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A review by elanna76
Nemesis by Philip Roth
2.0
I don't have much to add to the comment I impulsively wrote while reading.
Seriously pal, there are a bloody polio epidemic AND a world war, and this guy manages to make it about himself and his neurosis.
Don't get me wrong, Philip Roth can write and he caught my attention since the start, with a vibrant depiction of a North American urban jewish community. I expected so much more, that when I realised that it was actually all about a relatively a young American kinda white man's internal dissatisfactions, I felt like someone had just thrown a bucket of ice water over my head. The only other novel I can remember that gave me this feeling was The Historian, that awful realisation that it was all about... not Balcan history of the last century with its tragic secrets, not the plight of minorities in the terrible war of the Nineties, but actually THAT, for fucks' sake.
It's not respected literary company to be found in, no sir, not in my eyes.
It's such a pity that there were so many directions this book could have taken, all more worthwhile than the Portnoyesque mental wanks I had to endure from circa a third of the way into the story. There was the conflict with the Italians, but no, let's focus on the protagonist's internal conflict with his own choices. There was the tendency of the terrified parents to look for a scapegoat with all the implications it could have had for the protagonist, given his role as children's mentor and the decisions he had to make. Instead, why not focus on his internalised guilt about being healthy and about accepting a way out of the community, Roth must have thought. THAT was a clear case of an "it looked like a good idea" moment, if ever there were any. Not your garden variety, mind, I am talking about bad narrative decisions with fangs and talons, the kind that keeps mawling your empathy for a main character until you start thinking that making of him an actual scapegoat and burning him in a wicker frame would be a perfectly sound ending.
I endured to the end, for the sole (and, with hindsight, reckless) reason that I want to finish my annual reading challenge. Something that I rarely do, and this frustrating experience reminded my that I should stick to my policy of dumping books that give me less than they take as soon as I realise my mistake.
And no, I don't want to spoil it for you, but sadly they don't burn the guy alive in the end.
Seriously pal, there are a bloody polio epidemic AND a world war, and this guy manages to make it about himself and his neurosis.
Don't get me wrong, Philip Roth can write and he caught my attention since the start, with a vibrant depiction of a North American urban jewish community. I expected so much more, that when I realised that it was actually all about a relatively a young American kinda white man's internal dissatisfactions, I felt like someone had just thrown a bucket of ice water over my head. The only other novel I can remember that gave me this feeling was The Historian, that awful realisation that it was all about... not Balcan history of the last century with its tragic secrets, not the plight of minorities in the terrible war of the Nineties, but actually THAT, for fucks' sake.
It's not respected literary company to be found in, no sir, not in my eyes.
It's such a pity that there were so many directions this book could have taken, all more worthwhile than the Portnoyesque mental wanks I had to endure from circa a third of the way into the story. There was the conflict with the Italians, but no, let's focus on the protagonist's internal conflict with his own choices. There was the tendency of the terrified parents to look for a scapegoat with all the implications it could have had for the protagonist, given his role as children's mentor and the decisions he had to make. Instead, why not focus on his internalised guilt about being healthy and about accepting a way out of the community, Roth must have thought. THAT was a clear case of an "it looked like a good idea" moment, if ever there were any. Not your garden variety, mind, I am talking about bad narrative decisions with fangs and talons, the kind that keeps mawling your empathy for a main character until you start thinking that making of him an actual scapegoat and burning him in a wicker frame would be a perfectly sound ending.
I endured to the end, for the sole (and, with hindsight, reckless) reason that I want to finish my annual reading challenge. Something that I rarely do, and this frustrating experience reminded my that I should stick to my policy of dumping books that give me less than they take as soon as I realise my mistake.
And no, I don't want to spoil it for you, but sadly they don't burn the guy alive in the end.