledergürtel, der aussah wie etwas, mit dem man ein Maultier anspannen könnte. Aber hier hatte er seinen sonst üblichen Schwall von schwülstiger Rhetorik gemischt mit Baker-County-Ismen abgelegt. Leser auf der Suche nach einem netteren, sanfteren Wolfe werden möglicherweise enttäuscht sein. Während er die (notwendige) Überlegenheit des Satirikers gegenüber seinem Sujet bewahrt, neigt er dazu, genau dann seine Überlegenheit zu verlieren, wenn er versucht, uns zu bewegen. Trotzdem, wenn es um die maximalistische Porträtierung der amerikanischen Szene geht -- und um reine Satz-für-Satz-Unterhaltung -- dann sieht es so aus, als ob 1998 tatsächlich das Jahr des Wolfes werden kann. --James Marcus

Amazon.de Seit er 1972 seinen Klassiker, das Essay Why They Aren't Writing the Great American Novel Anymore veröffentlichte, hat Tom Wolfe seine dichterischen Vorlieben laut und deutlich vorgebracht. Für den Musterknabe des Neuen Journalismus ist Minimalismus eine Pleite, geschweige denn eine Folge von Mutlosigkeit. Die wahre Aufgabe des amerikanischen Schriftstellers ist es, fette Romane über gesellschaftliche Beobachtungen zu produzieren -- von der Sorte, die Balzac auftischen würde, hätte er sich ins Viagra-Zeitalter hinübergerettet. Wolfes Manifest hätte einen arroganten Klang, hätte er es nicht bereits 1987 mit Fegefeuer der Eitelkeiten geschafft. Nun, mehr als ein Jahrzehnt später, ist er wieder da mit einem zweiten Roman. Ist der "Mann in Weiß" seiner eigenen Aufgabe gerecht geworden?

In vielerlei Hinsicht müßte die Antwort "Ja" lauten. Wie sein Vorgänger ist Ein ganzer Kerl eine Großleinwand-Arbeit, in der eine Vielzahl von Figuren an der gefetteten Stange des gesellschaftlichen Lebens hoch- beziehungsweise (rasch) an ihr herunterklettern. "In einem Zeitalter wie diesem", erinnert uns eine der Figuren, "im ausgehenden 20. Jahrhundert, war gesellschaftliche Stellung alles, und es war das schwierigste, was man erringen konnte." Wolfe hat ganz gewiß das Terrain gewechselt. Statt New York konzentriert er sich hier auf Atlanta, Georgia, wo der Kampf um Revier und Macht durch Südstaatenanstand zumindest leicht patiniert ist. Die Handlung dreht sich um Charlie Croker, einen egomanischen Südstaatler mit einem im Zerfall befindlichen Immobilienimperium am Hals. Aber Wolfes Aufmerksamkeit konzentriert sich genauso stark auf zwei Nebendarsteller: einen absteigenden Familienvater, Conrad Hensley, und Roger White II, einen afroamerikanischen Anwalt bei einer renommierten Kanzlei. Was diese Nebenhandlungen letztendlich konvergieren läßt -- und einen Feuersturm des Rassenhasses in Atlanta auszulösen droht -- ist die angebliche Vergewaltigung einer Debütantin durch Georgia Tech Football-Star Fareek "The Cannon" Fanon.

Eine detaillierte Inhaltsangabe der Handlung wäre natürlich in etwa so lang wie der durchschnittliche minimalistische Roman. Nur soviel sei gesagt -- Ein ganzer Kerl ist voll von der Sorte von hervorragender klassischer dramaturgischer Elemente, wie wir sie Wolfe inzwischen erwarten. Eine Wachteljagt auf Charlies 29.000-Morgen-Plantage, ein Wichtigtuer-Abend im Sinfoniekonzert, eine politisch geladene Pressekonferenz -- der Author setzt diese Szenen zusammen mit einer Freude, die sich rasch auf den Leser überträgt. Das Buch ist darüberhinaus sehr, sehr komisch. Die Anwaltskanzleien, wie die vornehme, erfolgreiche Fogg Nackers Rendering & Lean, könnten direkt von Dickens stammen, und Wolfe läßt sogar seinen Nebenfiguren, wie den Berufshinterwäldler Opey McCorkle, lebendig werden:

