Stout's sense of humor is at its best when it conveys a lusty misanthropy. Wolfe's truculent view of his fellow men – and women – is delicious in an age when sectarian selfishness and emotional lobotomy masquerade as political correctness and the carny freak parade is beamed into our homes daily in the form of pretentiously mislabeled talk shows so self-righteously smarmy they gag the consciousness. Take a blissful moment to imagine Wolfe on Geraldo or Oprah or any of the other high-octane patholothons. I, for one, would commit major mayhem for the privilege of witnessing it. Hell, one good "Pfui!" directed at a celibopsychic schizoid diaper devotee would be worth it.

Then there's Wolfe's glorious gluttony, a perfect foil for the skeletal images and anorexic fiction promulgated with teeth-gnashing joy by the style-over-substance crowd. Stout doesn't spare Wolfe the consequences of his hyperphagia – the Great Man is so monstrously endomorphic that when he removes his pajama top, he reveals "enough hide to make shoes for four platoons;" but he does not assault us with cholesterol counts and dire warnings of vascular sludge. During the time we spend gourmandizing along with Wolfe, the nagging and finger-wagging of gram-counting aerobicops fade mercifully into the background. Wolfe may huff and puff during his infrequent outings into the "real" world – the description of his unplanned hike in the final story in this volume is as memorable as anything that has ever been put to paper – but he is happy with himself. And when we are with him, so are we, by God.

Of course there's more to Wolfe than constructive agoraphobia or cream sauce. Stout's stories are always great mysteries – whodunits, howdunits, whydunits – and they zip along at a pace that would leave the Great Man anoxic.