I confess: before Nemesis, I studied Patrimony in another class. That was it for Philip Roth. I don’t live so far under a rock that I don’t know that Roth is regarded as arguably the greatest American author of my father’s generation. (Dad was born just five days after Roth and also in New Jersey. For all I know, they lay swaddled in the same maternity ward.) But I haven’t read a single one of his 29 other books.
Reading anything other than what fell through the mail slot was not a high priority for a long time. How long? Let’s see, my oldest is almost nineteen.... At the onset of parenthood, my once-obsessive habit all but died a dust-covered death. Like fallen tombstones, new books lay flat on my nightstand. My intention to read never diminished, even as the pile grew. I’d drop an Erdrich, Kidder, MacEwan or other touted author into my cart on every trip to Costco. On the stack, these, too, lay still as bones. On rare occasions—a “triumphant work” by “an engaging new voice” would fall into my carry-on luggage on a trip south to see Mom and Dad. I’d hand over their grandkids and pour over the pages while curled up in a chaise. Only then would the stack diminish by a single stone, the book now vertical on the shelf, spine cracked, loved or not loved, but kept for the small victory it represented.
Roth never even made it to the stack. People told me I wouldn’t like Roth. Or that, as a woman, I shouldn’t like Roth, whose fictional worlds are dominated by men. The only reason I didn’t find out for myself was the time issue. It may be that he has, let’s say, chauvinistic tendencies. But so does my father. So do so many men of their era, born into a time when American men saved the world and were adored for it. It seems to me literature that has found its way into our cultural fabric deserve a close look, especially if it caused a ruckus. Even as a child I was aware of the titles Goodbye, Columbus and Portnoy’s Complaint before I knew they were books by the same author.
Patrimony, Roth’s 1991 memoir about caring for his ailing father, was edgy and poignant. In anticipation of Roth’s visit to a class at Columbia, I read the New York Times review of Nemesis and found company. The reviewer, Leah Hager Cohen, was also late to Rothiana, as she calls it. She caught up on her reading last summer and wrote a supportive review.
Thanks to graduate school, I’m finally back on the reading wagon. With two books checked off the Roth list, I’ll read Portnoy for another class this spring. And some time this summer, I expect Pulitzer winner American Pastoral will make it off the nightstand and onto the shelf.
Reading anything other than what fell through the mail slot was not a high priority for a long time. How long? Let’s see, my oldest is almost nineteen.... At the onset of parenthood, my once-obsessive habit all but died a dust-covered death. Like fallen tombstones, new books lay flat on my nightstand. My intention to read never diminished, even as the pile grew. I’d drop an Erdrich, Kidder, MacEwan or other touted author into my cart on every trip to Costco. On the stack, these, too, lay still as bones. On rare occasions—a “triumphant work” by “an engaging new voice” would fall into my carry-on luggage on a trip south to see Mom and Dad. I’d hand over their grandkids and pour over the pages while curled up in a chaise. Only then would the stack diminish by a single stone, the book now vertical on the shelf, spine cracked, loved or not loved, but kept for the small victory it represented.
Roth never even made it to the stack. People told me I wouldn’t like Roth. Or that, as a woman, I shouldn’t like Roth, whose fictional worlds are dominated by men. The only reason I didn’t find out for myself was the time issue. It may be that he has, let’s say, chauvinistic tendencies. But so does my father. So do so many men of their era, born into a time when American men saved the world and were adored for it. It seems to me literature that has found its way into our cultural fabric deserve a close look, especially if it caused a ruckus. Even as a child I was aware of the titles Goodbye, Columbus and Portnoy’s Complaint before I knew they were books by the same author.
Patrimony, Roth’s 1991 memoir about caring for his ailing father, was edgy and poignant. In anticipation of Roth’s visit to a class at Columbia, I read the New York Times review of Nemesis and found company. The reviewer, Leah Hager Cohen, was also late to Rothiana, as she calls it. She caught up on her reading last summer and wrote a supportive review.
Thanks to graduate school, I’m finally back on the reading wagon. With two books checked off the Roth list, I’ll read Portnoy for another class this spring. And some time this summer, I expect Pulitzer winner American Pastoral will make it off the nightstand and onto the shelf.
Roth is my all-time favorite writer. And he tops the list for most of my very female book group. Enjoy American Pastoral. And if you didn't see Human Stain at the movies (or learn the skinny) have fun devouring that, too. Congrats on the blog. Your writing is a lovely as ever.
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