The CCLaP 100 is an interesting project where the author reads a hundred so-called literary "classics" and then writes reports on whether or not they deserve the label. In this installment, we look at Saul Bellow's "Humboldt's Gift" (1975).

The story is a semi-autobiography of sorts, following the relationship between Von Humboldt Fleischer and Charlie Citrine. Humboldt is modeled on Bellow's friend Delmore Schwartz, and Citrine is based on Bellow himself. The plot seems almost like an afterthought, with the main focus being on Citrine's daily life in 1970s Chicago and his reminiscences about Humboldt.

The argument for "Humboldt's Gift" being a classic is that it won the 1976 Pulitzer Prize and the Nobel Prize for literature that same year. It is also a textbook example of Postmodernism, with its thoughtful, self-referential, and slyly funny nature. The language is beautiful, and it focuses on character rather than plot.
However, there are also arguments against it being a classic. Some readers find it to be an overwritten mess, an example of academic navel-gazing. They argue that it was part of the reason why novels lost their dominance in society, as academes took over the literary industry with their "deconstructionism" and "metafiction."
My verdict is that while I personally adored "Humboldt's Gift" as an overeducated intellectual and fellow Chicagoan, I can also understand the complaints of those who found it a chore to read. It is a perfect example of both the good and bad aspects of Postmodernism. It is intelligent and charming, but it also serves as a bad premonition of things to come. Therefore, I do not consider it a classic and recommend it only to fans of Postmodernist masters.

In conclusion, "Humboldt's Gift" is a complex and controversial work that will continue to be debated by readers and critics alike. Whether or not it is a classic depends on one's perspective and personal taste.

La decantazione avvenuta alcuni giorni dopo la fine della lettura non ha avuto successo. Non c'è stata alcuna deposizione al fondo delle scorie emotive, né c'è alcun liquido limpido da offrire in calici di cristallo non solo ai gentili lettori delle mie elucubrazioni, ma anche a me stessa, se e quando avessi avuto la voglia di riportare alla mia labile memoria i dati e le cause di questa lettura.

Niente di niente, se non il ricordo troppo presto sbiadito di qualche risata qua e là e quello della comune predilezione (mia e di Bellow) per Segovia e il suo acquedotto romano.

Una vita, quella di Citrine, per me è assolutamente incomprensibile. In effetti, anche il fratello Julius la pensava così e niente è più lontano da me della sua visione, contabile in dollari, della vita. Questa cosa mi disturba un po', ma poi mi consolo pensando che Bellow in Citrine abbia infuso il peggio di sé stesso per mettersi alla berlina e senza pietà.

Dicono, e potrei condividere, si tratta di una commedia macabra, tutta incentrata sulla paura di non capire il senso primitivo della vita prima di tirare le cuoia.

Devo rileggermi Eros e civiltà. Credo – sono passati cinquanta anni – che Marcuse avesse detto qualcosa di simile senza citare l’antroposofia come salvagente al delirio consumistico americano. Logicamente.

Per Segovia quattro stelle.

**Pulitzer Prize Winner: 1976**

The Pulitzer Prize-winning work of 1976 had its share of both brilliance and drawbacks. The writing was truly outstanding, with a certain elegance and sophistication that was hard to ignore. There were definitely aspects that the reader could enjoy and appreciate. However, the pacing of the story was extremely slow. It wasn't until nearly three-fourths of the way into the book that we finally got to "Humboldt's Gift".

Throughout the narrative, there were numerous random tangents that seemed to detract from the main plot. The main character, Charlie, was a source of great aggravation. He was constantly surrounded by a cast of wild and rather unscrupulous characters who were clearly out to take advantage of him and fleece him of his money. Yet, he continuously allowed himself to be bullied into doing things he didn't want to do, all the while making excuses for the behavior of those around him. It was incredibly frustrating to see him so passive and easily manipulated.

Charlie was also quite self-involved and almost too self-aware. While there were some truly great lines and moments of beautiful prose, a significant portion of the book was either tedious or frustrating. Despite being more engaged than expected at times, the overall experience was somewhat marred by these issues.

The title implies that Von Humboldt Fleisher, a poet and at times an academic, and the best friend of Charlie Citrine, is the main character. However, this is primarily Charlie's story. Charlie, a playwright, had a huge hit on Broadway and is now mainly living off its afterglow. He is torn in two opposite directions: the gritty and ugly immigrant city of Chicago, and the intellectual life, with philosophers, poets, and the mysticism of Rudolf Steiner.

