Hail O'Hara—Again!
By Samuel Goldman
John O’Hara’s novels and stories are one of those fashions, like wing collars or Bermuda shorts, that never quite come around again. Prominent between roughly World War II and the Great Society, O’Hara’s enormous output of fiction, which literary critics never really liked, almost immediately sank into obscurity. Every few decades, one of O’Hara’s admirers, usually a literary miner of the same sociological vein, tries to revive the writer’s reputation with biographies, glossy new editions, or appreciative essays. None of these efforts has succeeded. O’Hara’s name usually draws a blank among even well-read people younger than 60 or so.
The obstacle probably isn’t the material per se. Though he enjoyed his biggest sales in the Eisenhower era, much of O’Hara’s work is set in the 1920s. Associations with the Lost Generation, Prohibition, and the New York nightclub scene have done little to undermine, say, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s status. And while O’Hara never reaches Fitzgerald’s heights of lyricism, his characters, their actions, and their speech are more plausible than the laconic caricatures and contrived plots of Ernest Hemingway’s mid-career.