The Review of Contemporary Fiction

Delancey's Way by James McCourt
Peter Donahue

James McCourt. Delancey’s Way. Knopf, 2000. 369 pp. $25.00.

Few literary writers take on Washington, D.C., probably for fear of stumbling into tired satire or overblown intrigue. James McCourt is undeterred by these risks, however, and successfully avoids them. Delancey’s Way presents a whirl of D.C. players and hangers-on in an elaborate, at times paranoiac, portrayal of the city that smacks of Marcel Proust and Don DeLillo.

Delancey, the narrator, is an out-of-town reporter involved with a bizarre and desultory array of D.C. denizens: from a senior senator and his trick-turning Shoshone Indian page to an Arianna Huffington-like politico and her millionaire husband. Delancey punctuates his portrayal of the city with comparisons to Henry Adams’s Democracy, recollections of his Catholic upbringing, and letters to his lover, Phil. Swirled into the narrative pastiche are a hinted-at plot to assassinate the President (aka POTUS), computer hacking, and sordid sexual trysts involving high government officials.

Delancey’s Way derives its energy from its carnivalesque language. The scenes, whether set in a cab from Union Station or a masked ball at the Library of Congress, entail characters discoursing to one another in lively harangues. As the novel progresses, one character after another goes gonzo, spewing references both classical and kitsch, and sprinkling every fourth sentence with foreign phrases. The reader—or listener—becomes an awed witness to these wild and virtuoso verbal performances. In response to a comment from Ornette, the jazz-playing redactor of race, Delancey thinks, “Where that came from I couldn’t have told you”—and then realizes he’s not writing this story, it’s writing him, and that’s just how things happen in D.C.

Delancey’s Way is not a conventional novel, nor does the Washington, D.C. revealed within its pages resemble the one viewed from the tour bus or discussed on CSPAN. McCourt’s D.C. is far more entertaining. [Peter Donahue]


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The Review of Contemporary Fiction Delancey's Way by James McCourt Peter Donahue James McCourt. Delancey’s Way. Knopf, 2000. 369 pp. $25.00. Few literary writers take on Washington, D.C., probably for fear of stumbling into tired satire or overblown intrigue. James McCourt is undeterred by these risks, however, and successfully avoids them. Delancey’s Way presents a whirl of D.C. players and hangers-on in an elaborate, at times paranoiac, portrayal of the city that smacks of Marcel Proust and Don DeLillo. Delancey, the narrator, is an out-of-town reporter involved with a bizarre and desultory array of D.C. denizens: from a senior senator and his trick-turning Shoshone Indian page to an Arianna Huffington-like politico and her millionaire husband. Delancey punctuates his portrayal of the city with comparisons to Henry Adams’s Democracy, recollections of his Catholic upbringing, and letters to his lover, Phil. Swirled into the narrative pastiche are a hinted-at plot to assassinate the President (aka POTUS), computer hacking, and sordid sexual trysts involving high government officials. Delancey’s Way derives its energy from its carnivalesque language. The scenes, whether set in a cab from Union Station or a masked ball at the Library of Congress, entail characters discoursing to one another in lively harangues. As the novel progresses, one character after another goes gonzo, spewing references both classical and kitsch, and sprinkling every fourth sentence with foreign phrases. The reader—or listener—becomes an awed witness to these wild and virtuoso verbal performances. In response to a comment from Ornette, the jazz-playing redactor of race, Delancey thinks, “Where that came from I couldn’t have told you”—and then realizes he’s not writing this story, it’s writing him, and that’s just how things happen in D.C. Delancey’s Way is not a conventional novel, nor does the Washington, D.C. revealed within its pages resemble the one viewed from the tour bus or discussed on CSPAN. McCourt’s D.C. is far more entertaining. [Peter Donahue]

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