This is truly a remarkable book. Before delving into it, I had never really considered Roth in the same vein as Pynchon for the title of the greatest living novelist. However, after reading Sabbath's Theater, it has become abundantly clear that Roth not only belongs in the same conversation as Pynchon but also among the all-time American greats.

This book is both incredibly funny and yet, every page is saturated with death, misery, and pain. The fact that Roth can seamlessly blend these two seemingly disparate elements is astonishing and places him in the company of Melville and Faulkner as a writer of great comic darkness.

One of the initial impressions upon reading Sabbath's Theater is how distinct it is from any other Roth book. While other reviewers have pointed out that much of the book deals with Roth's recurring themes such as sexual perversion, adultery, New Jersey, and Jewishness, these are merely superficial similarities. Mickey Sabbath may share a family tree with characters like Alex Portnoy, Kepesh, and Zuckerman, but whereas they are all brothers, Sabbath is the black sheep cousin that no one really wants to encounter at the family reunion.

In Sabbath, Roth strips away the rigid intellect that shields the impulses of even his most libidinous characters. The result can be seen as either Roth's most unendurable lout or a character who functions as pure id, allowing Roth the greatest freedom to explore the topics that have consumed him throughout his career: sex, death, relationships, and more. It is easy to condemn Mickey Sabbath as a sick old man, and in that case, the book will be unreadable to you. However, if you can accept Mickey for the complex cauldron of joy, misery, hate, and love that he is, you will be rewarded with Roth's most exhilarating work.

No, Mickey Sabbath's closest literary kin is Rabbit Angstrom from John Updike's excellent novels. It is evident that Roth was influenced by Updike, particularly the last two novels of the Rabbit tetrad, Rabbit is Rich and Rabbit at Rest. In fact, when describing Sabbath's Theater, Roth has said that he was at his "most free" while writing this novel, the same term he used to describe John Updike's Rabbit books. Both Rabbit and Sabbath are chronic cheaters, both despise their wives, both run away from their problems instead of facing them, and both men's irresponsibility has led to the deaths of family members and loved ones.

What sets Sabbath apart as a far greater creation than Rabbit is his intelligence. When Rabbit reflects on the past, all he can think of are his basketball glory days and the various tragedies that occurred in previous books. Sabbath, on the other hand, has not only his fair share of personal tragedies but also Shakespeare at his disposal. Listening to Sabbath's ruminations is a far more enriching experience than listening to Rabbit's. When Rabbit mourns the loss of his dead daughter, he can only recite her name. When Sabbath mourns his lost wife, he is able to evoke King Lear carrying Cordelia onto the stage, crying "Thou'lt come no more." The breadth of this metaphor is astounding and elicits a profound sense of pathos that Rabbit (and, by extension, Updike) is simply incapable of achieving.

Similarly, Sabbath has interesting things to say about politics, feminism, free speech, and class divides. Rabbit, in comparison, is simply not as interesting. When compared to Sabbath, Rabbit seems almost like one of the sources Shakespeare used for Hamlet or Macbeth. While the original Hamlet may bear a superficial resemblance to the finished Shakespearean version, the overall impact of the characters is hardly comparable. Rabbit is often dull, but Sabbath always manages to keep us engaged, even if we may not always want to hear what he has to say.

Beyond their differences in intelligence, it is much more difficult not to care for Sabbath than it is for Rabbit. When reading the Rabbit books, it is hard to empathize with Harry, regardless of how relatable his situation may be. This is not so much due to a difference in the characters themselves but rather in the fact that Updike is not as skilled as Roth in making us feel for Rabbit. Updike often allows us to go long stretches where Rabbit's only pain stems from the fact that he is too rich and undersexed (or perhaps oversexed), which is a hard sell when it comes to eliciting my empathy.

Roth, on the other hand, never allows us to stray far from Sabbath's pain. Sabbath may be a slave to his libido and many unappealing personal traits, but he is also burdened by his own overwhelming anguish. His dead brother is constantly on his mind, his mother's ghosts haunt him as he drives, and his dead lover's words forever echo in his ears. Sabbath may be pure id, but his capacity for feeling pleasure also makes him feel pain more acutely. We feel his pain right along with him when his long-suffering mother urges him to commit suicide and when he believes he may have met a long-lost daughter. Roth never allows us to take a step back from Sabbath and observe or revile him as we are able to do with Rabbit. This effect prevents us from seeing Sabbath as a completely mean-spirited SOB and instead makes him seem more like a caustic jokester who is simply retaliating against the blows life has dealt him. Judged by his actions alone, Sabbath may be as deplorable as they come, but when we are by his side on his journey, we are able to understand his cruelty and empathize with his hurt.

