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Our Assessment:
B+ : impressive in telling and sweep, but also gets too caught up in both See our review for fuller assessment.
Review Consensus: - Return to top of the page - The complete review's Review:
The first sentence in American Pastoral is simply the two-word statement: "The Swede."
The novel is yet another Roth novel narrated by writer Nathan Zuckerman, and while he dominates the first section of the three-act novel, 'Paradise Remembered', that only leads up to what this really is: 'the Swede's' story.
In the latter two sections of the book Zuckerman no longer figures, the "realistic chronicle" he begins to dream up in the first part -- entirely the Swede's story -- making up the rest of the novel.
a name that made him mythic in a way that Seymour would never have done, mythic not only during his school years but to his schoolmates, in memory for the rest of their days.Back the, in the 1940s, almost half a century ago, Zuckerman was one of those schoolmates -- though not a classmate. A few years younger than the Swede, he was friend's with his younger brother, Jerry, and, like everyone at their Weequahic (Newark) school and indeed in the community in general, idolized the larger than life youngster. A three-sport stand-out athlete, the Swede would add to his myth by joining the Marines -- though escaping actual combat because the war ended before he could get to it -- and then marrying Miss New Jersey ("A shiksa. Dawn Dyer. He'd done it"). Unlike his brother -- who became a(n oft-divorced) cardiac surgeon in Florida -- the Swede returned to the fold, local boy making good by going into and eventually taking over the family business, Newark Maid, a glove manufacturer. Doing business suited him like a glove, too -- he maintained his seductive ways, easily winning buyers over -- and the Swede's seemed the all-American success story. Zuckerman briefly encounters the Swede in 1985, and then again in 1995, when the Swede invites him for lunch, ostensibly to talk about a tribute he wants to write to his father, who recently passed away. Zuckerman is of course curious to see up-close who the Swede now is, nearly half a century after their school days. The Swede fills him in, and the all-American success story still seems more or less intact -- though Zuckerman comes away from the meeting thinking that: "This guy is the embodiment of nothing". The Swede still seems impressively larger than life -- but also all shell and surface: I kept waiting for him to lay bare something more than this pointed unobjectableness, but all that rose to the surface was more surface. What he has instead of a being, I thought, is blandness -- the guy's radiant with it. He has devised for himself an incognito, and the incognito has become him.A few months later, Zuckerman, giving in to more nostalgia (he's been feeling it even more since the prostate surgery that's left him impotent and incontinent), goes to his forty-fifth high school reunion, and learns more about the Swede. Jerry happens to be there too, and can fill him in on the most important details -- quickly showing Zuckerman just how much he missed at that lunch. For one, the Swede hadn't conquered cancer, but was being eaten up by it, and now is no longer; that's why Jerry's in the neighborhood, for the funeral. For another, there was a tragedy in the Swede's life that Zuckerman was (rather surprisingly -- you'd think someone would have mentioned it over the years) unaware of: in 1968, the Swede's sixteen-year-old daughter Meredith (known, of course, as 'Merry') bombed the local post office and general store, killing -- accidentally or not -- a doctor in the process. She became the 'Rimrock Bomber', and a fugitive from justice -- and the great tragedy of the Swede's life. It is this information, and the whole different light it puts on the Swede, that inspires Zuckerman, leading him to a (re)imagining of the Swede's life, an exercise in mythmaking that now lets him shape and see the man and myth completely differently. The Swede had played his part in the ongoing American dream, the baton passing from his hardworking and controlling father, who had made good and built the business into something impressive, and the Swede carrying on, from youth on, like a poster-boy for and of the American dream. And he loved the part -- "he loved America. Loved being an American". He see himself following and acting out that American dream -- sees himself like some modern-day Johnny Appleseed, boundless in energy, ambition, and love of what this country stands for, reveling even in the: "pure, buoyant unrestrained pleasure of striding" because each step is meaningful to him. (Of course, here and throughout we do well to remember that all this is not necessarily how the Swede saw himself, and things; it is how Zuckerman, in (re)creating him, wants to imagine it.) It went south, of course, that American dream. There was the Vietnam War. And, locally, the Newark riots and competition meant the glove-making operations drifted elsewhere: they set up a plant in Puerto Rico; for a while they even did business in Communist Czechoslovakia. The Levov's (American) hometown of Newark is an epicenter of the American collapse: "the late city of Newark", the Swede's father calls it in the early 1970s, certain that: "Newark will be the city that never comes back. It can't." The Swede already moved on before the collapse was coming, moving the family to what he saw as the frontier, a hundred-acre estate in Old Rimrock, when Merry was a baby. He commuted to work, to the factory in Newark, but this was his new frontier: What was Mars to his father was America to him -- he was settling Revolutionary New Jersey as if for the first time. Out in Old Rimrock, all of America lay at their door.Of course, he was also deluding himself -- turning a blind eye to the reactionary history of the place, the Klan, the anti-Semitic (and most other immigrant groups) sentiments, the deeply ingrained ugly Republicanism of it ..... This was where Merry was raised. And one of the things she turned against -- stoked by the increasingly violent anti-establishmentarianism in the air and on the streets as she grew up, and the outrages being perpetrated in Vietnam. Rebellious, stuttering Merry began to go her own way early, escaping to the nearby big city -- New York --, not keeping her parents in the loop as to who she was associating with -- and then doing the unthinkable (even as it was planned as so small-scale, and local), and then going (successfully) on the run. By the time the Swede finds Merry again, five years later, she's been through -- and done -- a lot, and now lives (willingly) in direst of circumstances. She engaged in further acts of terrorism while on the run, but now has embraced the Jain faith and is literally unwilling to hurt a fly; she's practically starving herself, too, physically withering away. (But she no longer stutters.) Roth circles around events repeatedly in the book, but especially in the final section he settles down -- at a family Thanksgiving, the all-Americannest of holidays (though the Swede serves up bloody steaks rather than the traditional turkey ...) -- and examines up-close the familial devastation Merry has caused -- and how it is symptomatic for the American collapse of those years. In the years after they lost their child Dawn got a facelift, as if that could change appearances; "Erased all that suffering. He gave her back her face", the Swede deludes himself into thinking -- but brother Jerry has his number, throwing in his face: "Why do you do everything ? For the appearance !" The real rot -- and starving, unwashed Merry is rotted to the core -- can not be redeemed or whitewashed, regardless of how the Swede spins it or tries to convince himself to see it. As Jerry also tells him: With the help of your daughter you're as deep in the shit as a man can get, the real American crazy shit. America amok ! America amuck !"He is our Kennedy", Zuckerman suggests at one point about the Swede, and treats him and his story in a similar fashion, not just for what it is but also everything it can stand for; hence also, among much else, the novel-title, American Pastoral. Roth swirls around his subject matter -- most appealingly early on, when Zuckerman is not just narrating but also part of the story, more forcefully when he turns the story over entirely to his (re)invented Swede. American Pastoral is ambitious, and ambitious in its message; it practically drips with message. Roth goes big here: throughout he wants to show the national refracted in the small-domestic -- but he can't keep himself from going big, at so many turns. The novel is bursting with energy -- as well as grief and rage --, at times distractingly so. And despite it all, Roth also can't hold himself back from spelling out explanations, from a merciless one about the possible reasons behind Merry's stutter to Jerry's no-nonsense hectoring. Roth does so much so damn well -- the asides about glove-making, most obviously, but really most of the details -- but he almost can't contain himself and his story, even as he repeatedly tries to pull it back to a few limited slices of history, to a smaller frame. But it continues to burst free. Arguably parts are under-developed, too -- Merry, for one: it's understandable the Swede doesn't get it all, but there could still be more to it, as indeed there could be generally to the forces in play, especially those flaring up in the late 1960s and early 70s, as in this regard the novel feels rather one-sided (not entirely unreasonably, given Roth's approach and focus, but it still leaves it listing somewhat awkwardly to one side). American Pastoral is an impressive work, and a very lively read -- but it seems, too obviously, to be trying to reach for so much, and it can't quite reach it all. - M.A.Orthofer, 18 October 2016 - Return to top of the page - American Pastoral:
- Return to top of the page - American author Philip Roth (1933-2018) wrote many highly acclaimed works and won numerous literary prizes. - Return to top of the page -
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