The Indianapolis Star from Indianapolis, Indiana • Page 151

THE INDIANAPOLIS STAR SUNDAY, JUNE 24, 1979 PAGE 55" IHt-- BOOKS 'Heights' Biting Satire Of Soviet Life, Culture 'Contrary9 Psychology rial: W7 Does Number On Love fourth Schizophrenic, a fifth Slanderer and so on. These designations, naturally, are false-faced. Thus, Dauber is a great artist, Slanderer tells the truth, Chatterer speaks profoundly. Writer is a hack, and Thinker is a cretin. The exceptions to this deception are Boss Stalin).

Hog (Khrushchev) and Truth-teller (Solzhenitsyn). None of them is described. We get to know them all too well by their words and actions. THERE ARE MORE words than action. What these people do is talk, incessantly, brilliantly, and to very little purpose.

They know everything and achieve nothing. When they aren't talking, they are reading and writing monographs on rat behavior, histories of the future, papers on the informer as a servant of social cybernetics, doggerel, samizdat, wall newspapers, literary magazines and speeches by the Leader. And when they aren't talking or reading or writing, they are maneuvering for position and privilege in the pecking order of the Isra a bigger apartment, better pay, trips abroad, meat and caviar, memberships in the Academy, nubile women and crumbs of prestige. EVERYTHING, THEN, would appear to be here: greed, bribery, careerism. defamation of character, devaluation of the language, fudging of statistics, perversion of science, treason of the clerks, sadness, hilarity, boredom and terror.

This, we begin to Is what a closed society feels like a society in which it is possible to remain sane only because the secret police, like every other official institution, works "badly ness as a form of depression, just like their fairness and honesty. Newt is always gallantly repressing his surplus love. like someone who desperately wants to belch and won't allow himself. Mary has her eye eternally fixed on an invisible line that Newt must not cross, for it marks off her "space." They are like T.S. Eliot's bad poet, who is conscious when he should be unconscious, and unconscious when he should be conscious.

IN ONE OF the inter-connected stories that make up "Quite Contrary." Newt writes several versions of a farewell letter to Mary. It is a sad reflection on love that he carries over the same clumsy images and sentences from one draft to another. His love is nothing if not prosy. Even for a reader sympathetic to feminism, Mary is exasperating. She can't distinguish between pleasure and dependence, and she is often depressed after love, as if she had betrayed herself by responding to someone else.

Her vaunted honesty is a litany of "I want" and "I don't want." When she becomes pregnant and refuses to have Newt's baby, he goes through every permutation and combination of life-loving humility. They congratulate one another on behaving so bravely, on aborting their feelings as well as the fetus. SOMETIMES, when they are not discussing their needs, Mary and Newt banter with each other. Bantering is the singing commercial of interpersonal relations. They work at word play, even rhymes: "Bark like a narc," "A good little boy when he's lost his best toy." "Don't be upset, no sweat," and so on.

They are so dear to themselves. In one of his books, J.D. Salinger says that sentimentality means loving someone more than God does. In fiction, it might be enough to say that an author is sentimental when he loves his characters more than the reader does. But perhaps this is to do Dixon an injustice Perhaps "Quite Contrary" is a harrowing portrait of therapeutic man and therapeutic woman trying to experience love It may be a "chilling." or "searing." or "riveting" indictment of the way we are now It may be a "scathing satire Whatever it is.

though, one should be able to make it out with some assurance. If our love stones are indistinguishable from our parodies, how will we know whether to laugh or cry? 'NY Tmei News Sgrvce OH. WHAT psychology has done to love. In Quite Contrary," (Harper Row. 200 pages.

$9.95) by Stephen Dixon. Mary says to Newt. "What you expected from me was much more than I could give. It became a pact like I had to live up to She says. "I can't keep you diddling around waiting for me to go through all the living I have to before I'm ready for a more continuous thing with someone like you." She says.

"I shrink from the pressure of your intensity." She says, "I love you but feel I really need to be free and away from you for a while." Newt says. "I'll go home alone is that all right for tonight?" In bed with Mary, he can't stop crying. "Suddenly," he says. "I was seeing myself with all my masks off and maybe that's what's making me cry but I also feel it's somehow tied in with some sudden realization of my own mortality and repressed fear of severe sickness and death He says. "I think we've some things to discuss I thought it best to just talk things out." NEWT SAYS, "I still love you considerably, so that was a fairly understandably stupid remark (he made) considering everything you have to consider about the very nature of considerable love and what we don't know about it It is surprising to learn that, after a great deal of this sort of talk.