Sabbath's Theater also features what is admittedly a rarity in Roth's works - a very interesting and likable female character in Drenka. I read an article (I believe it was in Entertainment Weekly) that claimed all the women in Sabbath's Theater were either mothers or whores. This is a despicable thing to say and makes one wonder how much of the alleged misogyny in Roth's works is actually a result of his critics' nasty prejudices rather than any statement of his own. Drenka is a strong, intelligent, and beautiful woman. She provides the perfect counterpoint to Sabbath; she is the one person in the world intelligent enough to avoid becoming one of Sabbath's puppets. She loves Sabbath and he loves her.

It seems to shock some readers to discover that this love between two adults should express itself through sex - and adulterous, kinky sex at that - but again, this says more about the readers than it does about Roth's alleged perversions. It is a shame that so many people seem to miss the great love story in this book. Sabbath adores Drenka. Their relationship is playful, even when Sabbath plays tricks on her. Sabbath and Drenka's affair is the greatest romantic relationship Roth has yet created. It is a pity that more people cannot appreciate this relationship, not only because of its beauty but also because it forms the center of the book.

There is something to be said about Roth's failure to write convincing female characters in some of his other works. For example, My Life as a Man suffers from the fact that Maureen Tarnopol is too weakly drawn to serve as a convincing antagonist for her husband. However, this is not the case in Sabbath's Theater, where Drenka provides a compelling and believable female lead who drives the book forward.

In a purely aesthetic sense, the book is a masterpiece. The mournful comedic tone that Roth maintains throughout is truly remarkable. Roth's prose can range from the almost prosaic in the Zuckerman novels to the manic in Portnoy; here, the prose is just energetic enough to make each sentence lively while still carrying the weight of Sabbath's constant preoccupation with death. Roth is truly underrated as a prose stylist, especially when compared to more flamboyant writers like Pynchon or Updike. While Updike would often take rather blatant breaks for a page-long stream-of-consciousness sentence or a long string of one-word paragraphs, Roth is able to maintain a consistent and engaging prose without such gimmicks, which, when used incorrectly, can seem like nothing more than smoke and mirrors. There may be no better example of a prose that, as Hemingway put it, is honest and true than that which Roth sustains in this book.

In conclusion, this is a brilliant book. As mentioned earlier, the decadence of libertine Sabbath's personality and the frankness of the book's sexuality may deter some readers, but it is their (great) loss. For those readers who wish to prepare themselves for Sabbath's Theater, I would recommend reading the Rabbit books and perhaps a selection of Roth's early works such as Portnoy's Complaint or My Life as a Man to become accustomed to the frank sexuality and the unappealing protagonists. But make no mistake, this is a great book. Like many of the great books of the past 30 years (such as Blood Meridian and Mason & Dixon), it requires sacrifice on the part of the reader. But it will reward you handsomely.

Cards on the table: I was truly disgusted by Sabbath for the initial hundred pages or so. I'm fully aware that this might be the very intention, but it almost led me to toss the book aside and say "fuck it." The masculine toxic entitlement and such were quite off-putting.

Please understand that I'm not typically one to jump to such conclusions. It seems overly simplistic and reductive to me, almost like finger-pointing and being unnecessarily politically correct. As a cis het white male, I'm also cognizant of how vain and self-serving this might sound. However, something within me recoils when people dismiss a work of art for these kinds of reasons.

It's as if we're boxing ideas, images, dreams, and creativity itself into these political pigeonholes. Maybe the artist is conscious of how they're coming across, and that's part of their strategy.

Or perhaps you can have an interesting interpretation and an enlightening argument as to why you don't like a particular type of work of art. What's wrong with that? Isn't art supposed to shock us, say the unutterable, push the boundaries, épater the bourgeoisie, and all that?

In a sense, it's another way of saying "You Don't Feel The Way You're Supposed To Feel." And that can dampen some of the impulse that gives birth to art, from the Sistine Chapel to Pink Flamingos.