He is divorced from Denise, who is taking him to the cleaners in the settlement. Now, he expends his amorous pursuits on the much younger and gold-digging Renata. The sleazy Chicago mobster Rinaldo Cantabile haunts Charlie across two continents, and the charming swindler Pierre Thaxter has numerous ideas for literary enterprises that will empty Charlie's pockets. As the novel concludes, Charlie is being fleeced by almost everyone, but a gift from Humboldt from beyond the grave might save him.

I would someday like to conduct an in-depth study of Bellow's women. Here, there is a strong emphasis on the biological. Charlie's women are constantly giving off smells, whether they are sitting cross-legged, driving, or doing nothing. Even the youngest women, college girls in an elevator, "seemed to give out a wonderful fragrance of unripeness, a sort of green-banana odor."

I would say Bellow's writing style is nearly perfect in this novel. Also, the novel is substantial and hefty. He carries this writerly burden for almost 500 pages.

The action moves from New York to Chicago to Texas to Madrid to Paris, but Chicago is the star.

"We sat with whisky, poker chips, and cigars in this South Chicago kitchen penetrated by the dark breathing of the steel mills and refineries, under webs of power lines. I often note odd natural survivals in this heavy-industry district. Carp and catfish still live in the benzine-smelling ponds. Black women angle for them with dough-bait. Woodchucks and rabbits are seen not far from the dumps. Red-winged blackbirds with their shoulder tabs fly like uniformed ushers over the cattails. Certain flowers persist."

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There were beautiful and moving things in Chicago, but culture was not one of them. What we had was a cultureless city nevertheless pervaded by Mind.

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Large parts of Chicago decay and fall down. Some are rebuilt, others just lie there....Division Street where the old Bath stands used to be Polish and now is almost entirely Puerto Rican. In the Polish days, the small brick bungalows were painted fresh red, maroon, and candy green. The grass plots were fenced with iron pipe. I always thought that there must be Baltic towns that looked like this, Gdynia for instance, the difference being that the Illinois prairie erupted in vacant lots and tumbleweed rolled down the streets. Tumbleweed is so melancholy.

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I too [like Humboldt] am sentimental about urban ugliness.

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On Renata:

"Renata didn't know that Urbanovich was about to rule on the impounding of my money. By the movement of her eyes, however, I saw that money thoughts were on her mind. Her brows often were tilted heavenward with love but now and then a strongly practical look swept over her which, however, I also liked very much."

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"Renata's breasts, when the support of clothing was removed, fell slightly to the right and to the left, owing to a certain enchanting fullness at the base of each and perhaps because of their connection with the magnetic poles of the earth."

Of the three times I have read Bellow thus far, my initial reactions have always been consistent. I have always thought that his works could evolve into the quintessential great American novel. In fact, he gives me even more encouragement compared to the likes of DeLillo and Roth. In the end, I found Humboldt’s Gift to be better than 'The Adventures of Augie March', yet not quite as excellent as 'Herzog'. At least I can claim to have discovered a worthy Pulitzer winner, considering my record in this regard isn't overly positive. One aspect I noticed throughout most of the novel is how it started to feel un-American, which is strange considering the early parts are set in Chicago and New York, atypical of the usual way conventional American fiction reads. It's almost as if Mr Bellow employs and elicits double-meanings throughout the narrative. Its complexity of intellectual argument, which I found greater than in the other two novels I've read, is essentially like a Continental breakfast rather than steak and eggs. Some of his humorous and sharply drawn eccentric characters seem English in nature.

Humboldt’s Gift is undoubtedly a work conceived on a grand scale. This is both a blessing and a bit of a problem. In the middle third of the book, my interest gradually waned, and I slogged along in a slump, hoping for things to improve, which eventually did happen. It was like the starter and the dessert being more palatable than some, but not all, of the main course. So, the essence of the story - a certain Charlie Citrine, like Mr Bellow, a Chicago-raised author, around 60 years old, a rich and famous Pulitzer Prize winner and Chevalier of the Légion d’Honneur in the eyes of the world. But as the book begins, he is in a crisis in his life. His wife and a team of tough lawyers are taking him for all he's worth in a divorce settlement; what little he has left is being snatched by his mistress and her appalling mother, and he is being bullied by a small-time gangster (one of the novel's best characters). He often reflects on his youth when he was taken under the wing of the poet Von Humboldt Fleisher, unfortunately a one-book success who only desired to be supported by society in the way a genius should be accustomed to. And society's failure to provide this drove him to drink, madness, and finally death in squalor. Charlie has become rich and famous based on work less remarkable than Humboldt’s, but he too is ripe for destruction. Humboldt will then have a positive impact on Charlie's plight from beyond the grave.

