JOHN O'HARA: The Rage Is Stilled

THE big manor house at Princeton lies at the end of a long, tree-shaded gravel drive, secluded from the noise and bustle of the public road. It is much like the homes of the wealthy, whose manners and mores John O'Hara chronicled over the past four decades with a keen ear and a sharp eye. There last week, O'Hara died of a heart attack at the age of 65. He was indisputably one of the major figures of 20th century American literature, but just as indisputably, he was an author who never quite fulfilled the promise of his talent.

Since 1934, when his first book, Appointment in Samarra, was published O'Hara had been astonishingly productive. At his death, he had written twelve novels, between 300 and 400 short stories and a large assortment of essays, novellas and plays; he had recently completed a new novel, The Ewings, scheduled for publication next February and was 70 pages into a sequel as well. His tough, spare prose, crackling dialogue and gift for creating mood and atmosphere won him a worldwide audience (his works have been translated into at least 19 languages, including Dutch and Vietnamese). He was, almost certainly, several times a millionaire—and he was not at all ashamed of his wealth. "I am a very lucky man," he once said, "but, by God, I earned it."

He did. In the earning, friend and foe alike learned to fear his prickly wit and often combative manner. In 1956, when his novel Ten North Frederick won a National Book Award, some critics attacked O'Hara for overemphasizing sex. Now, 14 years later, what once seemed daring seems decidedly tame.

Other critics scoffed at his almost obsessive preoccupation with the rich, disregarding the brilliant portraits of the poor and classless that stud his novels. "I want to get it all down on paper while I can," O'Hara once wrote. "The United States in this century is what I know, and it is my business to write about it to the best of my ability, with the sometimes special knowledge I have. I want to record the way people talked and thought and felt and to do it with complete honesty and variety."

Telling the Truth. He never got it all down, of course, but he went a long way toward capturing on paper those eternal preoccupations of mankind: loving, living and dying. Once, asked how he would sum himself up, O'Hara replied: "Better than anyone else, he told the truth about his time, the first half of the 20th century. He was a professional. He wrote honestly and well."

O'Hara was born in Pottsville, Pa., five years after the century began, the son of a prosperous doctor. His childhood was comfortable. He seemed destined for Yale and a happily-ever-after life, but just before he was to go to New Haven his father died and there was no money for college. O'Hara went on to a spectacularly varied assortment of jobs—freight clerk, steel-mill worker, soda jerk, gas-meter reader and deckhand—before turning to writing.