But yes, Sabbath wasn't really all that appealing to me. His grossness wasn't interesting; in fact, it was rather boring in some ways, which is the greatest sin in the world of fiction.

There's a trailer for Pink Flamingos that delightfully interviews the stunned reactions of moviegoers. One guy, clearly a New Yorker from the tone of his voice, gripes: "it was supposed to be a dirty movie...but it wasn't even dirty. It was just gross."

Maybe that's a distinction without a difference, but you know what I mean.

That's how I was reacting to Sabbath's outraged horniness, his rage and his lust (I bet there's a German word that combines the two, it's that kind of thing). However, I felt less so about his equally outrageous mistress Drenka. She at least had the courage to match him perversion for perversion, and that's quite ballsy of her. She enjoys having four different kinds of semen in her in one day and tells an appreciative Mickey all about it. Well, good for her. Rock on with your cock out.

And I also firmly believe that "likeable" protagonists aren't the be-all and end-all. Disliking a story because you don't like the characters seems rather...childish? Consumption-based? Entitled?

Of course, you're not supposed to like fictional characters unconditionally. Otherwise, they wouldn't be interesting. Name any story, and pretty much everyone has some flaws. That's what makes them interesting. That's the human factor, and that's what we read for.

I also found myself wondering if this book was so highly praised and accoladed because the raunchy Sabbath was enough to startle and impress the usually demure, high-minded, and refined critical consensus. "Oh, mister Roth! How daring you are! Say more of those delicious dirty words!" But at the same time, I do appreciate Roth, and I think some of his books are genius. Portnoy is just as raunchy, but the key for me is his constant guilt and self-consciousness, which add a tasteful spice to the comedy and the humanity, something that Sabbath lacks for the most part.

Most of us aren't forthright enough to be as pussy or cock-crazed as all that. I was surprised to learn that the average number of sexual partners for a lifetime hovers around five. With all the movies, advertisements, online porn, dating websites, and so on, the idea of being sexually obsessive fifty times a minute seems almost absurd. If true, it tells us something about our erotic aspirations exceeding our capabilities, so to speak.

So I'll lean towards the side that old man Roth knows what he's doing.

The book didn't really win me over until we delved into the things that truly mattered for Mickey, when he showed his heart, when he was vulnerable, anguished, sad, hopeless, and lost. When he truly mourned.

I think the whole mentality of raging against the dying of the light by means of romping in bed with some frothy whores was much more appealing to me, more arousing, when I was a younger lad. Having sex was a way of getting to the heart of things.

Not anymore. I'm older now, as Howlin' Wolf once said, "I have had my fun" (though I couldn't pretend to hold a candle to what the great bluesman might have meant). I did manage to get a little further down the path of sin than I'd hoped I would when I was a repressed, over-thinking, guilt-ridden adolescent. I'm glad to have had the experiences I've had and to have at least not been sitting around feeling like the world was passing me by, ignoring the need for good old-fashioned visceral experience. Sure, I'm no swashbuckling rascal, but at least I've kicked up a few tailfeathers or two in my time.

All of which is to say, I'm no stern moralist here. Fuck the Puritans. (Sorry, gramps!) And yes, as Mickey puts it, "fuck the laudable ideologies." Except when you need them to survive. Sometimes it seems like the laudable ideologies, about duty, honor, faith, and the social contract, are what keep us from tearing each other apart.

Yet the whole premise of ST feels flat to me, almost pointless, maybe even a little performatively outlandish. Roth is indeed a master of comic irony, as the blurbs suggest.

I mean, jerking off on your dead lover's tombstone is kind of funny in and of itself, as is doing it in a sort of warped tribute in memory of shared debauchery (one imagines sensual Drenka smiling down from the netherworld, egging Sabbath on, ghostily messaging his whimpering prostate). An even better comical twist is having another one of her lovers show up out of nowhere, bearing flowers, only to do the very same. And then building up to yet another great punchline, which is Mickey getting jealous and snatching the dripping flowers away because how dare this shmuck offer tribute to HIS sexual supernova! And what he does after that is an even better coup, in terms of comic irony.

The man can write, and I can't take that away from him. Nor do I intend to. And happiness writes white, surely, yet sometimes we need it. It's the courageous step, perhaps. I think Tolstoy might have been more right than we give him credit for, though his extreme self-abnegation towards the end (veganism, chastity, relentless hard work in the service of the Lord, no wild Shakespeare or Beethoven to potentially rattle the pure of heart) is rather stupid. Tamping down the wild heart's flame can be just as oppressive as perpetually indulging it. And Sabbath surely indulges it.

