THE novel of American politics—by which I mean the novel which takes as its narrative subject matter the gaudy mechanics of the American electoral and governmental process—has traditionally been something of a poor relation in our country's literary family: usually apologetic, sometimes a bit cringing, ever eager to defend its right to be included and heard. The reasons for this are manifold. To begin with, the literary subgenre which concerns itself with the workings of our democratic system has consistently been the first refuge of literary hacks. The "political novel" is, in the critical view, usually a sensational roman à, clef, written with an eye on the publishing industry's big buck; and much of what is published every year fits this definition—e.g., the works of Alien Drury, Spiro Agnew, Gore Vidal, etc.

But beyond its poor reputation, the novel of the American political system poses unusual problems both for writer and reader alike, A faint air of unreality clings to the subject matter. One need only compare the average American "political novel"—which is likely to concern itself chiefly with a presidential contender's sexual habits or marital problems— with the enormous achievement of European writers wrestling with political themes. Historically, however, it is easy to understand why American political fiction has taken a different direction than that of Europe, whose greatest contemporary works can be classified under George Orwell's term of "concentration camp literature."

Joseph Blotner, the most persistent student of American political fiction, explains the disparity: