Roth will always have his fans and detractors, and I guess I'll always be in the former camp. There's a lot of Roth I haven't read, and, to be honest, a lot for which I can't summon much interest. But whatever your grievances with the man - his overreaching, his seeming and much-talked-about preoccupation with his own penis - it's hard not to be won over by a book as sensitive as Goodbye...
more Roth will always have his fans and detractors, and I guess I'll always be in the former camp. There's a lot of Roth I haven't read, and, to be honest, a lot for which I can't summon much interest. But whatever your grievances with the man - his overreaching, his seeming and much-talked-about preoccupation with his own penis - it's hard not to be won over by a book as sensitive as Goodbye Columbus. Richard Yates said of Portnoy's Complaint that, before he read it, he thought Roth was overrated; afterward he forgave him everything, "including his millions of dollars." My own favorite is probably The Ghost Writer.
People disagree about American Pastoral. Apart from a go-nowhere hundred-page introduction, the book's meat is just speculation on the part of its fictional author. It's hard to get interested in ideas and events and dialogue that are self-referentially taking place wholly in the writer's mind. It's like one of those stories you read, or maybe authored, in school that ends with the words "then I woke up" - only the reader is in on the secret from the beginning. After that, who cares?
And even if you manage to forget that stuff, a lot of the book just isn't interesting. Zuckerman binds every simple idea he has in page after page of tautological knots, like he's afraid it's going to get away. Tens of pages routinely go by before something actually happens. And maybe glove-making is kind of romantic, with its smell of leather and industry, and maybe it's emblematic of the American dream, but I didn't need to learn everything about its mechanics to understand why.
But then the author is Philip Roth, so there are passages of great beauty and stylistic flourish. And maybe the book creaks under the weight of so much repetition, the endless pages of introspection over the same events (to the extent that I actually began to dread events, knowing I'd later be subjected to a dozen airless page-long paragraphs in which I relived them), but when you're laying it on so thick, and when you're Philip Roth, some of it is bound to be good.
I'll probably take a long break on Philip Roth and then read Sabbath's Theater, which I've been avoiding and which is supposed to be good.
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