Maybe this is what I mean: I just felt like Sabbath constantly overdrawn from the bank of readerly sympathy and then wrote endless blank, bouncing checks against the reader's patience. When you reach the end, the ATM is empty, and the receipts are all stuck together like moist handkerchiefs. And nobody is left to pay the bill.

And here's Garth Greenwell telling you why in a whole different way: https://yalereview.org/article/garth-...

This book presents a rather perverse and often-falling narrative in certain places.

It is not a read for the faint of heart, as it contains very descriptive passages regarding sex and masturbation.

The main character also emits melancholic overtones throughout the story.

It seems that while writing this book, the author may have had Molly Bloom from Joyce's Ulysses in mind.

I truly believe that James Joyce himself would have loved to have read this work.

For those who don't typically engage with this sort of literature, it holds a certain shock factor.

It challenges the norms and expectations of what is considered acceptable in literary content.

The vivid descriptions and the complex emotions portrayed make it a unique and thought-provoking read.

Whether one loves it or hates it, there is no denying that this book leaves a lasting impression.

It forces the reader to confront their own attitudes and beliefs about sex, relationships, and the human condition.

Roth's works often explore complex themes such as the American Jewish experience.

One of the rather controversial aspects in his writings is the presence of sexual themes throughout.

There are also elements like affairs and infidelity that add to the complexity of the characters and their relationships.

Another interesting aspect is his use of puppetry, which serves as a unique device to present certain ideas.

The character or narrator Roth is often considered to be the one most "like" himself, perhaps adding a personal touch to the stories.

Moreover, his works sometimes involve the provocation of art, challenging the norms and expectations of the readers.

Even more astonishing is the mention of cemetery masturbation at the grave of a loved one, which is a rather extreme and thought-provoking scenario.

All these elements combined make Roth's works a rich and diverse exploration of various human experiences and emotions.

They offer a unique perspective on life, love, and the pursuit of meaning in a complex and often confusing world.

Nearly perfect.

On Page 247:

"Yes, yes, yes, he felt uncontrollable tenderness for his own shit-filled life. And a laughable hunger for more. More defeat. More disappointment. More deceit. More loneliness. More arthritis. More missionaries. God willing, more cunt! More disastrous entanglement in everything. For a pure sense of being tumultuously alive, you can't beat the nasty side of existence. I may not have been a matinee idol, but say what you will about me, it's been a real human life!"

So Morris Mickey Sabbath gave Philip Roth the verbal freedom to write about lewdness, debauchery, crudeness and indecency. And what a poignant commentary it is. The guy who's in the other end of the moral spectrum as opposed to Swede Levov. It is almost as if Roth is hell-bent on articulating the shallow standards of what's accepted by the polite society, what isn't and how none of it actually matters.

I came out of this novel in some way reaffirming myself that stark eroticism IS indeed a way of living, an invigorating, life-breathing canopy sheltering our most fragile core.

An absolutely blistering novel that's so heartfelt. My only beef being that some plot points seemed redundant, but that's only in hindsight, because even they were written brilliantly. The story unfolds with Sabbath's raw and unapologetic perspective, revealing the hidden underbelly of human existence. Roth's exploration of these themes challenges our preconceived notions and forces us to confront the uncomfortable truth. The novel is a powerful reminder that life is not always beautiful and perfect, but it is real and full of depth. Despite the presence of some redundant plot points, the overall impact of the novel is undeniable. It leaves a lasting impression on the reader, making us question our own values and beliefs.

Che lo spettacolo abbia inizio. Va in onda il teatro di Philip Roth!!!

Let's start from here: have you ever imagined your own epitaph? What would you like to engrave on your tombstone? If you are looking for inspirations, this is the one imagined by Mickey Sabbath, a former failed puppeteer, irreverent, perverted, libertine, obsessed with sex and women, who finds himself, now old and completely alone, reliving the most important phases of his life, reevaluating his relationships with the people he loved the most and bringing back to life the ghosts of those he has lost.