Mary and Newt are strongly attracted to one another, their sexual contact considerably exceeds the national average for their age and status. It is as if all this talk about feelings is the very opposite of foreplay. It is like emotional static that never stops crackling. Mary and Newt sound like archetypal contemporary emancipated singles. Both in their 30s, they have exhausted the first line of amusements available to younger men and women: a sense of simple pleasure in being and doing what comes natural.

THEY HAVE reached that quietly hysterical stage that they would call whimsy. Proud of their spontaneity, they go to a Playland on Broadway and compete in manual soccer, then sit in an automatic photo booth. "At the magic shop there Mary buys for her children a set of rattling teeth and birthday candles that can't be blown out They are unbearably quaint, Mary and Newt, and one begins to see quaint- WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE, influential and controversial 19th century British statesman, is the subject of Peter Stansky's biography, "Gladstone: A Progress in Politics" (Little, Brown, 201 pages, ictor Claims He Was ALTHOUGH IT calls itself a novel. "The Yawning Heights" (Random House, 829 pages, $15) defies categories, and perhaps description. Satiie? Philosophical romance? Encyclopedia? Obsequy? It is Gogol with elephantiasis.

It begins lumpy, achieves an astonishing texture, goes on almost forever, and ends in despair. It contains and dissects and reviles Soviet bureaucracy, rhetoric, science, psychology, philosophy, literature, art, theater, music, medicine, politics, education and journalism. There isn't a Soviet intellectual known to the West who doesn't appear in its many pages, and there are hundreds unknown to us who strut and grovel and inform and disappear. The intelligentsia of the Soviet Union, in fact. Is for Alesan-der Zinoviev what Paris was for Proust: rotten, but ACCORDING TO his valiant translator, Gordon Clough.

Zinoviev a philosopher and professor of mathematical logic who has, of course been stripped of his Soviet citizenship and now teaches at the University of Munich wrote "The Yawning Heights" in six months. Properly, it should take at least that long to read. Improperly; one must hurry. Parts are boring: so are parts of "Gargantua" and "Gulliver's Travels." We are in Ibansk an obscene Russian pun where everybody's name is Ibanov. We distinguished among the Ibanovs, as they experience the total Ism.

by their professions. Thus, one Ibanov is Sociologist, another Careerist, a third Colleague, a Assassin quickly trussed up, tied by his heels from a tree and coaxed into talking about how he and others tortured and killed Selmier's beautiful companion and lover. "Maybe she had it coming. It conies with the job. But you were a pack of animals," Selmier says to Mikalokov.

"I only pulled one tooth, That's the truth. They wouldn't listen to me," Mikalokov pleads. Then Selmier flashes back to a scene at an Indianapolis packing plant which he toured when he was a school boy. "DOZENS OF PINK pigs hung upside down, trussed up and squealing. One big man flicks a long blade twice at each pig," Selmier says in his flashback.

"And I ran the knife into and across his jugular. And I walked away," he writes. The scenes and dialogue would be perfect for a quickie spy thriller, and Dean Selmier, who has had such a memorable film career you remember his thrilling part in "Patton" where he is awakened by the George C. Scott then told to go back to sleep with the admonition, "you are the only sonovobitch here that knows what he is doing" seems to love to playact. The combination of ingredients in this recitation of blood, gore, sex, with a confused melange of conspiratorial theories ot world domination end in a tale which is highly unbelievable.

Travis McGee or Derek Flint or Matt Helm could get away with a first person account like "Blow Away." But for Dean Selmier, the Indianapolis native who remembers the Intimate details of murder, gore and passion, but forgets how to spell Kingan's, it is a little hard to swallow. But it ought to be a best-seller among the Indianapolis theater crowd. R. JOSEPH GELARDEN p. DEAN SELMIER.

an Indianapolis native who has spent his life as a less-than-superstar actor, has created a mild sensation in some city and national circles with his book, "Blow Away," (Viking, 272 pages, $9 95. All he did was write a book claiming his acting career was a cover for his real job an international hit man. So. you Dean Selmier friends and fans, here is what he has really been doing for all those years. Selmier claims he got in trouble while in the service and was let out of the charge on the condition he pledge to work for an un-named government agency.