In wahrer Opey-McCorkle-Manier erschien er zum Abendessen mit kariertem Hemd, karierter Krawatte, roten Filzhosenträgern und einem großen, alten Ledergürtel um seinen Schmerbauch, der aussah wie etwas, mit dem man ein Maultier anspannen könnte. Aber hier hatte er seinen sonst üblichen Schwall von schwülstiger Rhetorik gemischt mit Baker-County-Ismen abgelegt. Leser auf der Suche nach einem netteren, sanfteren Wolfe werden möglicherweise enttäuscht sein. Während er die (notwendige) Überlegenheit des Satirikers gegenüber seinem Sujet bewahrt, neigt er dazu, genau dann seine Überlegenheit zu verlieren, wenn er versucht, uns zu bewegen. Trotzdem, wenn es um die maximalistische Porträtierung der amerikanischen Szene geht -- und um reine Satz-für-Satz-Unterhaltung -- dann sieht es so aus, als ob 1998 tatsächlich das Jahr des Wolfes werden kann. --James Marcus -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine vergriffene oder nicht verfügbare Ausgabe dieses Titels.

Ever since he published his classic 1972 essay "Why They Aren't Writing the Great American Novel Anymore," Tom Wolfe has made his fictional preferences loud and clear. For New Journalism's poster boy, minimalism is a wash, not to mention a failure of nerve. The real mission of the American writer is to produce fat novels of social observation--the sort of thing Balzac would be dishing up if he had made it into the Viagra era. Wolfe's manifesto would have had a hubristic ring if he hadn't actually delivered the goods in 1987 with The Bonfire of the Vanities. Now, more than a decade later, he's back with a second novel. Has the Man in White lived up to his own mission?

On many counts, the answer would have to be "yes". Like its predecessor, A Man in Full is a big-canvas work, in which a multitude of characters seems to be ascending or (rapidly) descending the greasy pole of social life: "In an era like this one," a character reminds us, "the 20th century's fin de siècle position was everything, and it was the hardest thing to get." Wolfe has changed terrain on us, to be sure. Instead of New York, the focus here is Atlanta, Georgia, where the struggle for turf and power is at least slightly patinated with Deep South gentility. The plot revolves around Charlie Croker, an egomaniacal good ol' boy with a crumbling real-estate empire on his hands. But Wolfe is no less attentive to a pair of supporting players: a downwardly mobile family man, Conrad Hensley, and Roger White II, an African American attorney at a white-shoe firm. What ultimately causes these subplots to converge--and threatens to ignite a racial firestorm in Atlanta--is the alleged rape of a society deb by Georgia Tech American football star Fareek "The Cannon" Fanon.

Of course, a detailed plot summary would be about as long as your average minimalist novel. Suffice it to say that A Man in Full is packed with the sort of splendid set pieces we've come to expect from Wolfe. A quail hunt on Charlie's 29,000-acre plantation, a stuffed-shirt evening at the symphony, a politically loaded press conference--the author assembles these scenes with contagious delight. The book is also very, very funny. The law firms, like upper- crust powerhouse Fogg Nackers Rendering & Lean, are straight out of Dickens, and Wolfe brings even his minor characters, like professional hick Opey McCorkle, to vivid life:

In true Opey McCorkle fashion he had turned up for dinner wearing a plaid shirt, a plaid necktie, red felt suspenders, and a big old leather belt that went around his potbelly like something could hitch up a mule with, but for now he had cut off his usual torrent of orotund rhetoric mixed with Baker Countyisms.