Morris Sabbath "Mickey"
Beloved Whore, Seducer,
Sodomizer and Exploiter of Women,
Director of Morality, Corrupter of Youth,
Wife Killer
Suicide
1929 - 1994

After this premise, you can decide whether to start reading or run away in horror. I recommend the first choice, because thanks to this absurd character you will discover a magnificent story that will not leave you indifferent.

Mandatory warning: the novel is much more than explicit in the details and in the crudest and most pornographic scenes you can ever imagine, but to understand its wonder you have to go beyond, set aside modesty and prudishness, and face the myriad of facets that delineate Sabbath's life: baring himself in all his most true and dramatic forms, discovering himself in every his most degraded memory and dissolute desire, he allows us to dig into the deepest of his self, bringing to light that usual damned and disturbing evil of living that is so difficult to placate and that usual damned fear of death that is so difficult to ignore.

"Most men have to arrange their fucks around the edges of what they call more important matters: making money, power, politics, fashion and God only knows what else... the know-it-alls. But Sabbath had simplified his life and had arranged everything else around his fucks."

"The range of his pleasures was very limited and did not even include the evening news. Sabbath had been reduced in the same way in which a sauce is reduced, boiling over the fire that had been lit under him, to better concentrate his essence and be brazenly himself."

And if then it is Roth's pen that brings to the surface all the possible malaise and suffering, you can be sure that he will do it in the most powerful, brazen and evocative way you will ever find. Don't be afraid, you will be rewarded and you will be able to witness one of the most sincere, provocative and unexpected human theaters ever and you will start to cheer for Mickey, because it is not necessary that the best characters are necessarily good and blameless.

"In how much stupidity must we sink to reach our goal, what boundless mistakes must we know how to make! If someone told you before, how many mistakes you will have to make, you would say no, sorry, it's impossible, find someone else; I'm too smart to make all those mistakes. And they would tell you, we have faith, don't worry, and you would say no, nothing doing, you need someone much more of a schmuck, much more of a cretin, but they would repeat that they have faith in you, that you will turn into a colossal cretin by putting in an effort that you can't even imagine, that you will make mistakes of a magnitude that you don't even dream of... because it's the only way to reach the goal."

After the passing of his long-term mistress, the disgraced former puppeteer Mickey Sabbath descends deeper and deeper into a prison of depression.

To begin with, "Sabbath's Theater" won the National Book Award in 1995. This is not unexpected considering it was exquisitely written. However, on the other hand, it is also filthier than a pile of used Longarm's. Seriously. Every time one thought it couldn't get any dirtier, Sabbath would do something like masturbate on his mistress's grave.

There isn't really much of a plot to speak of. Sabbath's mistress dies and his life disintegrates, compelling him to explore his past. Fortunately, he has the memories of an unbelievably large number of conquests to dwell upon. Sabbath is such a pervert that it seemed impossible to read more than fifty pages of this at a time. One cringed when a friend took pity on him only to catch him in the act of masturbating to a picture of his college-aged daughter.

There are themes and other novel aspects in "Sabbath's Theater", but it is difficult to see beyond the river of semen to reach them. It appears to be about how people are incapable of escaping the prisons they construct for themselves. And fornication.

It is a testament to Philip Roth's writing skill that he managed to make one feel sorry for a dirty old man like Mickey Sabbath. In fact, one doesn't think there is a single character in this book that one liked.

One wonders if the next National Book Award winner one reads will contain this much smut...

Uno strappo nel cielo di carta o la quarta parete

“– The tragedy of Orestes in a puppet theater! – Mr. Anselmo Paleari announced to me. – Automatic puppets, a new invention. Tonight, at eight thirty, in via dei Prefetti, number fifty-four. It would be worth going, Mr. Meis. – The tragedy of Orestes? – Yes! According to Sophocles, the poster says. It will be Electra. Now listen to the strange thought that comes to my mind! If, at the culminating moment, just when the puppet representing Orestes is about to avenge the death of his father on Aegisthus and his mother, there were a tear in the paper sky of the theater, what would happen? What do you say? – I don't know, – I replied, shrugging my shoulders. – But it's very simple, Mr. Meis! Orestes would be terribly disconcerted by that hole in the sky. – And why? – Let me speak. Orestes would still feel the impulses of vengeance, he would want to follow them with frantic passion, but his eyes, at that moment, would go there, to that tear, from where now all kinds of evil influences would penetrate into the scene, and he would feel his arms fall. Orestes, in short, would become Hamlet. All the difference, Mr. Meis, between ancient and modern tragedy consists in this, believe me: in a hole in the paper sky. And he left, stomping assertively, a chatterbox!”

