I'm reading all these books about old men dying, lately, with the exception of In the Lake of the Woods by Tim O'Brien, because Stoatie recommended it upthread and that reminded me that a friend had loaned me his copy quite awhile ago, and The Bonfire of the Vanities by Tom Wolfe, which I'd been meaning to read for a long time and a friend loaned it to my partner-in-crime so I nabbed it. I liked both ok, although I began to crave, particularly in the latter, an actual female subjectivity.
So why I then turned to Everyman by Philip Roth, I don't know, but it is short and powerful. "Upbeat" is one word that will never be used to describe this little book. It definitely is exploring that sense that, if you live to an old age, eventually your biography becomes your medical history, which is to say, your encounters with your own mortality. How we're all, basically, doomed to be at some point, should we be lucky enough to live long, western, medically-supported lives, to be completely obsessed with the deterioration of our own flesh.
So now, still on the dying old men theme, I am about halfway through Gilead by Marilynne Robinson and it is as quietly gorgeous and moving as anything I've read. She takes about 10 years to write her books, her earlier one is the marvel Housekeeping, and her prose is perfect, poetic. Here the main character is a dying pastor in Iowa writing a letter to his son, which I realize must not sound promising, but it's amazing. |