Category: Saul Bellow

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To read or not to read

I hate to start and book and not finish it. And I know I’m not alone in this. It feels like some kind of character flaw, or maybe a breakdown in the unstated contract between reader and writer. And yet at this very moment I have TWO books on my nightstand that I probably will not finish.

The first is “The Adventures of Augie March,” Saul Bellow’s early break-through coming-of-age novel. It’s masterfully written and every time I pick it up I am astounded by Bellow’s craft, his beautiful use of language, his astounding breadth of reference. And then I put it down. I’ve been reading it since May. Okay, it’s not a short book, but still. Since May I’ve read maybe a dozen other books, many of them just as long if not longer. And I keep asking myself why I can’t seem to stick with this one. I know this is an admission of my deep lack of something or other, but, much as I admire the writing, I’m just not all that interested in the story. So I am close to admitting defeat and putting Augie back on the shelf, where–true–I could resume reading any time.

Then there is “The Corrections,“ the book Jonathan Franzen wrote before he was anointed Boy Genius, Great American Writer, and maybe the Second Coming of Elvis for his new novel, “Freedom.” There was a little something gnawing at me that felt as if Franzen’s Genius was being crammed down my throat. But I hadn’t read this earlier novel and there it was on the shelf, just waiting. Reader, I hated it. I know, I know, many people have loved it. Many people whose opinions on books I respect have loved it. But not me. I find his repetition of the word “correction” used in various ways, annoying and silly. I find his characters mostly small and unlikable; the few I liked the most seemed to be the ones he liked the least. And, up to page 335 out of 562, I am not seeing the ambition of scope that I had expected. I closed the book last night and have returned it to its place next to E.M Forster. Hmmm.

Meanwhile, as a little palate-cleanser, I picked up Laurie Colwin’s “The Lone Pilgrim.”which I had not looked at in many years. Colwin, if you are not familiar with her, wrote five luminous novels, two short story collections, and a series of food columns that were collected into two books. Sadly, she died at 48, in 1992. Her stories are filled with characters you wish you knew–complex and human and trying to figure out their lives. Here’s a small taste selected totally at random: “Woe to those who get what they desire. Fulfillment leaves an empty space where your old self used to be, the self that pines and broods and reflects. You furnish a dream house in your imagination, but how startling and final when that dream house is your own address. What is left to you? Surrounded by what you wanted, you feel a sense of amputation. The feelings you were used to abiding with are useless. The conditions you established for your happiness are met.”

Next post I’ll give you the recipe for her fabulous tomato pie!

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Reading….and then not so much

It’s a wonderful book, beautifully written by an author I admire. So why is it languishing on my night stand while I finish two others plus the Janet Malcolm piece in last week’s New Yorker?

The book in question is “The Adventures of Augie March,” by Saul Bellow. Undeniably a Great Work by an Important Writer. But, more than that, a book I’ve meant to–wanted to–read, looked forward to reading, and now, night after night, can’t seem to get myself to pick up.

One of the reasons I wanted to read the book just now is that I recently read an excerpt of a collection of Bellow’s letters. He revealed himself to be not only, of course, a meticulous and thoughtful writer, but also an astoundingly generous one. Letters to a just-starting-out Philip Roth, to Martin Amis feeling distanced from his father, to a young wannbe at a writers’ conference–uniformly kind, encouraging, large-hearted, helpful.

But now that I’m reading “Augie March,” instead of “just one more chapter” being the mantra that reins me in, it’s the one that’s prodding me forward. What’s going on here?

There is the overwhelming maleness, true. Sometimes it feels like a different language, right from those uber-muscular opening words, “I’m an American–Chicago born.” But I love those words. There is something exhilarating about them. And I got over the Y chromosome factor enough to love the Updike Rabbit books.

There’s that overstuffed quality, with so much going on in each sentence. So much elegant and precise language, but also so many esoteric words and references that are the hallmark of Bellow’s writing. Maybe this is reading not for bedtime, but for a more energetic time of day.

I know I’ll finish it eventually. And I’m sure I’ll love it. And I guess it is convenient to be reading a book that doesn’t seem to compel me to put down everything else. But what makes a book put-down-able or not? And, in the long run, does that interfere with our appreciation of it?