Do you remember “The Late Mattia Pascal”? And if I told you that this is a Pirandellian Roth? Would you believe me?

Take a man over sixty, a real satyr, or rather worse, a Priapus, not so much for erectile dysfunction as for the emptiness of the erotic impulse taken to a paroxysm without limits. Or rather, take the wreck of a man who, after the death of his best lover, yearns in absolute nothingness, in the horror vacui of his existence on the verge. Enter his life accompanied by his thoughts and the memories of his miserable life; take note of the fact that he was a puppeteer in a theater of indecency, support the fact that he is an excellent prototype of the anti-hero, every now and then resurface as from a long apnea in the horrible scene of the present, fill up again … you will not have difficulty understanding that what you desire most is to return with him into the deepest abyss. His true identity, his deepest self, always graduated from a mischievous look between ironic and mocking, wisely seasoned with a humor and a sagacity without equal, will be able to tear a smile from you after having disgusted you terribly. Not one tear in the paper sky, but more than one, for Sabbath: every time a sort of catatonic response and then the action made of sexual impulse and pure self-destructive intent. A vortex of words, of memories, of thoughts. On stage a puppet, more than a puppeteer; one of many.

Whose hands are those that slip into our glove of life? How much are we able to stay on stage? How much does the plan of reality collide with those tears? How strident are they? What infinite doubts nourish in us? What finally is the last scene before the curtain falls? Assuming it falls! There is always the possibility that the pretense overflows the scenic space and invades reality … and there the troubles would begin: not always is a tear in the paper sky necessary, sometimes it is enough to break the fourth wall.

The plot, on paper, is very simple: the protagonist Morris "Mickey" Sabbath, a former puppeteer and also a former director of the "Theater of the Indecent", an unrepentant erotomaniac, now old, alone and with hands devastated by arthritis, finds himself taking stock of his existence through the memory of the people and events that have marked him. But in truth, we are faced with a complex, disturbing and true object, very difficult to enclose in explanations and periphrases.

On the surface, as in many of Roth's novels, sexuality is evident, exasperated, desperate:

In his life, he had never been able to let go of a new discovery. The heart of seduction lies in perseverance. Perseverance, the ideal of the Jesuits. Eighty percent of women yield to strong pressure if the pressure is persistent. One must dedicate oneself to fucking in the same way that a monk dedicates himself to God.

Most men have to arrange their fucks around the edges of what they define as more important matters: making money, power, politics, fashion, and God knows what else... science. But Sabbath had simplified his life and had arranged everything else around his fucks.

Moreover, the spring that triggers something invisible inside Sabbath, that sets in motion the mechanism of (self)reflection, the need to draw up a balance sheet of his existence knowing that it is completely negative, is the death of his last lover, the unforgettable Drenka. Regarding unforgettable scenes, the apex is undoubtedly reached when Sabbath masturbates on her grave:

Every time she aroused him like that from the coffin, he got hard. He had learned to turn his back to the north so that the cold wind wouldn't really blow on his dick, but still he had to take off a glove to be able to masturbate, and sometimes the ungloved hand became so cold that he had to put the glove back on and switch to the other hand. For many nights he came on her grave.

From here, we enter the kaleidoscopic account of the protagonist's life, a life that has grown like a tumorous outgrowth on absence, on solitude, on death. Resisting Sabbath's exaggerations and grotesque inventions, we gradually understand how beneath the old satyr lies (even to himself) a man who has known pain and suffering too early to be able to take life seriously, a life littered with uncorrectable mistakes and failures:

In what stupidity must we sink to reach our goal, what boundless mistakes must we know how to make! If someone told you before, how many mistakes you will have to make, you would say no, sorry, it's impossible, find someone else; I'm too smart to make all those mistakes. And they would tell you, we have faith, don't worry, and you would say no, nothing doing, you need someone much more of a schmuck, much more of a cretin, but they would repeat that they have faith in you, that you will turn into a colossal cretin by making an effort that you can't even imagine, that you will make mistakes of a magnitude that you don't even dream of... because it's the only way to reach the goal.