Readers in search of a kinder, gentler Wolfe may well be disappointed. Retaining the satirist's (necessary) superiority to his subject, he tends to lose his edge precisely when he's trying to move us. Still, when it comes to maximalist portraiture of the American scene--and to sheer, sentence-by-sentence amusement--1998 looks to be the year of the Wolfe, indeed. --James Marcus, Amazon.com -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine vergriffene oder nicht verfügbare Ausgabe dieses Titels.

Ever since he published his classic 1972 essay "Why They Aren't Writing the Great American Novel Anymore," Tom Wolfe has made his fictional preferences loud and clear. For New Journalism's poster boy, minimalism is a wash, not to mention a failure of nerve. The real mission of the American writer is to produce fat novels of social observation--the sort of thing Balzac would be dishing up if he had made it into the Viagra era. Wolfe's manifesto would have had a hubristic ring if he hadn't actually delivered the goods in 1987 with The Bonfire of the Vanities. Now, more than a decade later, he's back with a second novel. Has the Man in White lived up to his own mission?

On many counts, the answer would have to be yes. Like its predecessor, A Man in Full is a big-canvas work, in which a multitude of characters seems to be ascending or (rapidly) descending the greasy pole of social life: "In an era like this one," a character reminds us, "the twentieth century's fin de siècle, position was everything, and it was the hardest thing to get." Wolfe has changed terrain on us, to be sure. Instead of New York, the focus here is Atlanta, Georgia, where the struggle for turf and power is at least slightly patinated with Deep South gentility. The plot revolves around Charlie Croker, an egomaniacal good ol' boy with a crumbling real-estate empire on his hands. But Wolfe is no less attentive to a pair of supporting players: a downwardly mobile family man, Conrad Hensley, and Roger White II, an African American attorney at a white-shoe firm. What ultimately causes these subplots to converge--and threatens to ignite a racial firestorm in Atlanta--is the alleged rape of a society deb by Georgia Tech football star Fareek "The Cannon" Fanon.

Of course, a detailed plot summary would be about as long as your average minimalist novel. Suffice it to say that A Man in Full is packed with the sort of splendid set pieces we've come to expect from Wolfe. A quail hunt on Charlie's 29,000-acre plantation, a stuffed-shirt evening at the symphony, a politically loaded press conference--the author assembles these scenes with contagious delight. The book is also very, very funny. The law firms, like upper-crust powerhouse Fogg Nackers Rendering & Lean, are straight out of Dickens, and Wolfe brings even his minor characters, like professional hick Opey McCorkle, to vivid life:

In true Opey McCorkle fashion he had turned up for dinner wearing a plaid shirt, a plaid necktie, red felt suspenders, and a big old leather belt that went around his potbelly like something could hitch up a mule with, but for now he had cut off his usual torrent of orotund rhetoric mixed with Baker Countyisms.

Readers in search of a kinder, gentler Wolfe may well be disappointed. Retaining the satirist's (necessary) superiority to his subject, he tends to lose his edge precisely when he's trying to move us. Still, when it comes to maximalist portraiture of the American scene--and to sheer, sentence-by-sentence amusement--1998 looks to be the year of the Wolfe, indeed. --James Marcus -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine vergriffene oder nicht verfügbare Ausgabe dieses Titels.

Imagine Bonfire of the Vanities set in Atlanta: a star running back from the slums is accused of raping the daughter of a blueblood family even as Asian immigrants sneak into town and protagonist Charlie Croker, a football star turned businessman, tries to get out of debt.
Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc. -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine vergriffene oder nicht verfügbare Ausgabe dieses Titels.

"A masterpiece."
--The Wall Street Journal

"Superior...utterly engrossing."
--USA Today

"The novel contains passages as powerful and as beautiful as anything written--not merely by contemporary American novelists but by any American novelist....The book is as funny as anything Wolfe has ever written; at the same time it is also deeply, strangely affecting."
--The New York Times Book Review

"Wolfe is a peerless observer, a fearless satirist, a genius in full."
--People

Picador paperback edition of Wolfe's latest novel. Set in America's deep South, it explores issues such as political corruption, racial tension, wealth and poverty, and centres around erstwhile football star and successful property developer Charles Croker. A vivid picture of the disparate worlds of contemporary America, painted with wit, verve and insight. -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine vergriffene oder nicht verfügbare Ausgabe dieses Titels.

