Time, July 2, 1965.
Pop writing! Op writing! Endless, streaming sentences with lots of dots . . . stretching . . . them out, and plenty of italics and exclamation points break ing them up, and anatomical words like glutei maximi, and funny-paper words like Pow! and crazy brand names and run-on lists of things — all cascading out of the . . . hottest . . . Royal Supermatic Floating Shift typewriter around.
That’s Tom Wolfe’s prose.
Not the Look Homeward, Angel Tom Wolfe, not by fifty gallons of corn pone, but a well-mannered young fellow from Richmond, with long brown hair floating down both…