The Prisoner of Madison Avenue

IN A RECENT article in the New York Times Book Review, the author expressed surprise at the fact that American writers have for the most part overlooked the world of business when considering material for their fiction. The theatre of human drama, the article noted, remains outside the office and the dilemmas of career choice and advancement rarely figure in the plots of modern novels and short stories. Time and again, characters appear to us as parents, children, lovers or disembodied souls--always with professional identities lodged deep in the background.

In a country whose business is business, this may seem a case of gross neglect by those who, whether they like it or not, are considered to be the voices of society. As the United States undergoes the transformation from a manufacturing society to a service and information one, one naturally looks for signs of this momentous shift in the pages of recent fiction, But, as a trip to the local bookstore will demonstrate, such is not the case.

There are good enough reasons to explain the incompatibility of fiction and business. While fiction seeks to examine the individual and that which is unique, business very often appears as a standardized mass phenomena. What interests producers and consumers of fiction are personal motives, the dilemmas of choice and the forces impinging on and emanating from individuals. Business, on the other hand, seems deterministic and dryly rational. Because business disdains personality and glorifies the ability to get a job done efficiently, it does not lend itself to fiction. Just try imagining a novel about the life of a venture capitalist, Fiction has and will continue to feed upon the private realm and hunt in the margins of life.

But, if these reasons do not explain why, outside of a few notable exceptions, writers have consistently avoided business topics, Christopher Knowlton '78's first novel, The Real World, should put an end to most discussion. This tiresome story of a fledgling management consultant offers convincing evidence that American writers have been successfully discrete in their choice of material.

Caleb Sparrow, the hero of The Real World, is fresh out of college. Aside from his blue-blooded WASP background, Caleb is an unremarkable though sensitive young man who chooses a career in business because, as he explains, it seems romantic. Like so many members of his generation, Caleb senses inviting mystery in the world of pinstripe suits, technical jargon and commanding salaries. From afar, business appears to be a Darwinian struggle which rewards hard work and innovation.

But Caleb finds only disillusionment. Instead of encountering awe-inspiring captains of industry who have mastered the Protestant ethic of self-denial, he rubs shoulders with a bunch of cold, grubbing workaholics whose youthful grabs at promotions only mature into grabs for profit shares. Caleb's officemates crunch endless numbers, eye each other suspiciously and find their only communal identity worshipping the institution of the firm, and the sacred text of the annual report.

Somehow, though, Caleb muddles through. Despite incessantly questioning the meaning of it all, he completes his tasks with a modicum of efficiency, eventually gaining the approval of his superiors. But Caleb proves his immunity to the dehumanized values of his colleagues, when he falls madly in love with another employee. He chooses the primacy of his emotions over the robotic ambition of the business world and still survives as a sensitive, somewhat moody, young man in a corporate jungle. No mean feat.

The Real World is successful as a criticism of the soulessness of the business world, but the book flounders on Knowlton's style. The stiff, third person narration employs an overbearing, occasionally patronizing tone, and suffers an annoying weakness for moralizing. Knowlton feels compelled to describe everything, thus cluttering the book with distracting details. The lengthy descriptions of Caleb's office, for example, should have been trimmed, and more attention given to the woefully rushed moments of tension between parents, lovers and bosses. But paradoxically, these laborious description also redeem the book and make it worth our attention, no matter how much stylistic damage they wreak. Though The Real World fails as a piece of fiction, it offers sobering insight into the white collar world. Revealed in all its stark vacuity is the antiseptic, materialistic world of budget sheets, computers and industry analyses that soaks up precious energy of today's young executives. Any humanist contemplating a business career should read The Real World before entering into what may later be regretted as a Faustian pact.