Herzog, Saul Bellow

Herzog is a 1964 novel by Saul Bellow. It won the U.S. National Book Award for Fiction and the Prix International. In 2005, Time magazine named it one of the 100 best novels in the English language since Time's founding in 1923.

Herzog is set in 1964 in the United States, and is about the midlife crisis of a Jewish man named Moses E. Herzog. At the age of forty-seven, he is just emerging from his second divorce, this one particularly acrimonious. He has two children, one by each wife, who are growing up without him. His career as a writer and an academic has foundered. He is in a relationship with a vibrant woman, Ramona, but finds himself running away from commitment.

Herzog's second marriage, to the demanding, manipulative Madeleine, has recently ended in a humiliating fashion. While still actively married, Madeleine convinced Moses to move her and their daughter Junie to Chicago, and to arrange for their best friends, Valentine and Phoebe Gersbach, to move as well, securing a solid job for Valentine. However, the plans were all a ruse, as Madeleine and Valentine were carrying on an affair behind Moses's back, and shortly after arriving in Chicago, Madeleine throws Herzog out, secures a restraining order against him, and attempts to have him committed to an asylum.

Herzog spends much of his time mentally writing letters he never sends. These letters are aimed at friends, family members, and famous figures. The recipients may be dead, and Herzog has often never met them. The one common thread is that Herzog is always expressing disappointment, either his own in the failings of others or their words, or apologizing for the way he has disappointed others. ...

عنوانهای چاپ شده در ایران: «هرتزوک»؛ «هرتسوگ»؛ «سپندی بر آتش»؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز پنجم ماه ژوئن سال2001میلادی

عنوان: هرتزوک؛ نویسنده: سال بلو؛ مترجم: فرشته داوران؛ تهران، پیکان، سال1379؛ در520ص؛ شابک9643281019؛ موضوع داستانهای نویسندگان ایالات متحده آمریکا - سده 20م

عنوان: هرتزوک؛ نویسنده: سال بلو؛ مترجم: فریدون رضوانیه؛ تهران، انتشارات پویان، سال1395، در408ص؛ شابک9786009538423؛

عنوان: هرتسوگ؛ نویسنده: سال بلو؛ مترجم: مهداد ایرانی طلب؛ تهران، مهد مینا، سال1379، در559ص؛ شابک9646915086؛

عنوان: سپندی بر آتش؛ سال بلو؛ سیما زمانی؛ تهران، سیمای دانش؛ سال1383؛ در514ص؛ شابک9640662003؛ چاپ دیگر تهران: پارپیرار، سال‏‫1398؛ در 524ص؛ شابک9786008615361؛

هرتزوگ، مردی میانسال به نام «موسی هرتزوگ»، که یک استاد دانشگاه، روشنفکر، و دارای اندیشه های والاست، و همسر بسیار زیبا، و جوانش «مادلین»، به تازگی از او جدا شده، و معشوقه ی دوست صمیمی او «والنتاین»، شده است؛ این موضوع، شوک عاطفی بزرگی، به «هرتزوگ» وارد نموده، و تا حدودی او را، از حالت تعادل خارج کرده است؛ در این شرایط جدید، «هرتزوگ» شروع به نامه نوشتن میکند، و بحثها، و استدلالهای خود را، در نامه ها بیان میکند؛ این نامه ها، خطاب به «مادلین»، «دوستانش»، «همکارانش»، «فامیلش»، «افراد فوت شده»، «دانشمندان مشهور»، «رئیس جمهور» و ....؛ هستند؛ هر چند نامه ها، هیچکدام پست نمیشوند؛ نامه ها از سوی مردی شکست خورده، فریب داده شده، و در اوج ناامیدی، نوشته شده اند، و «هرتزوگ»، دائما در حین نوشتن نامه ها، با رسیدن به یک جمله، یا کلمه ی ویژه ای، تمرکز در نوشتن را، از دست میدهد، و به دنبال یادمانهای خویش میرود، و در بین یادمانها، متوجه میشود، باید به شخص دیگری نامه بنویسد؛ «هرتزوگ»، که «استاد فلسفه»، و «زبان» است، برای حل مشکلش، نمیتواند از دانش خود نیز سود برد؛ و...؛

نقل از متن برگردان جناب فریدون رضوانیه: (زندگیش، آنطور که در اصطلاح میگویند، تباه شده بود؛ ولی چون زندگیش از اول هم چیزی نبود، پس چندان هم جای تأسف نداشت.)؛

نقل دیگر: (آدمهای با فرهنگ، بهترین چیزهایی را، که در کتابها پیدا میشود را، انتخاب میکنند، و خودشان را، در آن میپوشانند، همانطور که بعضی از خرچنگها، خودشان را با علفهای دریایی، خوشگل میکنند.)؛ پایان نقل

تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 29/11/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 24/08/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی

Ο Μόουζες Χέρτσογκ δεν είναι κάποιος θετικός ήρωας. Δεν είναι ιδιαίτερα συμπαθής, δεν προσφέρει περιθώρια ταύτισης. Θεωρούμενο ως αυτοβιογραφικό, το αριστουργηματικό μυθιστόρημα του S. Bellow δεν απευθύνεται στο σύγχρονο "εγγράμματο" κοινό που απαιτεί από τον "συγγραφέα" να θωπεύει τις ανασφάλειές του, να επιβραβεύει την ημιμάθειά του και να δίνει απαντήσεις στα κενά νοήματος ερωτήματά του.
Δεν "κομίζουμε Γλαύκα" υπενθυμίζοντας πως η πλειονότητα των σύγχρονων αναγνωστών προσεγγίζει την τέχνη -και δη τη λογοτεχνία- ως απάντηση στα προσωπικά του προβλήματα. "Καλό βιβλίο" είναι εκείνο που του "προσφέρει" κάτι στο τέλος, ένα δίδαγμα, μια πορεία, μια απόδραση -έστω ακραία-, εν τέλει.
Αυτά όλα ΔΕΝ κάνει το "Χέρτσογκ". Τι κάνει; Ακριβώς το αντίθετο. Δεν επιτρέπει την ταύτιση, δεν ψυχαγωγεί, δεν προσφέρει απαντήσεις, δεν είναι λυσιτελές και τελεσφόρο έργο. Παραμένει ψυχρά ανταγωνιστικό, φιλοσοφεί ανελέητα αδιαφορώντας για το χαμηλό επίπεδο του σύγχρονου αναγνώστη, στηλιτεύει τις θλιβερές απαντήσεις του, χλευάζει τις φαιδρές βεβαιότητές του και δεν δημιουργεί νέες στη θέση του.
Κάνει όμως το σημαντικότερο όλων: Θέτει ερωτήματα! Βασανιστικά, καταιγιστικά. Για την ύπαρξη, για τον κόσμο, για τον χρόνο, για το αναπόφευκτο. Και μετά, απλά τελειώνει. Γιατί την απάντηση, φίλε αναγνώστη, είσαι αρκετά νοήμων ώστε να μην περιμένεις να τη βρεις σε κάποιο βιβλίο!

Профессор Мозес Герцог изображен в переломный период своей жизни, в его душе творится разлад, кризис, вызванный поиском смысла жизни. Будучи интеллектуалом, он перебирает весь философский опыт, накопленный человечеством - от Спинозы до Ницше, в поиске ответов на свои вопросы. Он заявляет, что "Бог умер" уже неактуально: "Бог есть смерть".
Его экзистенциальные поиски ведут в никуда. Другие его сверстники жили на износ, умирали, он выжил, но ради чего ? Чтобы суетиться дальше? Чтобы и дальше налаживать личные отношения, покуда не иссякнут силы? Он думает, что от его поколения даже смерть должна устать, поскольку в смерти ничего великого нет, и просить Бога избавить ее от ее убожества. Он занимается самокопанием почти всю совсем немаленькую книгу. Его женщинам не повезло. Он признал, что был плохим мужем, причем дважды. Он отравлял жизнь Дэйзи, а Маделин чуть не доконала его самого. Соно, японка, боготворила его, но он презрел ее любовь, и выбрал Маделин. Рамона была искусницей в любви, но он мучил ее своими душевными метаниями. Он был любящим, но плохим отцом, выходным папой, впрочем платил алименты исправно. Родителям он был неблагодарным сыном, Отчизне безучастным гражданином. Братьев и сестру любил издалека, с друзьями индивидуалист, в любви ленив, в радости скучен, с собственной душой уклончив. Произнеся сей приговор самому себе, он оставался бездеятельным. Не это ли портрет современного человека, хотя с момента написания прошло больше полувека? Он не был посредственностью, но и не был светилом, он хотел сиять, но не выносил интеллектуального соперничества даже с собственной женой Маделин, а вездесущесть и пронырливость ее сожителя Валентайна Герсбаха вызывало у него чуть ли не ярость и клокотание в горле от собственного бессилия.
У романа нет концовки, мы можем предполагать, что герой продолжит жить в бесплодном и постылом самокопании, не сделав ни шага для того, чтобы преодолеть кризис. В этом весь экзистенциализм! Письма несуществующим адресатам сейчас могут казаться формой безумия, а в 1960-е и даже раньше такие письма были популярны, и назывались письмами в прошлое (одна из форм Mail Art). