Wordy, self-aware, recursive Swan Song

that references the scientific hopes and dreams of the 20th century

and the bloodbath that preceded it as well as itself.

It is a truly remarkable work.

The stellar last chapter

adds another layer of depth and significance.

Notably, for me at least,

it's the only positive Holocaust novel I've ever read.

Sammler's post-traumatic growth

offers a refreshing perspective on such an otherwise universally bleak theme.

It shows that even in the face of such extreme horror and tragedy,

there is still the possibility of hope and growth.

This novel forces us to confront the darkness of the past

while also giving us a glimmer of light for the future.

It is a powerful and thought-provoking work

that will stay with you long after you've finished reading.

Nearly a half-century ago, I added several Bellow paperbacks to my bookshelves, perhaps because he was in the spotlight after winning prestigious awards like the National Book Award, Pulitzer, and Nobel prizes. I never studied him in college or grad school and don't recall reading any of his books. However, when I picked up my old Penguin copy of Mr. Sammler's Planet for a local bookclub discussion, I found underlinings indicating I had read it in the late '70s. This time, I'm certain I won't forget it, although I'm still grappling with my thoughts on it. The more I read of Bellow, the more confused I become.

This novel is firmly rooted in a specific place and time - New York in the late '60s. The protagonist, Artur Sammler, an aging Holocaust survivor, is surrounded by a cast of eccentric and entertaining New Yorkers, much like those in a Woody Allen movie. He despairs at the breakdown of society's order, authority, and the decline of intellectual nobility. He witnesses the sexual madness sweeping the Western world and laments the loss of Jewish mental discipline. Like a prophet, he sees the fall of civilization replayed around him in the chaos of New York's streets.

Bellow's novel alternates between Sammler's gloomy philosophical musings and the frenzied antics of his relatives. We gradually learn of the anti-Semitic violence that scarred Sammler and his inner turmoil as a survivor and perpetrator. Despite his friends and family treating him as a judge and priest, he struggles to avoid self-judgment. His judgments of others, often laced with casual racism and sexism, are hard for a modern reader to accept. As I read, I'm haunted by the spectre of the authorial fallacy, as Bellow's own life seems to mirror both the wildness and the judgmentalism in the book. But, as Sammler rejects the idea that reality is crushing, so did Bellow, as his 1976 Nobel address makes clear.

''for us [Europeans], a city is, above all, a past; for them [Americans], it is mainly a future; what they like in the city is everything it has not yet become and everything it can be.'' - J-P Sartre

"the conclusion of \\"Mr. Sammler's Planet\\" . . . is so powerful that it forces us to immediately reread the entire novel, because we have been altered in the process of reading it and are now, at its conclusion, ready to begin reading it." J C Oates

Hoping for a timely novel with a decaying New York City as its backdrop, filled with the so-called "sex-excrement-militancy" in the lecture halls and a technological earth-escape plan, I was pleasantly surprised to receive something far better.

What I got was a lovingly realized glimpse into the profound emotions of pain, gratitude, and hope. It was as if the author had delicately crafted a window through which I could peer into the very essence of these human experiences.

The story didn't just focus on the external chaos and turmoil but delved deep into the internal struggles and triumphs of the characters. It made me feel the sting of pain, the warmth of gratitude, and the uplifting power of hope.

It was a literary gem that exceeded my expectations and left a lasting impression on my heart and mind.

Poco dopo l’alba, or that which would have been dawn in a normal sky, Mr. Artur Sammler, with his bushy eye, observed the books and papers in his bedroom on the West Side. He strongly suspected that they were the wrong books, the wrong papers. In a sense, it didn't matter much to a man over seventy and with no particular commitments. One really had to be a fanatic to insist on being right. Being right was largely a matter of explanations. The intellectual had become an explainer. Fathers to sons, wives to husbands, lecturers to listeners, experts to laypeople, colleagues to colleagues, doctors to patients, man to his own soul, all explained. The roots of this, the causes of that, the origin of certain events, the history, the structure, the reasons why. In most cases, it went in one ear and out the other. The soul wanted what it wanted. It had its own natural knowledge. Sadly, it sat, poor creature, on top of superstructures of explanations, and didn't know which way to turn.
Artur Sammler, once an intellectual in Poland, his mother gave him "The World as Will and Representation" for his sixteenth birthday and named him Artur in honor of Schopenhauer. Then, in war, he had to shoot and entered the world of action. Now, at 70, living in New York, he feels he no longer has the strength to sustain the contemporary world. He has strange, brilliant, inconvenient ideas. Vaguely backward. He wonders if man is not better off leaving the planet Earth before self-destruction.
He has a daughter who, in his eyes, is crazy. He sees all young people as the same, slaves to fashion. He preaches in a disorderly way. In fact, according to Sammler, everything that is fashion is marred by a lack of reasoning. Even going against fashion with the claim of an interesting life. He asserts that "an interesting life is the supreme concept of the deficient."
Artur Sammler is not one who only judges; he is one who rather suffers and gradually becomes a great character. On the covers of the first editions (more beautiful than the last horrible Mondadori cover, which is not the one you see on GR), it was written 'A King Lear in New York'. Of the six chapters, the first two are remarkable, the two middle ones are not perfectly flowing, and the last two chapters are a masterpiece.
"No, no, Please continue this explanation."
"Explanation? I'm rather opposed to long explanations. There are too many. It makes the mental life of humanity ungovernable."

