May 19, 1985

His Long Ordeal by Laughter

By HAROLD BLOOM

ZUCKERMAN BOUND

A Trilogy and Epilogue. By Philip Roth.



"Zuckerman Bound" merits something reasonably close to the highest level of esthetic praise for tragicomedy, partly because as a formal totality it becomes much more than the sum of its parts. Those parts are surprisingly diverse: "The Ghost Writer" is a Jamesian parable of fictional influence, economical and shapely, beautifully modulated, while "Zuckerman Unbound" is more characteristically Rothian, being freer in form and more joyously expressionistic in its diction. "The Anatomy Lesson" is a farce bordering on fantasy, closer in mode and spirit to Nathanael West than is anything else by Roth. With "The Prague Orgy," Roth has transcended himself, or perhaps shown himself and others that, being just past 50, he has scarcely begun to display his powers. I have read nothing else in recent American fiction that rivals Thomas Pynchon in "The Crying of Lot 49" and episodes like the story of Bryon the light bulb in the same author's "Gravity's Rainbow." "The Prague Orgy" is of that disturbing eminence: obscenely outrageous and yet brilliantly reflective of a paranoid reality that has become universal. B UT the Rothian difference from Nathanael West and Thomas Pynchon also should be emphasized. Roth paradoxically is still engaged in moral prophecy; he continues to be outraged by the outrageous - in societies, others and himself. There is in him nothing of West's gnostic preference for the posture of the satanic editor, Shrike, in "Miss Lonelyhearts," or of Pynchon's cabalistic doctrine of sado-anarchism. Roth's negative exuberance is not in the service of a negative theology, but intimates instead a nostalgia for the morality once engendered by the Jewish normative tradition.

This is the harsh irony, obsessively exploited throughout "Zuckerman Bound," of the attack made upon Zuckerman's "Carnovsky" (Roth's "Portnoy's Complaint") by the literary critic Milton Appel (Irving Howe). Zuckerman has received a mortal wound from Appel, and Roth endeavors to commemorate the wound and the wounder, in the spirit of James Joyce permanently impaling the Irish poet, physician and general roustabout, Oliver St. John Gogarty, as the immortally egregious Malachi (Buck) Mulligan of "Ulysses." There is plenty of literary precedent for settling scores in this way; it is as old as Hellenistic Alexandria, and as recent as Saul Bellow's portrait of the novelist and teacher Jack Ludwig as Valentine Gersbach in "Herzog." Roth, characteristically scrupulous, presents Appel as dignified, serious and sincere, and Zuckerman as dangerously lunatic in this matter, but since the results are endlessly hilarious, the revenge is sharp nevertheless.

"Zuckerman Unbound" makes clear, at least to me, that Roth indeed is a Jewish writer in a sense that Saul Bellow and Bernard Malamud are not, and do not care to be. Bellow and Malamud, in their fiction, strive to be North American Jewish only as Tolstoy was Russian, or Faulkner was American Southern. Roth seems prophetic in the biblical tradition. His absolute concern never ceases to be the pain of the relations between children and parents, and between husband and wife, and in him this pain invariably results from the incommensurability between a rigorously moral normative tradition whose expectations rarely can be satisfied, and the reality of the way we live now. Zuckerman's insane resentment of the moralizing Milton Appel, and of even fiercer feminist critics, is a deliberate self-parody of Roth's more-than-ironic reaction to how badly he has been read. Against both Appel and the swarms of maenads, Roth defends Zuckerman (and so himself) as a kind of Talmudic Orpheus, by defining any man as "clay with aspirations."

What wins over the reader is that both defense and definition are conveyed by the highest humor now being written. "The Anatomy Lesson" and "The Prague Orgy," in particular, provoke a cleansing and continuous laughter, sometimes so intense that in itself it becomes astonishingly painful. One of the many esthetic gains of binding together the entire Zuckerman ordeal (it cannot be called a saga) is to let the reader experience the gradual acceleration of wit from the gentle Chekhovian wistfulness of "The Ghost Writer" on to the Gogolian sense of the ridiculous in "Zuckerman Unbound" and then to the boisterous Westian farce of "The Anatomy Lesson," only to end in the merciless Kafkan irrealism of "The Prague Orgy."

I will center most of what follows on "The Prague Orgy," both because it is the only part of "Zuckerman Bound" that is new, and because it is the best of Roth, a kind of coda to all his fiction so far. Haunting it necessarily is the spirit of Kafka, a dangerous influence upon any writer, and particularly dangerous, until now, for Roth. Witness his short novel, "The Breast," his major esthetic disaster, surpassing such livelier failures as "Our Gang" and "The Great American Novel." Against the error of "The Breast" can be set the funniest pages in "The Professor of Desire," where the great dream concerning "Kafka's whore" is clearly the imaginative prelude to "The Prague Orgy." David Kepesh, Roth's Professor of Desire, falls asleep in Prague and confronts "everything I ever hoped for," a guided visit with an official interpreter to an old woman, possibly once Kafka's whore. The heart of her revelation is Rothian rather than Kafkan, as she assimilates the greatest of modern Jewish writers to all the other ghosts of her Jewish clientele:

" 'They were clean and they were gentlemen. As God is my witness, they never beat on my backside.