SO HE LEAVES the service and heads for the stage and screen only to be ordered by this un-named government agency to go to Paris where he is to meet a man. Along the way he meets a beautiful Sabra. who introduces him to bondage, then is led to a man known in the book as M. Garrotte. Garrotte, the cultured "contact" who assigns Selmier his first "hit" while listening to Puccini is reminicent of James Bond's mentor, Garrotte hints he is part of a highly-conspiratorial group that seeks to stabilize the world when he sips his cognac while smiling as Selmier says former U.N Chief Dag Hammarskjold died in a plane crash.

"Accidents do not happen to the Ham-marskjolds of this world," Garrotte says. SELMJER'S FIRST assignment is to "hit" a former Nazi industrialist who allegedly designed the gas van which was used by executed war criminal Adolf Eichmann in his World War II Jewish extermination campaign. "I designed the van. I knew what it was for. This was 1942 and one did not protest." Stossy said.

Selmier gains Stossy 's confidence by landing on his private island and pretending to film a movie using a bevy of bikinied beauties to lure his intended victim into trusting him. The ruse works and Selmier soon is on Stossy's yacht. As his giant bodyguard cat-naps, the Hoosier kills him by giving him a whiff of poison gas hidden in a movie director's view finder. AFTER THIS initial "hit," Selmier has little trouble doing in "Mr. Papp" the Hungarian fiscal conduit for Russian payments to Parisian leftist terrorists like "Danny the Red." Selmier quickly locates "Mr.

Papp" and decides on a theatrical approach to this job What better cover than a psuedo-Halloween costume, so. dressed as the hunchback of Notre Dame, Selmier hides a .22 caliber pistol in the "hunch" and slips into the crypt that is used as a headquarters by "Mr. Papp." "The bullet exploded up into his left eye and came out the back of his head, sending the fragments dancing in the air likes flakes of dandruff," Selmier writes of the slaying. AFTER A SCENE where Garrotte" tests Selmier's nerve in a rubber room, he is assigned to eliminate an Arab courier with a swift kick in the throat, then it is a trip to Africa with the Sabra and M. Garrotte where they wipe out a terrorist training camp run by a team of renegade Japanese.

Then there is the reflective sabbatical into the hills of Spain where, clad in only a jockstrap and boots, Selmier trys to get close to nature while trying to stare down a wild boar like Davy Crockett stared down a bear. But the bad guys, angered by one of his professional assignments, try to wipe him out, but he is saved by the Sabra who slits the bad guys throat and stands him up against a tree. OF COURSE, this puts the beautiful Sabra in danger and she is soon tortured to death, and Selmier, of course, vows revenge. And. of course, he soon finds "Mikalokov" the psychotic Czech who is Ed Newman Throws Weak 'Sunday Punch' and unproductively.

The intelligentsia itself Is a kind of Gulag, the bureaucracy a cancer ward. Someone says, "We've talked about this several times before it was a mistake that doesn't affect the essence of the matter." And someone else replies. "The essence of the matter reveals itself in characteristic mistakes." This is perfect Kafka and, like all of Kafka, quite true. BUT ZINOVIEV a Hobbes with a sense of humor, an Orwell acquainted with the prevarications of modern science and linguistics has more on his mind than Gogol and Kafka and the treason of the clerks. Clerks tend to be traitors to critical discourse even in the bourgeois West.

Neurasthenic tells us: "I'm a mongrel. I talk, and that's all I do. Or I keep quiet. I may howl sometimes, but I don't bite. My masters beat me, and I just lick their hands." Nevertheless: if the Soviet intelligentsia is in some way culpable for the crimes of Stalin, if there is never one "great criminal," then the intelligentsia also deserves some credit for Solihenit-syn, who was not the only Truth-teller.

