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Nemesis Buy Now

Philip Roth

Philip Roth's books have twice been awarded the National Book Award, twice the National Book Critics Circle award, and three times the PEN / Faulkner Award. He received a Pulitzer Prize for his 1997 novel, American Pastoral.

Blurbs

"Roth's book has the elegance of a fable and the tragic inevitability of a Greek drama."

– The New Yorker

“A perfectly proportioned Greek tragedy played out against the background of the polio epidemic that swept Newark, New Jersey, during the summer of 1944.”

– Financial Times

"Like a very well-executed O. Henry story, a parable about the embrace of conscience . . . and what its suffocating, life-denying consequences can be."

– The New York Times

“Roth writes a lean, vigorous prose that burns with the intensity of his purpose. It flows smoothly even when he wrestles with the knottiest of philosophical problems.”

– The Plain Dealer

“Roth is all about character and how we are shaped by improbably circumstances, and here he offers up insight to match his many years on the job.”

– San Francisco Chronicle

“Yet another small triumph from one of our native artists largest in spirit. And by small I mean in length of the book. . . . This dual portrait, of a neighborhood and of a man quite representative of the times when trouble struck his neighborhood with lethal force, gives this new novel a singular appeal.”

– Chicago Tribune

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Nemesis

Reading Log(jam)

01/05/12

Why can’t I ever read one book at a time? Start, read, finish, and put away? Is it like this for everyone? On my desk are at least thirty-five books that I am at least two chapters into, some far more, but I cannot seem to finish any of them. Knowing that they are undone keeps them alive somehow and still in the process of deep communion. Once the cover is closed and all the words are read, there is a death.

I’m reminded that John Irving’s passion about Dickens includes an unread book. I don’t know if it’s still true, but I recall him saying that he’s saving Our Mutual Friend, the great author’s last completed novel, until his deathbed. Irving wants Dickens to ever be an ongoing pleasure that is never finished, a hunger never completely satisfied.

Of Knockemstiff by Donald Ray Pollock I have only two stories to go, but it lingers, I think, because I want its gritty aura to spread on my other reading. I’ve recently gotten the new Van Gogh: The Life, along with the Penguin edition of his letters. After visiting this summer the house north of Paris where Van Gogh died, I could not resist the gargantuan acclaimed study. And, well, his letters are revered as any that have come down to us.

I collect short books, but they are apparently no easier to finish. Train Dreams by Denis Johnson and Brooklyn Is by James Agee, both beautiful little hardcover volumes of 116 and 50 pages, respectively, have been sampled, more than sampled, yet I know that when I finish them and would be free to remove them from the pile of the “living” to a shelf behind me, a loss will inhabit the desk. So I refuse to do it, and have learned to read books paragraph by paragraph.

As if I needed to add anything else to a worktable straining under the weight, I picked up at a local bookshop on a recent trip to Ohio Philip Roth’s Nemesis, his novel about a fictitious polio epidemic in Newark in the summer of 1944. I remember polio victims. There was a girl in my class in Cleveland when I was growing up a decade after Roth’s story. He is a writer I find extremely easy to read. The narrative flows like a river, and you find yourself twenty, thirty, sixty pages into it before you come up from air. This book I will probably finish, just because he rarely lets you do otherwise.

Recently -- why, oh, why? -- I’ve begun to read Bernard Malamud after decades. His biography by Philip Davis, an excellent work that did something, but apparently not enough, to raise the novelist to his former stature, is riveting and supremely intelligent. Now I find that I can’t help but dredge out the novels and stories I read so long ago. They are dense. No hope to skim and put away. They’re now taking up real estate on my desk.

The Civil War, anything on the Civil War! The Great Rebellion, the War Between the States, the War of Blue and Gray was far more my war than Korea, under which I was born, because I was eight at its centennial and my brother and I played Civil War in our backyard, in the woods across the road, in our shared bedroom, in our minds. And to truly know the war, one must know what lead to it, so now . . . The Impending Crisis: America Before the Civil War 1848-1861 has taken its place in the stack -- right between Hemingway’s Boat by Paul Hendrickson and Thomas W. Nason: New England Virtues Aged in Wood, a monograph on the woodcut artist by Charles Price, published by the Florence Griswold Museum in Old Lyme, CT, a place I was happy to visit a couple of weeks ago.