Even in bed they had manners.'

" 'But is there anything about Kafka in particular that she remembers? I didn't come here, to her, to Prague, to talk about nice Jewish boys.'

"She gives some thought to the question; or, more likely, no thought. Just sits there trying out being dead.

" 'You see, he wasn't so special,' she finally says. 'I don't mean he wasn't a gentleman. They were all gentlemen.' "

This could be the quintessential Roth passage: the Jewish joke turned, not against itself, nor against the Jews, and certainly not against Kafka, but against history, against the way things were, and are, and yet will be. Unlike the humor of Nathanael West (particularly in "The Dream Life of Balso Snell") and of Woody Allen, there is no trace of Jewish anti-Semitism in Roth's pained laughter. Roth's wit uncannily follows the psychic pattern set out by Freud in his late paper on "Humor" (1928), which speculates that the superego allows jesting so as to speak some "kindly words of comfort to the intimidated ego." The ego of poor Zuckerman is certainly intimidated enough, and the reader rejoices at being allowed to share some hilarious words of comfort with him.

When last we saw the afflicted Zuckerman, at the close of "The Anatomy Lesson," he had progressed (or regressed) from painfully lying back on his play-mat, Roget's Thesaurus propped beneath his head and four women serving his many needs, to wandering the corridors of a university hospital, a patient playing at being an intern. A few years later, a physically recovered Zuckerman is in Prague, as visiting literary lion, encountering so paranoid a social reality that New York seems by contrast the Forest of Arden. Zuckerman, "the American authority on Jewish demons," quests for the unpublished Yiddish stories of the elder Sinovsky, perhaps murdered by the Nazis. The exiled younger Sinovsky's abandoned wife, Olga, guards the manuscripts in Prague. In a deliberate parody of Henry James's "Aspern Papers," Zuckerman needs somehow to seduce the alcoholic and insatiable Olga into releasing stories supposedly worthy of Sholom Aleichem or Isaac Babel, written in "the Yiddish of Flaubert."

Being Zuckerman, he seduces no one, and secures the Yiddish manuscripts anyway, only to have them confiscated by the Czechoslovak Minister of Culture and his thugs, who proceed to expel "Zuckerman the Zionist agent" back to "the little world around the corner" in New York City. In a final scene subtler, sadder and funnier than all previous Roth, the frustrated Zuckerman endures the moralizing of the Minister of Culture, who attacks America for having forgotten that "masterpiece" by Betty MacDonald, "The Egg and I." Associating himself with K., Kafka's hero in "The Castle," Zuckerman is furious at his expulsion, and utters a lament for the more overt paranoia he must abandon:

"Here where there's no nonsense about purity and goodness, where the division is not that easy to discern between the heroic and the perverse, where every sort of repression foments a parody of freedom and the suffering of their historical misfortune engenders in its imaginative victims these clownish forms of human despair."

That farewell-to-Prague has as its undersong: here where Zuckerman is not an anomaly, but indeed a model of decorum and restraint compared to anyone else who is at all interesting. Perhaps there is another undertone: a farewell-to-Zuckerman on Roth's part. The author of "Zuckerman Bound" at last may have exorcised the afterglow of "Portnoy's Complaint." There is an eloquent plea for release in "The Anatomy Lesson," where Zuckerman tries to renounce his fate as a writer:

"It may look to outsiders like the life of freedom -not on a schedule, in command of yourself, singled out for glory, the choice apparently to write about anything. But once one's writing, it's all limits. Bound to a subject. Bound to make sense of it. Bound to make a book of it." Z UCKERMAN bound, indeed, but bound in particular to the most ancient of covenants -that is Roth's particular election, or self-election. In his critical book, "Reading Myself and Others" (1975), the last and best essay, "Looking at Kafka," comments on the change manifested in Kafka's later fiction, observing that it is:

"Touched by a spirit of personal reconciliation and sardonic self-acceptance, by a tolerance of one's own brand of madness . . . the piercing masochistic irony . . . has given way here to a critique of the self and its preoccupations that, though bordering on mockery, no longer seeks to resolve itself in images of the uttermost humiliation and defeat . . . Yet there is more here than a metaphor for the insanely defended ego, whose striving for invulnerability produces a defensive system that must in its turn become the object of perpetual concern -there is also a very unromantic and hardheaded fable about how and why art is made, a portrait of the artist in all his ingenuity, anxiety, isolation, dissatisfaction, relentlessness, obsessiveness, secretiveness, paranoia, and self-addiction, a portrait of the magical thinker at the end of his tether."

Roth intended this as commentary on Kafka's short story "The Burrow." Eloquent and poignant, it is far more accurate as a descriptive prophecy of "Zuckerman Bound." Kafka resists nearly all interpretation, so that what most needs interpretation in him is his evasion of interpretation. That Roth reads himself into his precursor is a normal and healthy procedure in the literary struggle for self-identification. Unlike Kafka, Roth tries to evade, not interpretation, but guilt, partly because he lives the truth of Kafka's terrible motto of the Penal Colony: "Guilt is never to be doubted." Roth has earned a permanent place in American literature by a comic genius that need never be doubted again, wherever it chooses to take him next.