To those of us in the West, Zinoviev says: "It makes you want to scream, and scream and scream surely they can't be as cretinous as we are Surely they must see and understand something at least: "AFTER ALL. if there's been an explosion, there must have been someone who made the bomb, put it in the appropriate place, took a decision to detonate it, and detonated it. Things don't happen of their own accord, and even less so in conditions when the entire weight of a powerful state is directed to seeing that this kind of thing does not happen. "Well, forget it. Let us merely accept that it was the courageous act of one man who had resolved to speak the truth about a time long gone by." T.

Timtt Newt Sf vie One reason, of course, that Underwood does hold onto the reader is his setting in London, a place inhabited by English speaking people whose quaint ways, even when they are unexciting, stir mild curiosity in their American cousins. Bramley gets it all figured out in the end. The truth, alas, is not much more interesting than the lies told by nearly everybody involved. AT ONE juncture, the judge's son happens, rather awkwardly, to do away with poor old Jeff Jakobson, who was, by the way, the proprietor of the Monkes Tale, a place not unlike a night club themed to. of all thing, Geoffrey Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales'" with a Knightes Bar, a Canterbury Grill and all.

Somewhere along the way a reader gels the impression Bramley is the hero of the book: but he is so low key it takes a long time to start feeling any identification with him. Poor old Bramley, because of all the extra hours he put in on this piddling mystery, he seems to have lost his girl. If Bramley is the sort to think it was a fair exchange, he'll never get promoted to inspector. BEN COLE Truth Not What It Seems EDWIN NEWMAN the newsman has thrown his hat in the fiction ring. Sort of.

Hopefully? At any rate, here's "Sunday Punch" i Houghton Mifflin. $9.95 1 Since 1974. Edwin Newman has taken arms against a sea of slogans, cliches, jargons jargonizing, hardsell hyperbole and euphemistic double-speak. In "Strictly Speaking," Newman worried. "Will America be the death of English?" Dourly, in the language such as man do speak, he warned: "The outlook is dire; it is a later point in time than you think." Prophesying the apocalypse, Cassandra Newman asserted that all of us i except, of course, thee and me I have one foot over the edge of the precipice and one foot on a slippery cigarette butt which tastes good like a cigarette should.

IN 1976, HIS "Civil Tongue," less sharply honed, damned the prose pollution of politicians, sociologists, psychologists, advertisers, sportscasters and those who should know better, such as journalists and educators. A populanzer by trade, NBC correspondent Newman prefers banter to the battering-ram, but a wise wisecrack is tough to sustain, as Newman's first novel. "Sunday Punch." demonstrates. Noting that he's already been written off as "cranky and pedantic," Newman here abandons nonfictional exhortation for the satiric novel, his satire more Photo Books Show Rich, Poor In Closeup Published This Week A Selection Of Books Scheduled For Release Before June 30 Horatian than Juvenalian. his wit more mildly humorous than savagely indignant Attempting a Runyonesque haymaker.

Newman only shadowboxes His odyssey of British boxer Aubrey Philpott-Gnmes, skinny and "pale like a boiled halibut." more interested in theoretical economics than in right uppercuts. fizzles like Salvation Army punch on a hot Sunday. NEWMAN'S "protective interest in the English language." probably as much of a lost cause as is Aubrey's dream of saving the pound and restoring Britannia's rule, blinds Newman to fiction's rigors. Albeit wittily. Newman traduces the novel as much as Howard Cosell bastardizes language.

Defeated in love and in boxing, Aubrey decides to return to England. Giving up boxing. Aubrey vetoes joining the London School of Economics He tells reporter Mercer "I'm thinking of trying newspaper work I've had no training, but it doesn't seem difficult A smattering of literacy. A certain in-quisitiveness. They seem to be all that's required Miffed.

Joe Mercer replies. "It may look simple. deceptive. The entire human comedy is yours to deal with." Mercer's rebuke serves as a gloss on the text. Writing a novel, funny though it may be.

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$6 95 "ANYTHING BUT the Truth" (St. Martin's, 224 pages, $7.95) by Michael Underwood has one thing going for it it's not about Watergate. In fact, it is a small English mystery story, if the term can properly be used, set in London and centering on a trial in the Old Bailey, Matthew Chaytor is a newly robed judge sitting in the case of a young man named Ian Tanner who, it seems, has had the misfortune to run down and kill a shady minor underworld type like himself in a blind street. Tanner, alas, fled the scene, having done the deed while driving an automobile belonging to one Jeff Jakobson. DETECTIVE Constable Patrick Bramley says there's more than meets the eye in all this, and it turns out he is right." One might say, with extreme caution, the author has managed to pass the suspicion around the cast of characters with some equitable distribution; but he fails to provide overwhelming suspense.

