American Pastoral - Philip Roth

I just want to get this one out of the way.

What a stinking, foul, morass of a book. Which won the Pulitzer. I do not understand.

First, let me say that I have a bit of a negative history around Roth. I read Portnoy's Complaint when I was maybe fourteen, which, by any measure, was too young. I barely remember it, only that I didn't care much about whatever the hell he was going on about. Later I read his first book, and saw a movie made of it, starring the ever-irritating Dick Benjamin. Didn't help my opinion of Philip Roth, and many years later, when in a critical reading class for writers (as opposed to a Lit-Crit class) Portnoy was brought up, I remarked that I knew I'd read it when I was too young, yet also that I didn't care much for it. The teacher smugly said, "Well, that's because you didn't grow up with a penis," whereupon I got up and walked out.

So, I've never tried to even read Roth much. (Kinda the way I operate around Joyce Carol Oates, and yeah, yeah, I know she has a lot of fans--I just don't get her, sorry). A couple of months ago, American Pastoral was picked as one of the monthly reads on an online reading group I drop by on occasion. A friend, Candy, whom I met through that group and who happened to move to Chicago (and we then became "real" friends, ha), participated in the rather heated discussion that followed. Eventually she asked if I would read the book, and I admit, I was somewhat intrigued by the storyline she described.

The first 115 pages were excruciating. I'm normally a fairly fast reader--maybe 50 pages an hour. It took me at least a month to plow through this stupid-ass "framing device" where Roth lets his fictional counterpart, a novelist named Zuckerman (he's used him in a half-dozen books so far) yak on and on about the neighborhood he grew up in New Jersey, his 40th (or so) high school reunion, and the legendary guy a few years older than he, Swede. There are many digressions, a lot about prostate cancer, and an unbelievable (and I mean that) diatribe from Swede's younger brother, who buttonholes Zuckerman, apparently on the dance floor at the reunion (yeah, not a smidge of place, here) and hectors him, page after unparagraphed page, about how Swede died a broken man, all because of his bitch of a daughter.

Zuckerman then assures us, dear readers, that he knows nothing of what really happened with Swede's daughter, but he will proceed to tell us what he imagines. Exit, stage left.

Meanwhile, I kept breaking off to read other books. Finally, towards the end of this first section, I became somewhat engaged. I'll spare you the all the convoluted plot points, but briefly, Swede's daughter is presumed to have bombed the small general store/post office in their New Jersey town, circa 1968, when she is 16, in protest against the Vietnam war. Presumed because she disappears directly after the event. Swede, portrayed throughout as a golden American hero, particularly having achieved some sort of ultimate makeover by marrying a true all-American girl: Miss New Jersey 1949, and it goes without saying, she's not Jewish. Their daughter, Merry, is sensitive from the beginning, screaming for months as an infant, obsessed with the Vietnamese Buddhist monks she sees self-immolating on television, gentle with animals. Clearly smart and talented, her biggest flaw is a massive stutter, for which there seems to be no relief money can buy. Anyway, after her disappearance, Swede is consumed by guilt, wondering if Merry was permanently damaged by a moment when she was 11, when he gave in to her request, "Kith me the way you do mmmmuther."

What I've described is actually a fairly coherent linear description of the plot, but the book doesn't actually reveal itself that way. Instead there are countless self-indulgent digressions--nearing the "big" scene that concludes the book (sort of) Roth lays down the following sentence: "There were six other guests at the dinner party." Twenty-five pages later--that bears repeating: twenty-five pages later, he finally gets back to the dinner, after describing in excruciating detail the life of an architect who will attend the party, and naturally, be revealed to be screwing Swede's wife.

Allow me to digress: some of these sidelines are not without interest: eight or so pages on the 1949 Miss America pageant; an extended how-it's-done on making leather gloves; Swede's defense of his glove factory with his African-American forewoman during the Newark riots in 1967; but ultimately, I just felt as if Roth's attitude is that he can write whatever the hell he wants because he's the lauded Writer, and god forbid anyone should suggest an edit (it reminds me of Michael Chabon's Wonder Boys, in which a former star writer has become middle-aged and forgotten, and a student gently suggests that in his now legendary unpublished work, he may not want "to include the genealogy of every single horse" in the barn) of his full-on-display misogyny.

Women are almost universally portrayed as gross, smelly, ("fecund"), sloppy drunk, ruined, aggressive, withholding, punishing, and meant to be fucked, controlled, pitied, and even, in one wholly unbelievable scene, when Swede discovers Merry (or not Merry) living in fundamentalist squalor, literally vomited on.

God only knows what his intent was. Theories offered in the reading group discussion included the theory that Merry is just "nuts" (which is ridiculous, at best) and that it all represents the failure of the American Dream and the American Family.

Couldn't care less. I just think it's bad writing wearing the damn Emperor's clothes.

yeah, highly recommended. Enjoy.

Can't help but get better from here.