[In the following review, Smith praises The Golden Gate's pace and style but laments its simplistic characterization and lack of depth.]

One Sunday I luxuriated, moving from hammock to canvas captain's chair and back, from sombre to sol and again, with Pepsi at noon and gin by twilight, the whole time entertained by Vikram Seth's The Golden Gate, which author and publisher have named a novel, but which I would call a light verse epic in a minor key.

In 594 (counting dedication, acknowledgements, table of contents and author's bio note) tetrameter fourteeners with the unlikely rhyme scheme of abbaccddeffegg, Seth has woven, through game and gambit and gesture worthy of Pope or Pushkin, a narrative of five central and a dozen other characters occupying the trendy, dreamlike landscape of hi-tech around San Francisco. His style is glib, crisp, zesty and facile, qualities which might damage a more serious work, but this performance is not serious for the most part. Very little seems at stake through most of the conflicts as pro- and antagonists scrimmage for ego-salve and hedonistic pleasure in a manner both intoxicated and intoxicating. The central character is the author's language and pleasantly intrusive consciousness, and we yield to the spell, not the weight.

The dramatis personae include hi-tech John, a sad lone ranger wishing for a mate who will tolerate his defense work at Lungless Labs. Bookish and sometimes petty, John is a yuppie with a vengeance, and he suffers for it. Jan, on the other hand, is a sculptor and drummer for Liquid Sheep, another sad case, a matchmaker who subordinates her needs to John's until all else fails. Her demise in the tale seems Seth's most arch trick.

And The Golden Gate is a nest of tricks, gimmicks, stunts. The central purpose seems to be an articulate twisting of language in this all-embracing style that accommodates with equal gusto and bliss: reviews, bumper stickers, protest speeches, legal briefs, scrabble, dialogue, corporate babble, meditations, chess strategies, narration, lyric apostrophes, "personals" ads, and an invocation to the muse. Seth somehow manages to assimilate it all and process it toward a witty-pithy tone that is at once gymnastic and aloof. No small accomplishment, as this gestural outline of a novel explores contemporary sexuality, aesthetics, finance, and leisure with insights that occasionally seem to transcend the stylistic template that owes much to MTV glitz and PC facility. I would call it a code, rather than a style, were it not so inclusive and deft.

Yet it's not too difficult to guess at the limitations of such a production. The cleverness is often unresonant, seemingly invoked to bridge from one composition dilemma to the next. The characters are caricatures, albeit sparkling ones I enjoyed seeing pulled through their paces. Even the iguana Schwarz (short for Arnold) has charm. Even the wicked cat Charlemagne. But they are no less foils and strategies than the people. Whether chatting at a party or tossing in a lusty bed, confronting a dying mother or avoiding an old lover, these people are silhouettes with simple outlines, like the puppets in shadow shows. The author really doesn't render them with high seriousness, which dooms (or promotes) his effort to the realm of amusement as a kind of masterpiece in a minor key with only a tithe of heft, a chamber suite meant to be followed by domestic white wine. My greatest regret is that the characters talk so much alike, so much like the narrator, no small problem in any sort of "novel."

This does not, however, mean that I would dismiss The Golden Gate, for the taste lingers and is worth some savoring. Here is an example of Seth's outrageously swift and inviting characterization from early in the book, where his style has not faltered yet by straining for much depth of characterization. The subject is Liz Dorati, daughter of a vintner and a grandchildless matron who is dying of cancer:

        2.30
        Though Liz was brought up marinading
        Near the jacuzzis of Marin,
        She never reveled in parading
        Her heart, her knowledge, or her skin.
        She bloomed unhardened to her beauty,
        Immune to "Lizzie, you're a cutie!"
        Though doting aunt and bleating beau
        Reiterated it was so.
        Her mother, anxious, loving, rigid,
        Said, "Liz, a pretty girl like you
        Ought to be thinking of …" "Et tu?"
        Sighed Liz, "Mom, do you think I'm frigid?
        Just let me get my law degree
        Out of the way—and then, I'll see."

Surprises of enjambment and caesura keep the writer on his mark, and who would mourn the lack of depth when the pace is so exhilarating? Even the rhymes are boldly playful, the "army … salami" and "nonpareil … zinfandel" reminiscent of Byron's "intellectual … hen pecked you all." Therefore:

        Who would label anaesthetic
        This California epic verse
        That darts so slyly? Any critic
        Who cannot abide swift wit's terse
        Characters should not deride it
        Until he's given in, tried it
        And labored in vineyards less vatic
        Than Barth or Barthelme, manic
        As Mailer but omnivorous
        Enough to merge tofu, protest,
        Cancer, an omelet for breakfast,
        A monkish gay, an orphan's trust.
        Who won't admit Seth's deft sorcery
        Has Pen Envy, the First Degree.