I had turned off my computer for the night, planning to read in silence for an hour or so before dozing off. Unfortunately, I was robbed of the silent time I’d so desperately wanted to settle into Tom Wolfe’s new book I am Charlotte Simmons, which has been getting mixed reviews, but I don’t care since it’s Tom-Fucking-Wolfe. Even if the story is totally unconvincing — which has been a complaint about this particular book from some people — you get phrases like “exquisite point of perfect toxic poise” to describe the stage of drunkenness where your buzz is roaring at full throttle, but where you haven’t yet fallen off the edge and lost control of your body functions. It’s the alcoholic equilibrium any drunkard will tell you is only realized briefly before the bottom falls out… a moment of real bliss before the insanity takes over. Like when you’re bowling, and you’ve had enough beers to loosen you up so you roll well, but not so many that it throws you off. That stage usually only lasts about five frames or so for me.

Even better is the preamble right before the prologue, which I’ll reprint in its entirety in just a second because… it’s too good not to. First, here’s the plot synopsis for the book to give you a little context (written, I’m assuming, by the publisher):

Dupont University–the Olympian halls of learning housing the cream of America’s youth, the roseate Gothic spires and manicured lawns suffused with tradition . . . Or so it appears to beautiful, brilliant Charlotte Simmons, a sheltered freshman from North Carolina. But Charlotte soon learns, to her mounting dismay, that for the uppercrust coeds of Dupont, sex, Cool, and kegs trump academic achievement every time.

As Charlotte encounters Dupont’s privileged elite–her roommate, Beverly, a fleshy, Groton-educated Brahmin in lusty pursuit of lacrosse players; Jojo Johanssen, the only white starting player on Dupont’s godlike basketball team, whose position is threatened by a hotshot black freshman from the projects; the Young Turk of Saint Ray fraternity, Hoyt Thorpe, whose heady sense of entitlement and social domination is clinched by his accidental brawl with a bodyguard for the governor of California; and Adam Geller, one of the Millennial Mutants who run the university’s “independent” newspaper and who consider themselves the last bastion of intellectual endeavor on the sex-crazed, jock-obsessed campus–she gains a new, revelatory sense of her own power, that of her difference and of her very innocence, but little does she realize that she will act as a catalyst in all of their lives.

Okay, now here’s your preamble. This was written by Wolfe, cited as coming from the Dictionary of Nobel Laureates (which isn’t real, just as “Dupont University” isn’t real):

Victor Ransome Starling (U.S.), Lauretate, Biological Services, 1997. A twenty-eight-year-old-assistant professor of psychology at Dupont University, Starling conducted an experiment in 1983 in which he and an assistant surgically removed the amygdala, an almond-shaped mass of gray matter deep within the brain that controls emotions in the higher mammals, from thirty cats. It was well known that the procedure caused animals to veer helplessly from one inappropriate affect to another, boredom where there should be fear, cringing where there should be preening, sexual arousal where there was nothing that would stimulate an intact animal. But Starling’s amygdalectomized cats had gone into a state of arousal hypermanic in the extreme. Cats attempted copulation with such frenzy, a cat mounted on another cat would be in turn mounted by a third cat, and that one by yet another, and so on, creating tandems (colloq., “daisy chains”) as long as ten feet.

Starling called in a colleague to observe. The thirty amygdalectomized cats and thirty normal cats used as controls were housed in cages in the same room, one cat per cage. Starling set about opening cages so that the amygdalectomized cats might congregate on the floor. The first cat thus released sprang from its cage onto the visitor, embracing his ankle with its forelegs and convulsively thrusting its pelvis upon his shoe. Starling conjectured that the cat had smelled the leather of the shoe and in its excitement had mistaken it for a compatible animal. Whereupon his assistant said, “But Professor Starling, that’s one of the controls.”

In that moment originated a discovery that has since radically alerted the understanding of animal and human behaviour: the existence — indeed, pervasiveness — of “cultural para-stimuli.” The control cats had been able to watch the amygdalectomized cats from their cages. Over a period of weeks they had become so thoroughly steeped in an environment of hypermanic sexual obsession that behaviour induced surgically in the amygdalectomized cats had been induced in the controls without any intervention whatsoever. Starling had discovered that a strong social or “cultural” atmosphere, even as abnormal as this one, could in time overwhelm the genetically determined responses of perfectly normal, healthy animals. Fourteen years later, Starling became the twentieth member of the Dupont faculty awarded the Nobel Prize.

Even if the book ends up sucking, those three paragraphs will have made the time worth it for me.