Charles Croker, a middle-aged, egotistical former-college-football-star-turned-tycoon, finds his life turned upside down and the delicate racial balance of Atlanta threatened when star running back Fareek Fanon, a product of the city's slums, is accused of raping an Atlanta aristocrat's daughter.

I respond to certain criticisms
John Updike was right, my work really isn't literature

Tom Wolfe, nach seinem legendären Roman "Fegefeuer der Eitelkeiten" zuletzt mit "Ein ganzer Kerl" (1999) erfolgreich, gehört zur Cr me de la Cr me der amerikanischen Literatur. Er lebt in New York und schreibt derzeit an seinem neuen Roman. -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine vergriffene oder nicht verfügbare Ausgabe dieses Titels.

Prologue
Cap'm Charlie

Charlie Croker, astride his favorite tennessee walking horse, pulled his shoulders back to make sure he was erect in the saddle and took a deep breath . . . Ahhhh, that was the ticket . . . He loved the way his mighty chest rose and fell beneath his khaki shirt and imagined that everyone in the hunting party noticed how powerfully built he was. Everybody; not just his seven guests but also his six black retainers and his young wife, who was on a horse behind him near the teams of La Mancha mules that pulled the buckboard and the kennel wagon. For good measure, he flexed and fanned out the biggest muscles of his back, the latissimi dorsi, in a Charlie Croker version of a peacock or a turkey preening. His wife, Serena, was only twenty-eight, whereas he had just turned sixty and was bald on top and had only a swath of curly gray hair on the sides and in back. He seldom passed up an opportunity to remind her of what a sturdy cord--no, what a veritable cable--kept him connected to the rude animal vitality of his youth.

By now they were already a good mile away from the Big House and deep into the plantation's seemingly endless fields of broom sedge. This late in February, this far south in Georgia, the sun was strong enough by 8 a.m. to make the ground mist lift like wisps of smoke and create a heavenly green glow in the pine forests and light up the sedge with a tawny gold. Charlie took another deep breath . . . Ahhhhhh . . . the husky aroma of the grass . . . the resinous air of the pines . . . the heavy, fleshy odor of all his animals, the horses, the mules, the dogs . . . Somehow nothing reminded him so instantly of how far he had come in his sixty years on this earth as the smell of the animals. Turpmtine Plantation! Twenty-nine thousand acres of prime southwest Georgia forest, fields, and swamp! And all of it, every square inch of it, every beast that moved on it, all fifty-nine horses, all twenty-two mules, all forty dogs, all thirty-six buildings that stood upon it, plus a mile-long asphalt landing strip, complete with jet-fuel pumps and a hangar--all of it was his, Cap'm Charlie Croker's, to do with as he chose, which was: to shoot quail.

His spirits thus buoyed, he turned to his shooting partner, a stout brick-faced man named Inman Armholster, who was abreast of him on another of his walking horses, and said:

"Inman, I'm gonna--"

But Inman, with a typical Inman Armholster bluster, cut him off and insisted on resuming a pretty boring disquisition concerning the upcoming mayoral race in Atlanta: "Listen, Charlie, I know Jordan's got charm and party manners and he talks white and all that, but that doesn't"--dud'n--"mean he's any friend of . . ."

