American Pastoral by Philip Roth:
A Review by Pompey Bum
Philip Roth's American Pastoral, which won the 1998 Pulitzer Prize for literature, is the first in a trilogy of thematically linked novels (American Pastoral, I Married a Communist, and The Human Stain) set between the period of optimism (in America) that followed the Second World War and the rise of political correctness in the 1990s. Critics usually refer to it as Roth's American trilogy or his second Zuckerman trilogy, named for its narrator, Nathan Zuckerman, who appears in many other Roth novels. Zuckerman is the trilogy's only repeat character (unless you count the city of Newark, New Jersey, which features in all three). The novels' plots are unconnected. They can be read independently or (unless you are as compulsive as I am about history) in any order.
Roth, who died last year, was an American secular Jew (and atheist) whose works frequently explored the nexus of Jewish and American identity. He had been at the center of controversy since the publication of his first book, Goodbye, Columbus, in 1959. The novella (with short stories) angered the Jewish mainstream but won the National Book Award. I am old enough to remember (with apologies to those who don't like that phrase) when Roth was famous as a "dirty writer" due to his wildly successful Portnoy's Complaint, an explicit monologue about (among other things) an overprotective Jewish mother, sexual encounters with gentile girls, and compulsive masturbation. But Roth rejected the wild and crazy pop-culture persona that could easily have served him for life ("Hey, weren't you the guy who wrote Portnoy's Complaint?"). He wrote an a stunning 27 novels (not to speak of memoirs, essays, and short stories) and was described by The Guardian as arguably the finest American writer of his time. Okay, it was The Guardian so they probably couldn't have named many others (). On Roth's death in 2018, The New York Times called him a towering literary figure. And he was.
Roth's American trilogy novels were published between 1997 and 2000 (so not early in his career). They diverge in some ways from his earlier novels. Themes of Jewish and American remain important, but his scope broadens. What Roth wants to know is what happened to Americans in the second half of the twentieth century. Why did we implode on ourselves in the 1960s and where are we now? By the third volume, his view has become panoramic. The Human Stain lampoons and laments our ongoing failure to locate and live in an enduring human identity. The tragic optimists of American Pastoral are only canaries in the coal mine for that particular cataclysm--the one we are living through now and Roth foresaw 20 years ago.
In the main, American Pastoral is Swede Levov's tragedy. Levov's real name is Seymour Irving Levov, but he is known throughout the novel as Swede, a High School nickname originating in his anomalous appearance, a "steep-jawed, insentient Viking mask" including blond hair and blue eyes. Swede is an American Jew from the Weequahic neighborhood in Newark, New Jersey, a predominantly Jewish ghetto where Roth himself grew up. His fabulously good looks and athletic prowess make him a legendary High School sports athlete and the pride of the neighborhood--"a boy as close to a goy as we were going to get." And so from the start, Swede represents some kind of a fantasy. On the other hand, asks Roth, what is wrong with being a Jewish kid from Weequahic (as he was)? And what is the price of the fantasy--not the fantasy of taking the new identity but of shedding the old? That is the question that unifies these three novels. What is the price?
Swede is the boyhood idol of Nathan Zuckerman, Roth's alter ego, who more or less tells the story. Zuckerman does not move in Swede's exalted circle, but he gets to know his younger brother Jerry, an angry nerd and comical failure with girls, with whom he plays endless rounds of basement ping-pong. Jerry and Swede are the sons of Lou Levov, a Newark glove manufacturer whose immigrant father began as a tannery grunt, scraping reeking flesh from hides. Lou Levov (now in the leather cutting end of things) provides dignified employment and skilled labor opportunities to the Newark community, including African American members. He does not treat any of his employees as equals, but he takes his responsibility as their employer seriously. You know, paternalism.
After High School, Swede joins the Marines. The Second World War is nearing its end, and he is denied the combat roll he seeks in favor of a dream hitch as an athletics instructor--a position at which he excels. Swede becomes engaged to a beautiful gentile girl, but his father intervenes to break them up. Later he gets resolves to marry Dawn Dwyer, Miss New Jersey, 1949, an Irish Catholic girl. This time Lou accedes, but only after a rigorous interview process, during which Dawn confesses that her father occasionally utters anti-Jewish slurs--though without really thinking about them. This development almost sinks the engagement; yet as the years go by, the old men become fast friends--due largely to their shared old-fashioned values. It's a great detail.
On Swede's return to civilian life, he declines an offer to play professional sports so he can take over the glove business. He renews his father's sense of responsibility for his employees, especially the African Americans, refusing to sell out or move offshore because of the hardship it would bring them. But Swede and Dawn do move to an old money Anglo-Saxon Protestant community far from the city--joining the "white flight" that destroyed the tax base of cities like Newark and contributed mightily to their impoverishment. Swede becomes enamored of an old stone farmhouse they find there and never understands why it doesn't mean as much to others. I'll assume the symbolism here is obvious enough.
All of this may sound like American Pastoral's plot but it is really only its premise. After establishing most of these basics (in what amounts to one of the better parts of the novel), Roth introduces a somewhat framing device (of sorts) to tell the remainder of the tale. It is awkward, too long, and not entirely convincing, calling to mind what may be American Pastoral's greatest weakness. Roth's longtime editor, Veronica Geng, had died the year of publication, and her replacement may have hesitated to rein him in. And it may well have been that he did not wish to be reined in. Nobody ever accused Roth of lacking an ego.
The tripartite framing device begins in 1985 when Zuckerman accidentally runs into his old hero outside Yankee Stadium. A few details emerge: Swede is on his second marriage and has several children of whom he is (rather conventionally) proud. The men do not remain in touch. The second part involves dinner at a New York restaurant to which Swede (rather strangely) writes to invite Zuckerberg years later. But their conversation is disappointing. Swede, who is growing thin, seems an unremarkable figure as he gushes over pictures of his new family. Zuckerman begins to think he imagined more than had ever been present behind that heroic Viking mask.
The third and most significant part of the narrative device involves Zuckerman's unexpected encounter with Jerry Levov, his old ping-pong buddy, at their 45th class reunion two months later. The one-time nerd is now a heart surgeon and the big-shot director of a coronary health center in Florida. But Jerry is as angry as ever and even less likable than his teenage self. He is constantly divorcing his current wife when some younger woman throws herself at him/his money/his power (only to suffer the same fate herself soon enough). This virtual harem has given him a gaggle of children, the only thing he seems to care about. The best thing you can say about the new Jerry (aside from the fact that he saves lives) is that he refuses to gloss over truths, ugly or otherwise, with happy illusions. And that issue, as it turns out, lies at the heart of American Pastoral.
His brother, Jerry tells Zuckerman, died of prostate cancer three days before--that's why he happens to be in town. In his life, Jerry says, the great Swede was tormented by Merry, his daughter by Dawn, who had been a monster and a killer. She had ruined the couple's marriage and their storybook life. Zuckerman now understands why Swede acted the way he did at the restaurant--desperately clinging to the pretense of a normal family life, even as he knew his death was at hand. Based on his limited conversations with Swede and Jerry's blunt remarks, Zuckerman puts the story together. And here begins, really, American Pastoral.
At this point, I'm going to pause. My post is already so long that many won't bother to read it, and if it gets much longer no one will. I'll add more later.