I've always regarded Saul Bellow as a writer whose works are truly worthy of a re-read. In the case of the classic 'Augie March', it even calls for multiple reads. I picked up 'The Victim' again about 10 days ago and noticed that I'd given it 4 stars the first time around. Strangely, I recalled feeling, if not exactly let down by my initial expectations, a bit underwhelmed. Nevertheless, I like to think that mental maturity, a by-product not merely of time but of life itself (combined with extensive reading), blesses one with the capacity for greater intellectual appreciation.

My immediate instinct after finishing the second reading of 'The Victim' this morning was to check its place within his body of work. I wasn't surprised to discover that this was one of his earliest works, specifically his second novel. The prose is still exquisitely tight and rich, yet his tendency to meander into verbosity and lead the reader on a circuitous path to the ultimate point, which made works like 'Humboldt's Gift' and 'The Dean's December' seem denser than they actually were, was absent. This was a writer still in the process of finding his voice, and not in a rush to do so.

What struck me most throughout the novel was the powerful metaphysical current that runs through it. Descriptions of the light, weather, and the characters' physical attributes abound. The sweltering, muggy New York summer (which I've experienced firsthand and can attest is far from pleasant) persists for the majority of the book, lending it an oppressive, stifling atmosphere. It's a dark, humid, sticky night, creating an almost Dostoyevskian sense of paranoia (strongly reminding me of Raskolnikov's guilt-ridden wanderings through the streets of St. Petersburg in 'Crime and Punishment'), setting the stage for the first encounter between the two key characters of the book: Asa Leventhal and Kirby Allbee. The latter appears out of nowhere to accuse the former of ruining his life by indirectly causing the loss of his job, thus setting off a downward spiral in which he loses his wife and ultimately his own sense of self and sanity.

The remainder of the novel delves into the push and pull between the two. At its core, the conflict is almost ideological and religious, concerning the role of God (or the lack thereof) in how man perceives and ultimately copes with tragedy and difficult circumstances. Allbee singles out and resents Leventhal's Jewish belief that justice is an almost insoluble spiritual matter, one left for the gods to decide. Leventhal, guided by his belief in predestination, refuses to take any direct responsibility for his role in Allbee's fate. After all, Allbee was never owed an existence by God, so why should he spend his days compensating for his ill fortune? On the other hand, fatalism doesn't sit well with Allbee's Christian ideal that the self has the opportunity, through penance, for moral transformation and resurrection. This is neatly encapsulated in one of their final interactions in the novel, after a chance meeting:

'You haven't changed much,' said Allbee.

'I wasn't the one that was going to change so much'.

Leventhal is compelled to confront this challenge to his beliefs throughout the novel. Towards the end, it falls to a close friend of his - perhaps Bellow's mouthpiece - to assist him in dispelling the notion that perhaps mankind has been endowed with rationality by God not to passively accept our lot, but rather to learn how to evolve, change, and be aware of our inner selves:

'Wake up! What's life? Metabolism? That's what it is for the bugs. Jesus Christ, no! What's life? Consciousness, that's what it is. That's what you're short on. For God's sake, give yourself a push and a shake'.