This is a masterpiece.

It is a book that can be read many times.

Among so many, many things that I would have to say, one of the most remarkable is to see a man who escaped the Holocaust (who escaped the Holocaust!) consider himself morally inferior to another who lived a more or less normal life in a first-world country.

And convince us of this!

That judging a human life in terms of its soteriological merits is a much more complex task than it may seem in certain cases.

It doesn't matter how much one suffers, but how one suffers.

It doesn't matter how courageous one is, but how humble one is.

And be honest with oneself.

Alongside Herzog, the book by Bellow that I loved the most. The story kind of revolves aimlessly, but the writing is masterful and the character of the old Mr. Sammler remains in the heart. It's a pity they don't reprint it.

This book holds a special place in my literary affections. The plot may not have a tightly wound structure, but the way Bellow crafts his sentences and develops the characters is truly remarkable. Mr. Sammler, in particular, is a complex and unforgettable figure. His experiences, his thoughts, and his interactions with the world around him make for a captivating read.

Despite its flaws, or perhaps because of them, this book has left a lasting impression on me. I often find myself thinking about Mr. Sammler and his story, long after I've finished reading. It's a testament to Bellow's skill as a writer that he can create such a vivid and engaging world within the pages of a book. I truly hope that one day, this book will be reprinted and given the chance to reach a new generation of readers.

In those days, I learned a profound truth. There is nothing more terrifying than a hero who has lived to tell his story, to convey what all those who fell beside him will never have the chance to share. This powerful statement by Carlos Ruiz Zafon in "The Shadow of the Wind" makes us reflect on the nature of heroism and its implications.

When we think of Mr. Sammler, a complex figure emerges. Is he a hero, a villain, a victim, or perhaps a combination of all? Does he see the world with clarity, or is he drowning in its chaos? Is he a realist or a pessimist? Does he belong to the past, the present, or the future? And does it truly matter?

As we come to realize that the world we know today is just a fraction of a larger reality that sweeps away all that is good, leaving us only with memories of what was and, even worse, of what might have been, we are faced with a choice. Do we look back with a clear consciousness, or do we persist in our determination to settle scores, drive away demons, and pretend to be more or less than we are?

Mr. Sammler doesn't seem to live in the world of today, but does he truly belong to any world? Does he belong to himself? We have the power to remember and forget, to hope and let go, but belonging is not something within our control. With our ability to remember, hope, learn, and be afraid, we belong to all ages and times, and yet to none.

We are all nomads, roaming through the realms of time, restless and constantly searching for more. But is there always more? Does the human spirit have its limits? And when those limits are reached, is it a sign of contentment, resignation, or perhaps a loss of faith? Mr. Sammler, like many of us, keeps the wheel turning, but has he given up on the journey?

His mundane, day-to-day life may seem to strip him of grandeur, but perhaps it keeps it in its place, unmovable and inexorable, much like the cold within his tortured soul. Some may see him as devoid of passion, color, and life, but there is a glimmer of hope that persists within him. Because where there is fear, there is also hope. If we are afraid, it means we have something to lose, and if we have something to lose, then we have something to hold on to.

But is he as gentle with himself? He clearly remembers the man he was when he relished taking a human life, but what are his feelings towards this man? It is no longer anger, bloodlust, or even desperation that drives him. Maybe not even hope. Despite still having some of it, generally, he is truly beaten down. He has lost his will to live. Many would label him as the ultimate pessimist, but I would argue that, in a way, he is the ultimate optimist.

Just as true saints and heroes are not only those who perform miraculous and extraordinary deeds but those who adhere to their duties steadfastly, the true optimist is not only the one who believes and hopes against all odds but the one who has lost his happiness, passion, spark, and will to live, yet still goes on living. Because he has to, because it is his life. He is the one who thinks about and cares for things and people despite having lost his faith in them, because they are his, because they are a part of him, just as he is a part of them.