And it never ends. Which is how I prefer it.

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4 Comments

  1. Alex M. Pruteanu said on 01/05/12 at 11:38 am Reply

    I don’t have quite as many as you do in progress but I’m the same. I also “dole out” novels I really enjoy (I write about this in an upcoming piece here on Graham Swift’s “Waterland)…they’re like rich slices of cheesecake (my fave sweet), and I never want to finish them. But nowadays I bounce in my books; I enjoy reading fiction for a bit, then switch up to a bio or a poli-sci work, then to something about art. Your Van Gogh: The Life collection sounds perfect for me. I’d say I have 4 or 5 going at any time. Currently I’m reading Andrei Makine’s “La Vie d’un Homme Inconnu” (Romanian translation), a definitive bio of Louis Armstrong (by Lawrence Bergreen), Steve Coll’s “Ghost Wars,” hi big book of CIA involvement in Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation and up to 9/11/01, and thumbing through Ralph Steadman’s “Still Life with Bottle.” This is his book on Scotch/whisky and how it’s made (Steadman was Hunter S. Thompson collaborator/illustrator).

    Reply

  2. Jordan Blum said on 01/08/12 at 1:07 pm Reply

    I’m the opposite, it seems; I read one book at a time without any trouble. However, I do (or I used to) have an odd ritual to select WHICH book out of __ many choices I would read – I’d literally carry around all the books for a bit, studying each one and comparing them physically for days. Why? No idea!! I think, “which would I rather hold for extended periods of time? Which paper feels better for this moment in life?” Odd, I know, but maybe this makes sense to someone?!

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  3. Charles Davidson said on 01/09/12 at 10:29 pm Reply

    Your comments about reading books prompt me to think of similar aspects of writing them. To be encompassed, or cluttered, by books read or unread is not unlike being surrounded by cherished artifacts or beloved paintings (intimate acquaintances) that in their familiarity can unexpectedly fire the imagination as well as comfort the soul amid their silent companionship in solitude. It had not crossed my mind, until encountering your musings, that throughout the writing of my own recent book on Vincent van Gogh (more modest in length, at least, than “The Life”), I was ever so long (for years) “encased” by an assortment of books pertaining in one way or another to the subject at hand — a high stack here and a lean-to there, always accessible for the next read or re-read (what did I miss last time, and what insight might come this time?). I think the truth of the matter is that these books are like old friends interspersed with new ones, seated together as a circle of one’s better lights, as capable of reproof as of rejuvenation. In that respect, I suppose it’s good to consider those books that one assiduously avoids as well as the ones to which one is irrepressibly drawn. My thought meandered to a rather large volume that has sat on my shelf longer than any book deserves to remain un-cracked by one so emotionally attached to it — a history of my Alma Mater. I suspect its imprisonment is due to the reluctance of resurrecting past demons and old haunts. But I believe you’ve inspired me to take another look around me at the clutter, and to lift this particular tome off the shelf. It could be that it contains seeds for sprouting the remembrance of something like Thomas Wolfe’s Altamont, in which case maybe you’d hire yourself out as my editor for some necessary weeding of the words. It’s possible, too, that what these old books don’t say is equally as important as what they do say, if one can only ferret out what the author failed to say, or chose not to say, in order to please the marketing department. So . . . what book, or sentence, or paragraph, is missing from this perennial clutter? It may be the greatest thrill of a lifetime simply waiting to find its author.

    Reply

    Tony Abbott said on 01/16/12 at 7:44 pm

    Nicely said, Charles, Jordan, and Alex. There truly is a relationship among books positioned near one another, and I agree that it’s very much a family or group of friends, and the conversation they spark — one to the other and back again — even if only in our minds, is something pretty special. Since computer files don’t talk to one another in that way, I guess it’s one more point in favor of physical books.

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