FOR years, Tom Wolfe has been lambasting America's literary establishment for ignoring the best story around—their own country. America positively pullulates with fantastic stories. And yet its writers, ensconced in their Manhattan lofts and writer-in-residence residences, can't be bothered to look further than the ends of their noses. “At this weak, pale, tabescent moment in the history of American literature,” Mr Wolfe wrote in one of his manifestos on behalf of literary realism, “we need a battalion, a brigade, of Zolas to head out into this wild, bizarre, unpredictable, hog-stomping, Baroque country of ours and reclaim it as literary property.”

Yet the trouble with turning yourself into an American Zola is that you immediately expose yourself to being trumped by reality. The better sort of critics are forever lambasting Mr Wolfe for going over the top—for using cartoon characters to exaggerate the evils of modern society—but the truth is the opposite. Mr Wolfe's satire pales into insignificance compared with the hog-stomping reality that he tries to capture.

Take Mr Wolfe's most recent novel, “I Am Charlotte Simmons” (2004). The book poked fun at the macho culture of an elite university that was closely modelled on the would-be Princeton of the South, Duke. This fictional institution liked to think of itself as being at the cutting edge of political correctness, all unisex lavatories and gay-pride demos. But in reality it was ruled by an elite caste of jocks—brainless bores who spent their lives drinking themselves senseless or wam-bam-thank-you-mamming with any co-ed they could get their hands on. And none were more boorish and brainless than the lacrosse players.

Elaine Showalter, a retired Princeton professor, duly published a tut-tutting review accusing Mr Wolfe of missing the “feminist revolution” and engaging in the “grossest of stereotypes”. Yet Mr Wolfe's story is tame by comparison with recent events at the real Duke. It seems that a month or so ago a group of —yes—lacrosse players hired a couple of strippers to entertain them of an evening. Unfortunately, what might have been a routine night of booze and bawdiness ended in turmoil. One of the strippers accused three lacrosse players of raping and assaulting her. The players strenuously denied the charges, and subsequent DNA tests have turned up negative. The event was heavily overladen with racial tension; the lacrosse players were almost all white while the two strippers were black. It also had a Baroque twist. Two hours or so after the alleged rape, a partygoer sent an e-mail saying that he wanted to lure more strippers to his room in order to kill and skin them.

Or take Mr Wolfe's last-but-one novel, “A Man in Full” (1998). The book opens with a lavish description of a quail hunt among the Georgia nouveaux riches. Many reviewers found the satire as over the top as the prose style (“Quail! The aristocrat of American wild game! It was what the grouse and the pheasant were in England and Scotland and Europe—only better!”). But it is impossible to read that scene today without finding it a bit tame. Why didn't Mr Wolfe include a major Republican politician? Why didn't he get the politician to shoot an elderly lawyer in the face—and then try to hush the whole matter up?

Or take his first novel, “The Bonfire of the Vanities” (1987). This has survived the reality test much better than the other two books. But hardly a week goes by without somebody coming along and trying to outdo one of Bonfire's characters. “Bonfire” introduced the world to Peter Fallow, a tabloid journalist who had turned freeloading into a career. Last week, the New York Daily News disclosed that Jared Paul Stern, a gossip columnist for the New York Post, recently solicited $220,000 from a billionaire investor, Ron Burkle, in return for a year's “protection” against damaging items appearing in the paper's Page Six column.

“Bonfire” also introduced the world to the Reverend Bacon, a black politician who uses any excuse to engage in agitprop and race-baiting. Two weeks ago, Cynthia McKinney, a black congresswoman from Georgia, got into an altercation with a Capitol Hill police officer: he tried to stop her from entering the building because she didn't have the right ID and she allegedly responded by hitting him with a cell-phone. Instead of apologising she organised an anti-racist rally at Howard University, complete with cameo appearances by Harry Belafonte and Danny Glover, to denounce the “inappropriate touching and stopping of me—a female, black, progressive congresswoman.”

The inadequacy of fiction

Mr Wolfe is not alone. The best of the would-be Zolas to join Mr Wolfe in trying to reclaim America as “literary property” is Christopher Buckley, the son of William Buckley, the founder of the modern conservative movement and long-time chronicler of Washington, DC. The younger Mr Buckley recently hit the literary equivalent of the jackpot. Not only has Hollywood turned one of his novels, “Thank You for Smoking” into a film; it comes out at a time when the Abramoff affair has focused everyone's attention on the lobbying industry.

But it is hard not to watch the film without feeling let down. It is amusing to see the hero labouring on behalf of the tobacco industry and lunching with his “merchants of death”, lobbyists from the alcohol and firearms industries. But this is tame stuff compared with what Mr Abramoff got up to. He not only bilked Indian tribes of tens of millions of dollars, but got evangelical Christians to help him in the bilking.

This is not a vote in favour of the sort of literary navel-gazing that Mr Wolfe condemned. But it is a warning that it is almost impossible to outdo reality in a country as richly bizarre as the United States. Perhaps writers should leave those unfinished novels locked up in the drawer—and content themselves instead with the humble craft of journalism.