For the most part, I found the narrative to be full of shrewdness and vitality, driven by an energetic and sharp-eyed Bellow. It's a novel that regularly takes its multivitamins, and the brisk dialogue-heavy sections truly showcase his talent for allowing flowing conversations or, in some cases, heated arguments to take as long as they need to. It also moved me far more than I anticipated, yet it still remained remarkably funny in large portions. It's difficult to say whether I would classify Humboldt and Charlie as true close friends who would willingly take a bullet for each other, as they do have their altercations. But by the end, both men have a significant impact on the reader. Perhaps, at least for me, it is too long for its own good, but by its conclusion, I did sit with a smile of satisfaction on my face.

This is how you write about aging!!!

Aging is a natural and inevitable process that affects every living being. It is a complex phenomenon that involves various physical, mental, and social changes. As we age, our bodies gradually decline in function, our skin loses elasticity, and our hair turns gray. However, aging is not just about the physical changes. It also brings about mental and emotional challenges, such as memory loss, depression, and loneliness.

Despite the challenges that come with aging, it is important to remember that it is also a time of growth and wisdom. With age, we gain a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world around us. We learn from our experiences and become more resilient. We also have the opportunity to give back to society and share our knowledge and skills with younger generations.

In conclusion, aging is a multifaceted process that has both positive and negative aspects. By understanding and accepting the changes that come with age, we can embrace this stage of life with grace and dignity.

One of the novels that marked my adolescence. Wonderfully written, complex, I had the surprise to have been read almost at the same time by friends or colleagues. I said a sentence and it was completed by someone else. After so much time and Renata is still always fresh.

This novel holds a special place in my heart. It was not just a book but a shared experience among my peers. The way the story was crafted, with its intricate plot and well-developed characters, kept us all engaged.

We would often discuss the different twists and turns, analyzing the motives of each character. Renata, the protagonist, was a captivating figure. Her struggles and triumphs made us feel a range of emotions.

Even after all these years, whenever I think of this novel, it brings back memories of those days with my friends. It is a testament to the power of good literature to leave a lasting impression.

When Charlie Citrine's lover Renata said, "When you get to the story let me know, I'm not big on philosophy," she really hit the bulls-eye.

I have never before come across a more pretentious jumble of self-indulgent philosophizing, high-brow name-dropping, and conceited intellectualism. You know a novel isn't working when you find yourself constantly checking how many pages are left. I persisted only out of respect for Pulitzer Prize winner and Nobel laureate Saul Bellow, the author of the masterpiece The Adventures of Augie March. I guess Bellow was just past his prime and overly praised. Maybe he just took himself too seriously?

Humboldt's Gift is a novel that has sections of wit, humor, and charm that serve the plot and characters well. Unfortunately, these sections are interspersed with long digressions into tedious philosophizing, boring intellectual vanity, and narcissism. Did I miss something? Was Bellow being tongue in cheek? Am I one of the Philistines that Von Humboldt Fleisher and Charlie Citrine complained about? Charlie's first lover, Naomi Lutz, said to him, "It was always wonderful the way you talked. But off-putting too." Yes, Naomi, 487 pages of "off-putting."

Perhaps Bellow was trying to convey something profound, but it got lost in the muddled mess of his overwrought prose. Or maybe I'm just not the right audience for this kind of novel. Either way, Humboldt's Gift was a disappointment.

"They were all gone but ourselves." This simple yet profound sentence holds within it a wealth of meanings. It's a masterful exploration of memory, history, materialism, and the art of letting go. The way it encapsulates these complex themes is truly remarkable. It makes one stop and think about the transient nature of life and the importance of holding onto what truly matters. This novel is, without a doubt, my favorite. It weaves a story that is both beautiful and a bit of a mess, much like life itself. The characters are vividly drawn, and their experiences are relatable. The plot twists and turns, keeping the reader engaged from start to finish. It's a book that will stay with you long after you've turned the last page, making you reflect on your own life and the choices you've made.

I used to see Professor Bellow on the University of Chicago campus in 1975 - 76 when I was a graduate student there.

I left UC to work in Algeria and took along a trunk-load of books which included Humboldt's Gift. I read the whole thing, forcing myself, believing that the book would redeem itself soon enough.

Living and working in Algeria was not easy. I was hoping that this famous literary professor, whom I had rubbed shoulders with, so to speak, would lift me out of my existential doldrums.

