My father didn't care much for Fitzgerald or Hemingway or Faulkner. He loved Steinbeck. But the writer he told me to read was John O'Hara. I still have the copy of O'Hara's short stories that Dad gave me when I was in high school.

Over at the New Yorker's Page Turner blog there is a nice appreciation of O'Hara's novel, Butterfield 8--adapted from the introduction to a new reprint of the book—by Lorin Stein:

To his contemporaries, the single greatest pleasure afforded by O’Hara’s work—at least the one they noticed most often—was his dialogue. He has had brilliant imitators, most notably Raymond Carver (a debt first pointed out to me by my college advisor, John Hollander), but his musical repetitions and his love of the vernacular, the way he gets you to enjoy the phatic fuzz of American talk—these have never been surpassed.

...On O’Hara’s gravestone it is written: “Better than anyone else, he told the truth about his time, the first half of the twentieth century. He was a professional.” O’Hara came up with the epitaph himself. The claim is debatable (and tacky), but it’s useful when reading BUtterfield 8 to bear that ambition in mind, for O’Hara always had it. The phrase “BUtterfield 8” denotes a telephone exchange on the Upper East Side, where the action begins; it also signals that the action will be up-to-the-minute: the “8” was a new addition as of December 1930. In other words, the title announces that this is a New York novel set in the immediate aftermath of the crash. In the story of this party girl and her circle, O’Hara means to capture the zeitgeist.

And if you’ve never read John O’Hara’s first novel, do yourself a favor. Penguin Classics published a new edition of the book earlier this year with an introduction by Charles McGrath, excerpted over at The New York Review of Books:

Originally published in 1934, John O’Hara’s Appointment in Samarra is still the only American novel I know that begins with a scene of a married couple—Luther and Irma Fliegler—having sex and on Christmas morning, no less. Later in the book, another married couple—Julian English, the novel’s protagonist, and his wife, Caroline—make love in the middle of Christmas afternoon. Julian has been dispatched on a disagreeable errand, and Caroline rewards him by waiting in their bedroom in a black lace negligee she calls her “whoring gown.” About their lovemaking, the novel says, “she was as passionate and as curious, as experimental and joyful as ever he was.”

Before O’Hara, sex in American novels—polite novels, anyway—was mostly adulterous, not something that proper married women engaged in, or if they did, they weren’t known to enjoy it. Appointment is a genuine love story, charged with eros but stripped of sentimentality, and the relationship between the Englishes is more convincing and more satisfying than that of, say, Gatsby and Daisy in The Great Gatsby, or Frederic Henry and Catherine Barkley in A Farewell to Arms. Though unfaithful to her, Julian can’t stop loving Caroline, and after O’Hara devotes a whole chapter to her intimate thoughts and sexual explorations before marriage, the reader can’t help falling a little in love with her, too. Caroline, for her part, reflects at the end of the book: “He was drunk, but he was Julian, drunk or not, and that was more than anyone else was.”

The speed with which the book was written may account for the urgency of its storytelling. O’Hara began it in December 1933, when he was just twenty-eight, and wrote it in something like white heat, finishing in a little under four months. Set in the fictional town of Gibbsville, Pennsylvania, a lightly disguised version of Pottsville, where O’Hara grew up, the entire action of Appointment in Samarra—Julian English’s whirlwind of self-destruction—takes place in just thirty-six hours, and its breakneck pace is startling and exciting. Even on a second reading, when you know what’s going to happen, you tear through it still not quite believing in what’s just ahead and what’s already been established by the novel’s epigraph, taken from W. Somerset Maugham’s play Sheppey (in which Death speaks of meeting a merchant in Samarra): an appointment in Samarra, we know from the beginning, is an appointment with death itself.

For more on O'Hara, check out "A Natural Writer," John Updike's 2003 insightful review of Geoffrey Wolff's biography, The Art of Burning Bridges: A Life of John O'Hara.