Charlie continued to look at him, but he tuned out. Soon he was aware only of the deep, rumbling timbre of Inman's voice, which had been smoke-cured the classic Southern way, by decades of Camel cigarettes, unfiltered. He was an odd-looking duck, Inman was. He was in his mid-fifties but still had a head of thick black hair, which began low on his forehead and was slicked back over his small round skull. Everything about Inman was round. He seemed to be made of a series of balls piled one atop the other. His buttery cheeks and jowls seemed to rest, without benefit of a neck, upon the two balls of fat that comprised his chest, which in turn rested upon a great swollen paunch. Even his arms and legs, which looked much too short, appeared to be made of spherical parts. The down-filled vest he wore over his hunting khakis only made him look that much rounder. Nevertheless, this ruddy pudge was chairman of Armaxco Chemical and about as influential a businessman as existed in Atlanta. He was this weekend's prize pigeon, as Charlie thought of it, at Turpmtine. Charlie desperately wanted Armaxco to lease space in what so far was the worst mistake of his career as a real estate developer, a soaring monster he had megalomaniacally named Croker Concourse.

"--gon' say Fleet's too young, too brash, too quick to play the race card. Am I right?"

Suddenly Charlie realized Inman was asking him a question. But other than the fact that it concerned André Fleet, the black "activist," Charlie didn't have a clue what it was about.

So he went, "Ummmmmmmmmmmm."

Inman apparently took this to be a negative comment, because he said, "Now, don't give me any a that stuff from the smear campaign. I know there's people going around calling him an out-and-out crook. But I'm telling you, if Fleet's a crook, then he's my kinda crook."

Charlie was beginning to dislike this conversation, on every level. For a start, you didn't go out on a beautiful Saturday morning like this on the next to last weekend of the quail season and talk politics, especially not Atlanta politics. Charlie liked to think he went out shooting quail at Turpmtine just the way the most famous master of Turpmtine, a Confederate Civil War hero named Austin Roberdeau Wheat, had done it a hundred years ago; and a hundred years ago nobody on a quail hunt at Turpmtine would have been out in the sedge talking about an Atlanta whose candidates for mayor were both black. But then Charlie was honest with himself. There was more. There was . . . Fleet. Charlie had had his own dealings with André Fleet, and not all that long ago, either, and he didn't feel like being reminded of them now or, for that matter, later.

So this time it was Charlie who broke in:

"Inman, I'm gonna tell you something I may regret later on, but I'm gonna tell you anyway, ahead a time."

After a couple of puzzled blinks Inman said, "All right . . . go ahead."

"This morning," said Charlie, "I'm only gonna shoot the bobs." Morning came out close to moanin', just as something had come out sump'm. When he was here at Turpmtine, he liked to shed Atlanta, even in his voice. He liked to feel earthy, Down Home, elemental; which is to say, he was no longer merely a real estate developer, he was . . . a man.

"Only gon' shoot the bobs, hunh," said Inman. "With that?"

He gestured toward Charlie's .410-gauge shotgun, which was in a leather scabbard strapped to his saddle. The spread of bird shot a .410 fired was smaller than any other shotgun's, and with quail the only way you could tell a bob from a hen was by a patch of white on the throat of a bird that wasn't much more than eight inches long to start with.

"Yep," said Charlie, grinning, "and remember, I told you ahead a time."

"Yeah? I'll tell you what," said Inman. "I'll betcha you can't. I'll betcha a hundred dollars."

"What kinda odds you gon' give me?"

"Odds? You're the one who brought it up! You're the one staking out the bragging rights! You know, there's an old saying, Charlie: 'When the tailgate drops, the bullshit stops.'"

"All right," said Charlie, "a hundred dollars on the first covey, even Stephen." He leaned over and extended his hand, and the two of them shook on the bet.

Immediately he regretted it. Money on the line. A certain deep worry came bubbling up into his brain. PlannersBanc! Croker Concourse! Debt! A mountain of it! But real estate developers like him learned to live with debt, didn't they . . . It was a normal condition of your existence, wasn't it . . . You just naturally grew gills for breathing it, didn't you . . . So he took another deep breath to drive the spurt of panic back down again and flexed his big back muscles once more.

Charlie was proud of his entire physique, his massive neck, his broad shoulders, his prodigious forearms; but above all he was proud of his back. His employees here at Turpmtine called him Cap'm...