I wish he'd just let them say it, and let my own ear do the work. The relentless writing about clothing becomes tiresome. As new characters enter the narrative we are immediately told, at length and in elaborate detail, what they are wearing, as if the key to an understanding of their souls might emerge from that information. Again, malice is involved. A detective wearing ''a sport jacket and the sort of brown pants a wife might choose to go with it'' has obviously delegated too much authority.
Professors wear ''rotting tweeds,'' blacks wear running shoes.
Everyone is slightly absurd. Mr. Wolfe seems unable to imagine a character who gets dressed simply to avoid being naked. The clothes are always understood to be a choice, a statement, expressing some folly or character flaw or some lie. There is so much about clothes, about appearances, that the author runs the risk of being understood to say that's all there is. Sherman turned his head toward him.