represent the mad dash for inner truthnas a know-nothing attack on conventionnand rationaHty. Thus the Beats werenheld up to ridicule while at the samentime their plastic image was safely beingnembraced in the slogans printed onnendless T-shirts. In sterilizing the Beatnprotest, liberal culture once again establishednits inaccessibility, its imperviousnessnto intellectual dialogue fromnoutside itself.nMcNally’ ‘s service is to have providednus with the information necessary toncreate our own significance of the lifenof Jack Kerouac. This despite the obviousnhero worship on McNally’s part:n”I regard these alienated Americannprophets as my spiritual and intellectualnancestors. In a world that faces potentialnecological and spiritual apocalypse, Inrespectfully submit that the legend ofnthese psychic pioneers is necessary innorder that we might understand ournpresent reality.” Clearly the rhythmsnand hyperbolic nature of Kerouac’s ownnprose has entered McNally’s veins, andnthus we must contend with a continuallynoverblown language: “In fact, therenPerfectly AwfulnJ. p. Donleavy: Schultz; DelacortenPress; New York.nby Joseph SchwartzniJecause each novel since J. P. Donleavy’snfirst grew progressively worse,nThe Ginger Man now has a more imposingnreputation than it deserves. Itnwas good enough to begin with, but inncontrast to what has followed, it appears,nretrospectively, to possess virtues largernthan its real values warrant. Schultz,nDonleavy’s eighth novel, will certainlyncontribute to this curious state of affairs.nDr. Schwartz teaches English at MarquettenUniversity and edits the quarterlynRenascence.n30inChronicles of Culturenwere only a very few threads in any levelnof the culture that were not part of thengrey flannel weave.” Or, “There wasnno escape from the pervasive fog of thentechnocratic culture. Rather, a trip suchnas theirs was like stepping off a cliff—nand flying; ultimately their road lednwithin.” This posturing even reachesnMcNally’s outward presentation of self,nif we are to take his dust-jacket photonseriously—a hip, alienated young mannhiding behind shades with just the rightnlength of ash poised on the end of thencigarette extending from a carefullyngestured hand. Seeing such images madenme wish for a road map along with thentext to plot out Kerouac’s truly amazingnnumber of transcontinental trips, or forna bar graph gallon count of the prodigiousnvolumes of alcohol Kerouac isnsupposed to have consumed.nBut beyond these excesses and blemishesnlies the overarching value of thentale itself. In reliving the sorrows ofnKerouac, McNally allows the reader anglimpse at the kind of malaise 20th-centurynman faces in the presence of anbureaucratic world that would deny himnthe validity of his own intentions. DnI think the question no longer can be,nwhatever happened to Donleavy’s talent?nRather, I think, the question is,nhow did he manage to do whatevernturned out to be memorable in ThenGinger Man?nSchultz is perfectly awful; there isnno other way of putting it. The onlynreason for reviewing it is to find somethingninstructive in the failure, somethingnthat may have implications for thenwell-being of the commonweal.nSigmund Franz (Freud?) Schultz isnan American Jew, born in New England,nand now an impresario in London’s WestnEnd. He is not Donleavy’s usual protagonist,nthe artist, or a juvenile novelist’snconception of the artist. He is crassnmanagement, trying desperately to makennnmoney and to be accepted by England’snprivileged, rich aristocrats. Greed isnthe essence of his character. “Religionndoes not teach the only important truthnthere is, that man saves his soul bynmoney alone and to be rich is right andntrue and from that derives all beauty andnjustice.” Keeping one’s balance at thentop of a world which has at best a shiftingnfoundation is the most one can do.nBut, managing that, “You can not onlynscratch your fanny but touch the moon.”nThat, as they say, is having the best ofnboth worlds. But count on nothing sincen”Life at best is just a Jewish joke.” Thensensitive reader need not be concernednover an incipient anti-Semitism in thennovel. Schultz is Jewish only becausenDonleavy says he is. He is, in point ofnfact, a total zero. There are no charactersnin the book, only cardboard onedimensionalncut-outs propped up by thensheer will power of the author.nSchultz is, however, like Donleavy’snother protagonists in that he is a womanizernwith contempt for women. Thenwomen in his life are to be sure beautifulnand willing, but also grasping and contemptible.nThey want everything from anman—his sex, his money, “his imprisonednproximity”—so that he won’t havenany “juice” left for anyone else whennthey are finished with him. “Give a littlenbit of yourself to a woman and theynkeep wanting more. Till they got all ofnyou.” Schultz dislikes and despises allnof them, convinced that they are goodnfor only one thing. Hence, one shouldnnot waste time with women when thenend is not going to bed together. Afternobserving him “walking about admiringnhis erection in his various bedroom mirrors,”nwe are not surprised that he concludes,n”Masturbation is the supremenform of sexual pleasure.” He comes tonthis position, however, only after beddingndown every woman within reachnin situations as various as limited imaginationnpermits; heterosexual-homosexualnmenage d trois, heterosexual-lesbiannm&nage a trois, titled noblewoman,nabused servant, privileged servant, starlets—eachnbeing more sumptuouslyn