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TIME: Almanac 1995
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<text id=89TT2255>
<title>
Aug. 28, 1989: Hard-Boiled But Semi-Tough
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1989
Aug. 28, 1989 World War II:50th Anniversary
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
BOOKS, Page 65
Hard-Boiled but Semi-Tough
</hdr><body>
<p>By R.Z. Sheppard
</p>
<qt> <l>HARP</l>
<l>by John Gregory Dunne</l>
<l>Simon & Schuster; 235 pages; $18.95</l>
</qt>
<p> Confession is a religious ritual and a literary device, a
point that John Gregory Dunne has illustrated a number of times
during his career as a U.S. journalist and novelist. For
example, Vegas (1974) was an unflattering, candid account of a
bad time in the author's life, an on-the-road book that played
personal problems against the city that passes for Sodom, U.S.A.
</p>
<p> In a field that includes his wife Joan Didion, Dunne has
held his own as an observer of public and private wastelands.
But he has found a more authentic voice in fiction (True
Confessions; Dutch Shea, Jr.; The Red White and Blue). His
characters are barbed, cynical and funny. Their attitudes and
remarks reveal gifts for malice, resentment and mordant
sentimentality, which Dunne associates with his immigrant
heritage. As he writes in Harp, a memoir that takes its title
from the slang for a son or daughter of the Old Sod, "Nothing
lifts the heart of the Irish caroler more than the small vice,
the tiny lapse, the exposed vanity, the recherche taste."
</p>
<p> Outside the ventriloquism of fiction, Dunne, 57, sounds
like a Harp from one of his own novels. Yet he seems to have had
some trouble getting comfortable with his natural delivery. The
problem lies in the dirty secret of class consciousness. "It
took me nearly a quarter of a century to realize that here was
the tension that gave me a subject," he notes, after admitting
that while growing up Irish Catholic in West Hartford, Conn.,
he yearned to be an Episcopalian and a member of Wasp society.
</p>
<p> It wasn't that Dunne lacked status. His grandfather was a
grocer who built himself up to community pillar, and his father
was a respected surgeon. Dunne went to Princeton University and
perfected talking through his nose, the better to honk down the
lower orders. But once a Harp always a Harp, a lesson driven
home by another old institution, the U.S. Army. German whores,
barracks mates with tattoos, the general cynicism toward
military routine, all validated his own outlook. Truth be told
-- and Dunne tells it -- he is fascinated by life on the wild
side.
</p>
<p> Much of the author's experience is the vicarious quest for
material and a hard-boiled persona. He becomes knowledgeable
about firearms by reading about them; he familiarizes himself
with the latest in sex toys by researching them at a Frankfurt
porno shop. But his education in cardiology is firsthand. "In
the seventh year of the Reagan kakistocracy, the medical dyes
shooting through my arterial freeways were forced to make a
detour around a major obstruction," he writes with calculated
self-mockery.
</p>
<p> This brush with mortality in middle age provides Harp with
a certain amount of momentum. The deaths of family members lead
to a search for his ancestral roots in Ireland and an
application for an Irish passport. His motives are mixed: "The
fact is I wanted an Irish passport for the simple reason that
I was eligible for one. Trying to get one would both add
structure to my journey and force me into that examination of
my Irish background that I had always so rigorously rejected."
</p>
<p> Dunne is not naturally introspective, which may be bad news
for the self-help set but is good news for readers who like
snappy prose, to say nothing of snappishness. Dunne takes
particular pleasure in knocking a great American unknockable
from his hometown. Katharine Hepburn, he harps, "has always
seemed to me all cheekbones and opinions, and none of the
opinions has ever struck me as terribly original or terribly
interesting, dependent as they are on a rather parochial
Hartford definition of quality, as reinterpreted by five
decades' worth of Studio unit publicists." Writing well, or at
least trying to, is the best revenge.
</p>
</body></article>
</text>