A man who doesn't want to be part of the world, who doesn't believe in it and its future, yet refuses to abandon it and continues to care for it. In "Grey's Anatomy," Meredith Grey's therapist told her something along the lines of: "The goal of your sessions isn't happiness. Life is scary, terrible things happen. It is hard to be happy. What you need to make sure of is that you won't die because of them." Meredith herself said: "If at the end of the day you are still able to stand on your feet, this is a reason enough to celebrate."
This may seem like a gloomy outlook, but I see a great deal of sense and courage in it. I think everyone should hope for more than mere survival and sanity, but we also need to remember that happiness is not guaranteed. It is there for us to seek and, hopefully, find. If we believe that it should be there in order for us to continue, we may never find it. I will conclude this review with something I read in an interview recently: Life is not about avoiding suffering. It's about creating meaning.

“In those days I learned that nothing is more frightening than a hero who has lived to tell his story, to tell what all those who fell at his side will never be able to tell.”

Carlos Ruiz Zafon, The Shadow of the Wind


When I think of Mr. Sammler, a complex web of questions unfolds.

Is he a hero, a villain, a victim, or a combination of all?

Does he perceive the world clearly or is he lost in its turmoil?

Is he a realist or a pessimist?

Does he belong to the past, the present, or the future?

And does it truly matter?

As we come to terms with the fact that the world we know today is but a small part of a larger reality that erases all that is good, leaving us only with memories of what was and what could have been,

we are faced with a crucial decision.

Do we look back with a clear mind or do we stubbornly hold onto our grudges,

trying to drive away the demons and pretend to be something we're not?

Mr. Sammler seems to exist outside of the present world,

but does he truly belong anywhere?

Does he belong to himself?

We have the power to remember and forget,

to hope and let go,

but belonging is something that eludes our control.

With our ability to remember, hope, learn, and fear,

we belong to all ages and times, and yet to none.

We are all nomads,

wandering through the realms of time,

restless and constantly seeking more.

But is there always more to find?

Does the human spirit have its limits?

And when those limits are reached,

is it a sign of acceptance or defeat?

Mr. Sammler, like many of us, keeps going,

but has he given up on the journey?

His ordinary, daily life may seem to strip him of his grandeur,

but perhaps it keeps it intact,

unyielding and unwavering,

much like the cold within his tortured soul.

Some may view him as lacking passion, color, and life,

but there is a glimmer of hope that remains with him.

Because where there is fear, there is also hope.

If we are afraid, it means we have something to lose,

and if we have something to lose, then we have something to hold onto.

But is he as kind to himself?

He vividly remembers the man he was when he took pleasure in taking a human life,

but what are his emotions towards this man?

It is no longer anger, bloodlust, or even despair that drives him.

Maybe not even hope.

Despite still having a glimmer of it,

generally, he is truly defeated.

He has lost his will to live.

Many would consider him the ultimate pessimist,

but I would argue that, in a sense, he is the ultimate optimist.

Just as true saints and heroes are not only those who perform remarkable and extraordinary feats,

but those who坚守 their duties with unwavering determination,

the true optimist is not only the one who believes and hopes against all odds,

but the one who has lost his happiness, passion, sparkle, and will to live,

yet still continues to live.

Because he has to, because it is his life.

He is the one who thinks about and cares for things and people

despite having lost his faith in them,

because they are his,

because they are a part of him,

just as he is a part of them.

A man who doesn't want to be part of the world,

who doesn't believe in it and its future,

yet refuses to abandon it and continues to care for it.

In "Grey's Anatomy," Meredith Grey's therapist told her...

Well, I can't provide the exact quote,

but the essence was something like this:

"The goal of your sessions isn't happiness.

Life is scary, terrible things happen.

It's hard to be happy.

What you need to make sure of is that you won't die because of them."

Meredith herself said:

"If at the end of the day you're still able to stand on your feet,

that's a reason enough to celebrate."

This may seem like a rather bleak perspective,

but I see a lot of wisdom and courage in it.

I think everyone should hope for more than just survival and sanity,

but we also need to remember that happiness isn't given to us.

It's there for us to look for and, hopefully, find.

If we think that it should be there for us to go on,

we may never find it.

I'll end this review with something I read in an interview a while ago:

Life is not about avoiding suffering.

It's about creating meaning.

At times, it felt as if I had been transported back to my undergraduate days, poring over the works of Hannah Arendt. Page after page of profound philosophical reflection seemed to stretch on endlessly. Yawn. It simply wasn't my cup of tea.

There were other occasions when I felt I had regressed even further, back to high school, delving into "The Great Gatsby". As I recall, the wealthier the character, the more erratically they behaved.

And even when I was able to glean some appreciation for what Bellow was attempting to convey through the character Sammler, it was only in spite of the rather stilted formality of the book.

