Tom Wolfe. Don’t know much about him, honestly.
A few weeks back I noticed his most recent book on the shelves of the local library. I picked it up. I took it home. I didn’t get to reading it until a few days ago. It’s a short book, but I am taking my sweet time with it.
Then I read that he’s died. DEAD AT THE AGE OF 87. In a few minutes that headline is corrected. DEAD AT THE AGE OF 88. Tom Wolfe. Literary giant. Lauded by many.
And from what I’ve read of him a new hero or mentor or friend. So alike we are. I don’t wear white suits and big hats. I am not famous. My writing doesn’t make money.¹ But we think alike.
I really should read more of Tom Wolfe. Like that disaster of a movie, Bonfire of the Vanities. It’s apparently a terrific book. Or The Right Stuff. About the space program. Astronauts. That was made into a movie too. But successfully. I haven’t seen it. I haven’t read it. But I should do both. Read the book. Watch the movie.
Tom Wolfe. I just printed out a short bio of him from the archives of Vanity Fair — “How Tom Wolfe Became … Tom Wolfe.” As usual, I haven’t gotten around to reading it yet.
1. I’ve technically been paid to write before. But the pay has been lousy.
2. I wrote this yesterday during an open writing studio at Path with Art, a nonprofit offering free creative classes in Seattle.