Tom Wolfe is not a generous writer. He's gifted in almost heroic proportion, not only with the writer's ear for irresistible words (a common enough talent, in truth), but with independence of mind, an amiable manner which persuades people to tell him things, and a genius for effortless self-promotion. He's not just good at what he does; he's a figure as well, somebody in particular, a presence, unique. (p. 142)

His peculiar gift is for satire, but it is satire of an odd sort. He is not like Juvenal, angry and excoriating, animated by fierce passion. Far from it. His portraits are pitiless enough, but he seems to speak from a great distance, as if none of this mattered very greatly to him. Occasionally he speaks of himself as "the man in the white suit," amused and remote, a visitor at the carnival taking in the sideshows. His targets...