It is, therefore, something of a minor feat he holds the reader's attention at all. PsvoiiV Children "Is Your Child Psychic? A Guide For Creative Parents and Teachers" (Macmilian, 200 pages, $3.95) by Dr. Alex Tanous and Katherine Fair Donnelly explains extra sensory perception WINDtlOOl 6ALIIRT Him Am Cutfom frmminq Wind ride Cantor Inwraon at fall Craah 547-9801 1 The Book RAck Ll ttj kA'- 10c 11.00 i Tradt 1 tar I JI0U. MwUiMitl. Ayr-Way OrMflWMd MaH City nuHm-wn mrinf Jl r-r- THE START PROVES THERE, AUTHOR OF 'IT DIDN'T WITH WATERGATE' YEA OR SO WITH EDGAR." A cvmcai fw5Pipfmin unflf'iifi the re-education of a Washington 25 after mtv were conege estimates.

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the other on us common folk and marginal types. "Portraits: Friends and Strangers" (Madrona. $14,951 by Michael Mathers it looks like poor, awestruck F. Scott was right after all. "To the Manor Born," a collection of 70 black-and-white photographs of the wealthy, illuminates Estrin's return to her childhood neighborhood to capture what she seems to think is the twilight age of a class: the old-guard rich.

Estrin's hometown is Forest Lake, an exclusive suburb of Chicago where mahogany-paneled living rooms, enormous mirrored dressing rooms and backyard tennis courts are a matter of course. ESTRIN SAYS SHE wanted to record the elegance, extravagance, even the eccentricities of this upper class, without condoning or condemning them. Her object was to see "with a clear, penetrating eye" and to portray what she saw honestly, "especially as I became aware of the forces that are changing it." Her photos coolly show people who are not dwarfed by splendid environments, who are comfortable in their relationships with other people and confident in their ownership of objects and who look remarkably content or unworried. On occasion, they appear as smug as envy might wish. Portraits of individuals predominate over shots of couples and families (36 of the 70 pictures show individuals, with the number increasing if you count shots involving pets or objects).

Thus form and function, medium and message, seem to have become one in this testament to the wealth that extreme individualism may achieve in a free-enterprise system. USING A LARGE-format, wide-angle camera, Estrin reveals light and airy settings. Darkness only appears from such causes as multiple reflections in mirrors. Only a few ominous shadows turn up in short sequences toward the end of the book, but enough bright photos dispel the notion that there is actually a theme of encroaching eclipse at work. Estrin's project of recording a vanish-ing era-and class is seconded in a sympathetic introduction by Harvard psychologist Robert Coles.

Coles and a spokesperson for the elite maintain that rising taxes, increasing government regulation, shifts in public opinion and changes in the social and economic order are pushing the very rich to the brink. FAR REMOVED from Estrin's cool', assured photos of the imperiled rich are Mathers' 68 personal, embracing, unex-purgated presentations of members of the lower middle class and of various social outcasts in "Portraits: Friends and Strangers." Mathers' subjects range from drag queens (a recurring interest), other photographers and high school students to dropouts, bikers, a carnival fat lady and the man behind the counter of a porno shop. Judgments on life style are seldom implied, but the photographer usually adds written comments to counterpoint visual images. Sometimes the result is humorous, sometimes touching. At times it seems curiously disinterested and manipulative.

UNLIKE ESTRLN'S people. Mathers' crowd is visually linked to particular occupations. And whereas light bathes the rich with a kind of benevolence, it often seems to be the antagonist of mathers' figures, who emerge somewhat indistinctly from dark backgrounds or, much more rarely, boldly stand out in bright light. "Portraits: Friends and Strangers" seems intended to be Mathers' celebration of his subjects' individuality and it cuts in several directions. So lacking is a unified statement that unlike Estrin's clear relationship with her subjects one finally wonders whether Mathers is really involved with his people as he claims or whether he's exploiting them.

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