Fogeddabouded!

Fortunately, we were living on the beach between Arzew and Mostaganem, and my job was not too far away. So, there was plenty of beauty and frivolity playing with my family and Italian, French, and Algerian neighbors, which was better than trudging between classes in dreary ol’ Hyde Park.

Besides reading about Algeria, Islam, and trying to improve my rudimentary French (2 college years) and beginning Maghrabi Arabic, I had my books. Even so, life in Algeria itself was not joyous, I would say, and Bellow could not save me.

I tried reading this gray, self-absorbed author who wrote too much, I thought, about characters who were bringing me down in the environment I was living in. Because, I think, there was too much of himself in them, and I really didn’t give a damn about Bellow’s persona.

After Humboldt, I could not enjoy another Bellow, even though I would have liked to, such as Mr. Sammler’s Planet, which I heard was good.

Cerebral writers, like Bellow - I say ‘cerebral’ because that type (and he impresses me this way) prefers to be admired in a classroom mostly populated by admiring young women rather than taking risks in more down-to-earth exploits like working with West Virginia coal miners or ranching in Texas, i.e. getting their hands dirty, viz., Hemingway or Steinbeck or Irwin Shaw or even Faulkner.

I can’t say that I don’t recommend reading Bellow to fellow readers. He’s the kind of oblique author that makes me feel that I’m not of his ilk, but I’m not sure that’s very smart of him - to make me, a literary book lover, not like his books.

I think he had a fatal flaw as a writer and that’s why he probably will not be remembered as much as McMurtry will. But then again McMurtry is a Texan and Bellow was from Montreal originally, sort of.

(At this point, I decided to wikipedia Bellow {https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saul_Be...} to check some facts. I’ll tell you truly that I have to read him again. I remember liking Dangling Man and Seize the Day, so what’s wrong with me? How come I can’t square myself with Saul Bellow, or at least Herzog? I’m going to give him another try and let you know.)

Charlie Citrine, the narrator, delves into his numerous misadventures during Christmas in 1973.

He alternates between nostalgic memories, dubious encounters in the seedy Chicago, extravagant projects, absurd situations, and sociological, philosophical, or metaphysical ponderings.

He detests intellectuals who are disconnected from the world, yet he himself tends to meditate more or less on far-fetched theories in critical situations.

He is a writer haunted by Humboldt, an old friend and an avant-garde poet from Greenwich Village who had limited success between the Lost and the Beat Generation.

As Charlie achieved recognition and won literary prizes, medals, and money, Humboldt gradually faded into oblivion and descended into madness.

Ultimately, they became angry with each other, and Humboldt passed away in the 1960s without their reconciliation.

I won't disclose the entire plot, which is long, complex, yet well-paced, humorous, and ingenious.

There are three key aspects to remember about Charlie Citrine: his confused relationship with money, women, and death.

He is constantly being ripped off or having his money drained by everyone: the State, a small-time crook who idolizes Al Capone, his ex-wife, his lawyers, his girlfriend, his collaborators, and even his friends.

And when I say Humboldt haunts him, I'm not exaggerating much because Charlie is deeply interested in theories about the immortality of the soul, based on rebirth, kabbalah, anthroposophy, or something else.

His pursuit is to untangle this confusion and find a happy medium between poverty and wealth, materialism and spiritualism, dry scholarship, and pure stupidity.

I would have adored this novel if the translation hadn't bothered me so much.

But unfortunately, it is not only poorly written but also very strange, and some elements have left me bewildered.

When the idealism and pragmatism collide, those are the ideals that get shattered.

Idealists are full of ideas and hopes. They envision a world where art, thought, culture, and style hold the highest regard. In The Ark, they were determined to publish brilliant things, believing that such brilliancy existed and it was an insult to a civilized nation and to humankind to assume otherwise. Everything possible must be done to restore the credit and authority of art, the seriousness of thought, the integrity of culture, and the dignity of style.

Pragmatists, on the other hand, sail other vessels. They have a more practical approach to life. For example, in the given conversation, one pragmatist said, “You can forget Flonzaley. We’ve made a clean break. He’s a nice man, but I can’t go along with the undertaking business.” When the other person mentioned that Flonzaley was very rich, the pragmatist replied, “He’s worth his wreaths in wraiths.” She couldn't help but remember his embalming background. However, she didn't completely agree with Fromm's view on necrophilia creeping up on civilization.

The pragmatic doctrine maintains that it is better to be rich and healthy. But the poor idealists remain true to their highest ideals, even in the face of the collision with pragmatism.