A goal that is never reached, not even the longed-for death is within reach for the filthy Sabbath: both the clumsy suicide attempt and the attempt to get himself killed fail, and he is left there, condemned to live still, when there is nothing more to say, when there is nothing left to do. Sabbath remains at the mercy of an existence that is configured as a continuous tragicomic representation of himself, exemplified in the extraordinary final pages when he dances crazy and naked on the beach, wrapped in the American flag, a memory of his older brother who died in the war, with a "kippah" on his head. Happiness, it seems, is not of this world:

Sabbath proposes to classify happiness among mental disorders and to include it in future editions of the main diagnostic manuals under this name: primary affective disorder, of the pleasant type. An examination of the main texts reveals that happiness is statistically abnormal, consists of a considerable conglomerate of symptoms, is associated with a wide range of cognitive abnormalities, and probably reflects an abnormal functioning of the central nervous system.

"The Dying Animal" is in my opinion an exceptional novel, one of those rare works where the writing delves into life and manages to illuminate even its most fetid moments, its most bovine and harrowing recesses, painful and bitter, because the wonder of an excessive realism manages to blend with a Carsic grace that soon manifests itself, makes its mark in filigree, wound, true sincerity.

https://lacrepaintesta.wordpress.com/

I can respect other people's positive reviews of SABBATH's THEATER. I'm usually a big Roth fan as well. I really benefited a lot from AMERICAN PASTORAL, THE HUMAN STAIN, and THE PLOT AGAINST AMERICA. However, SABBATH just didn't work for me. I think part of my problem with it is that Roth hasn't really cared about form or plot for a long time. His novels now unfold as dramatic monologues, episodic and without any real momentum. As a result, there is a distance between the reader and the action, which can make the reading a bit of a chore. It's hard enough to get through something relatively short like THE DYING ANIMAL, but when it's a big, self-consciously epic effort like SABBATH, it can be work. With a capital W even.

I also think it's a generational difference. For Roth and other Silent Generation writers, the idea of sex as liberation was truly revolutionary. They were breaking free from those cliched shackles of repression. But nowadays we live in an entirely unrepressed age (even here in Alabama, believe it or not), and the old SG's preoccupation with getting the guilt out of lust feels a bit like fighting a war that was won a while ago, like when I was a kid, maybe, around the time of PORTNOY'S COMPLAINT. For me, Roth's treatment of sex works best when his ideas about it are condensed into a symbol rather than allowed to ramble on discursively. The diaphragm in GOODBYE COLUMBUS or the sudden appearance of DEEP THROAT at the end of PASTORAL say something because they capture their era in miniature. But when sex is Roth's entire subject, his basic thesis is that desire is the one thing we have to use to fight against death, and that point gets a little tired, especially when it is so literally demonstrated that the hero Micky decides to masturbate over the grave of his dead lover. No, seriously, he does....

A very rich and complex story that never bores, crafted by a grand master. This story is a masterpiece that takes the reader on a captivating journey through a web of intricate plotlines and vivid characters. The grand master's skill in storytelling is on full display, as every detail is carefully woven together to create a seamless and engaging narrative.

See Marc's review for more. Marc's review provides additional insights and perspectives on this remarkable story, offering a deeper understanding of its themes and significance. Whether you're a fan of the grand master's work or simply looking for a great read, this story is sure to satisfy.

Στον αντίποδα του Σίμουρ Λεβόβ ο Μίκι Σαμπαθ ίσως είναι ο καλύτερος και απολαυστικότερος αντι-ήρωας ever! He is a character full of contradictions and surprises. While others may strive for heroism and perfection, Mikki Sampath embraces his flaws and idiosyncrasies with a kind of perverse charm.

Τιτανοτεράστιος Phillip Roth στον απόγειο της ωριμότητας του μας χαρίζει ένα κυνικό, μισάνθρωπο, «διεστραμμένο» γεμάτο black humor ανάγνωσμα! Roth's writing is masterful, painting a vivid and often disturbing picture of human nature. The story is filled with dark humor that will make you laugh out loud even as it makes you cringe.

Συστήνεται αποκλειστικά σε ανεκτικούς και ανοιχτόμυαλους αναγνώστες :) This book is not for the faint of heart or the easily offended. It challenges our preconceptions and forces us to look at ourselves and the world around us in a new light. But for those who are willing to take the plunge, it is a rewarding and unforgettable read.