In summary, reading these works was more of a chore than a source of delight. It was a task that required considerable effort and patience, rather than something that brought immediate joy and satisfaction.

Perhaps with a different perspective or a more in-depth understanding, I might come to view these books in a more favorable light. But for now, they remain a challenge to get through.

Início do livro:

Shortly after dawn, or what would be dawn in a normal sky, Mr. Artur Sammler surveyed with his bushy-eyed gaze the books and papers in his room on the West Side, and had a strong suspicion that they were the wrong books, the wrong papers. In a way, it didn't matter for a man in his seventies with all the time at his disposal. One had to be a fanatic to always want to be right. Being right was mainly a matter of explanations. The intellectual had become an explanatory creature. Everyone was explaining: parents to children, husbands to wives, lecturers to their audiences, experts to laypeople, colleagues to colleagues, doctors to patients, man to his soul. The genesis of this, the cause of that, the origins of events, the history, the structure, the reasons why. In most cases, the explanation went in one ear and out the other. The soul desired what it desired. It had its own natural knowledge. The unhappy soul, poor little bird, perched on superstructures of explanation, not knowing where to take flight.

The eye closed for moments. It was a Dutch obsession, Sammler thought, always pumping the water to keep a few hectares of land tidy. The invading sea was a metaphor for the multiplication of facts and sensations; as for the land, it was a land of ideas.

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He was saying that this liberation of individuality had not been a great success. For a historian, it has all the interest. But for someone conscious of suffering, it is terrifying. Hearts that do not find true gratification, souls without nourishment. Falsehoods, limitless. Desires, limitless. Possibilities, limitless. Impossible demands made on complex, limitless realities. Regression to crude and infantile forms of religiosity, to mysteries, completely unconscious, of course — astonishing. Orphism, Mithraism, Manichaeism, Gnosticism.

Maybe the sharpest and saddest Bellow yet?

The Bellow aesthetic—street patois and intellectual tumult, the external–internal riot, speeding along cacophonous intersecting paths to a bittersweet end—has never been more crystalline and wounding and powerful.

His works, such as Augie, Herzog, Sammler, Humboldt, Henderson, are like a testament to his ability to live on vital terms with recalcitrant reality.

No matter how much it hurts, he faces the damned world head-on.

These works are like armor for battle, protecting him and at the same time allowing us to see the harshness and beauty of life through his eyes.

Bellow's writing is a powerful force that continues to impact and inspire readers today.

As American conservatism has undergone a process of degradation - initially at a slow pace and then with great rapidity - this serves as a highly useful and entertaining reminder of the origins of the neoconservative critique (dating back to around 1969) regarding the consequences of narcissistic individualism.

Freedom, it turns out, is simply another term for a state of nothingness. And the children of the late 20th century are nothing more than dopes who can scarcely function due to their excessive self-regard.

This work is part cultural critique and part family drama. Additionally, it offers the best concise explanation I have come across for what the "banality of evil" means - or what it signified to the murderers, both then and now.

It delves deep into the complex web of ideas and behaviors that have shaped American society during a particular period, shedding light on the often overlooked aspects of individualism and its far-reaching implications.

The combination of cultural analysis and family narrative makes it a captivating read that not only informs but also engages the reader on multiple levels.

Overall, it is a thought-provoking and valuable contribution to the ongoing discussion about the state of American conservatism and the broader cultural context in which it operates.

Please read my complete review here.

To expect artists to be free of the prejudices of their time, as well as a few special hatreds they brew out of their own particular derangement, is not only immature, but it is also unethical. This is because it implies the moralizing critics' own self-proclaimed superiority to history and human frailty. In Inside Story, Martin Amis reports on Bellow's jokey distinction between ethics, which is about money, and morals, which concern sex. I propose a more serious division. Ethics: striving to understand our own place in how the whole thing—life, history, the cosmos—fits together at any given moment. Morals: being entirely ignorant of where we stand, and ignorant of this very ignorance, while we wag our accusing finger at everybody else. The latter, while contemptible, is not wholly avoidable, as I shake my own digit at the moralist.

I introduce Saul Bellow's notorious 1970 novel, Mr. Sammler's Planet, with these disagreeable reflections because it is widely known, especially among those who never got past the first chapter, that it is the book where it all went wrong. It is seen as a racist and sexist tirade against "the '60s" that signaled the author's neoconservative turn. I myself read the first chapter or so in my righteous youth and threw it aside with this conviction. However, if you can summon the patience, as I did this week, to read the entire 260 pages and collate it with what you know about the history of modern thought and art, you will discover a much more complicated picture. It is not a more redemptive one—I'm not here to convict or exonerate the author—but a provocatively ambivalent study of the 20th century.

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