The large print section of the local library is no place to go looking for a piece of ass.
June 22nd, 2009“The preposterous was seeping in fast from every quarter.”
I found “Exit Ghost” at the library while browsing the large print section. I’ve been meaning to read another Philip Roth book ever since American Pastoral. I can read large print forever. I love large print.
I immediately sensed that this is a writer that will never lie to me. His private thoughts just ring too true. He does not filter.
This book is about a famous writer in his 70s going off the rails and watching himself make “bad” decisions with no power to stop it. The comedy in the book flows from this old gent being made into a clown by his own desires.
For example, against his better judgment he enters into a home swapping agreement with an attractive young couple. His reasoning is,
“Then she would be living among my things and I among hers.”
His desires wake up so quickly after such a long down-time. He spends the book tracking the life story of a genius writer named E.I. Lonoff (who, I read, is really a stand-in for Bernard Malamud) and fighting off younger, more virile versions of himself.
The crushing weight of the past in this book almost overwhelmed me.
“You said, ‘Oh Manny, we could be so happy in Florence.’”
Learning this made her enormously happy. “Oh, my. You were such a bad boy. What else? What else? To have a witness to something so long gone– what a gift! Tell me what you heard, bad boy! Tell me everything!”
Tell me, she was saying to me, tell me please, about this intimate moment with this irreplaceable person I love who is dead, tell me on the day I’ve learned of the return of the tumor that is hurtling me toward my own death…”
How is that for wanting house yourself in a little lean-to made of the past?
One thing that threw me off was the weirdly shallow portraits he draws of younger men. They are virile and confident, but are only described that way in one or two words and he’s done.
He makes a HUGE deal about how EXTREME his 11 year hiatus in a comfortable cabin in western Mass. As if anyone crazy enough not to live in Manhattan for any time at all should be a subject of a novel that reminds you of that fact on every page.
He devotes a lot of space to a weird little play he writes about his interactions with the younger woman. He develops that relationship in the play and then develops a “real” one with the woman in the book itself. was it a way of showing how impotent he was? was it some dialog he wrote that didn’t fit in the book, so he worked it in as a play? I’m kind of annoyed by this book within a book and I find that I don’t value what takes place in that fake book, which makes me wonder why I care what takes place in the actual book.
This book left me swimming in a muggy soup of human pheromones, auto exhaust, pollen and a hint of urine.



