Opus 21: Descriptive Music for the Lower Kinsey Epoch of the Atomic Age, a Concerto for a One-man Band, Six Arias for Soap Operas, Fugues, Anthems & Barrelhouse

In Short

This book serves as a sprawling, experimental collage of mid-century American neurosis. Blending elements of memoir, philosophical inquiry, and social satire, it follows a writer who, while contemplating his own imminent death, observes the frantic, aimless rhythms of New York City. The narrative functions as both a critique of the "Kinsey epoch"—an era defined by shifting sexual mores and atomic dread—and a personal search for meaning in a society that the author believes is hurtling toward disaster due to its own denial of basic human nature.

The Story

The narrative begins with a jolt: the narrator visits his doctor and receives a vague but ominous prognosis, an experience that triggers a profound existential crisis. As he navigates the sweltering streets and bars of New York, he attempts to reconcile his past—marked by the mass-production of "froth" for popular magazines—with the terrifying realities of the post-war world. He finds himself acting as an informal guide and sounding board for an eclectic circle of acquaintances, each of whom serves as a representative of some facet of contemporary confusion.

Central to these interactions is his friend Paul, who is spiraling through a volatile romantic entanglement with a woman named Marcia. The narrator watches these lives intersect and fray, using their personal dramas to illustrate larger cultural failings. He spends hours in conversation with a range of characters, from the sharp-tongued Hattie—who manages a house of ill repute—to various intellectual peers, dissecting the hypocrisy of the era’s sexual standards and the pervasive fear of the "Atomic Age." The narrator remains a detached, often cynical observer, constantly pulling back from the immediate drama to analyze the "common man's" tendency to cling to comforting illusions rather than confront the animal reality of his own existence.

The arc of the story is not one of linear progression but of deepening insight. As the narrator wanders between the bars of Manhattan and the quiet of his own apartment, he reflects on his brother Dave’s struggles with prejudice, the absurdity of professional politics, and the relentless pressure of a society that demands conformity. The "plot" culminates not in a grand resolution, but in a series of revelations. The narrator realizes that his own search for truth is hampered by the same cultural blindness that afflicts those around him. He observes the mass-hysteria surrounding strange aerial phenomena, which he treats as a metaphor for the collective unconscious of a panicked population. By the end, the narrator finds no easy salvation. Instead, he arrives at a weary acceptance of the "roller-coaster" nature of human history, concluding that until humanity can honestly confront its own instincts and strip away the self-glorifying myths it constructs, it is doomed to repeat its cycles of disaster. The final moments find him sitting in his chair, laughing at the sheer, tragic comedy of a world that mistakes its own reflection for the universe.

How It Unfolds

The diagnosis The narrator receives unsettling health news, which acts as the catalyst for his heightened, hyper-aware state. This initial confrontation with his own finitude sets the tone for everything that follows.

The urban wanderings Moving through the bars and penthouses of New York, the narrator encounters a host of characters who act as prisms for the era’s anxieties. He listens to their problems, which he views as symptoms of a broader, deeper psychic malaise.

The investigation of human nature Conversations with his friend Paul and the savvy Hattie shift the focus toward the "Kinsey epoch." The narrator uses these discussions to tear down the walls between what society calls "love" and the raw, biological reality of human instinct.

The philosophical reckoning As he waits for word on Paul’s romantic crisis, the narrator retreats into extended, blistering meditations on religion, science, and the "original sin" of assuming man is superior to nature. He sees society as a collection of people who are "twenty or forty thousand years away from the contemplation of its instincts."

The acceptance of the absurd The book concludes as the city hums with mundane, apocalyptic dread. The narrator finds a dark, necessary humor in the situation, recognizing that even the most "progressive" age is merely another stage in the long, repetitive drama of human self-deception.

The People

The narrator is the book’s cynical heart—an aging, intellectual writer who has made his living producing "froth" but is now desperate to see the world clearly before his time runs out. He acts as a mirror for others, though he remains acutely aware of his own flaws. Paul is his younger, more idealistic associate, whose blind, frantic pursuit of love with Marcia makes him a primary subject of the narrator’s study. Their relationship is one of mentor and protégé, strained by their differing capacities for detachment.

Dave, the narrator’s brother, represents the triumph of intellect over structural adversity. Having faced systemic prejudice, Dave has hardened himself into a "completely honest man" who uses his formidable mind to navigate a world that is inherently rigged against him. Hattie is the pragmatic counterweight to the narrator’s theorizing; she runs a brothel and possesses a cynical, firsthand knowledge of human behavior that the "polite" society members lack. Finally, there is the unnamed collective—the "common man"—who serves as the antagonist. Whether they are the "snotty" Englishman demanding a baked apple or the panicked citizens staring at the sky, they are the individuals whose insistence on maintaining comfortable illusions drives the narrator to his wit’s end.

In Its Own Voice

"And these are your problems, too."

The narrator frames his personal health crisis as a universal experience, insisting that his readers are just as implicated in the era's collective dread as he is.

"Most of the characters in this book are unreal--and that is particularly true of the author."

In a tongue-in-cheek warning, the narrator establishes a playful, elusive relationship with the reader, blurring the line between memoir and fiction.

"The very effort of questing leads most but to a deeper unconsciousness."

Reflecting on the futility of human endeavor, the narrator posits that our attempts to find enlightenment often result in a tighter grip on our own ignorance.

What It's Really About

The central theme is the rejection of the "superiority" myth—the idea that humans are something other than biological animals. The book argues that society has spent thousands of years building complex religious, social, and moral dogmas to hide this fact, and that this denial is the source of all human calamity. It frames the "Atomic Age" as a logical consequence of this fundamental blunder, suggesting that a civilization that refuses to look at its own instincts is inevitably destined for a violent correction. It is a harsh, uncompromising look at the "Kinsey epoch," arguing that our current sexual and social taboos are merely masks for a fear of our own natural, animal origins.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the biting social commentary of mid-century intellectuals will find much to admire here. The prose is sharp, rhythmic, and consistently provocative, moving with the energy of a jazz concerto. It captures the specific, manic atmosphere of 1940s New York—the cocktails, the smoke, the looming fear of the bomb—with a clarity that feels surprisingly modern.

However, the book is not for everyone. The narrator’s voice is relentless, cynical, and often condescending. He does not suffer fools, and his dismissive attitude toward the "common man" can feel exhausting. The structure is unconventional and requires patience; it abandons traditional narrative arcs in favor of stream-of-consciousness riffs and long, polemical dialogues. Additionally, the period-specific attitudes toward gender and race, while reflective of the era's own internal tensions, are presented with a bluntness that may be jarring to contemporary readers. You should read this if you want to experience the intellectual anxieties of a post-war mind that refuses to look away from the void, but be prepared for a reading experience that is as confrontational as it is brilliant.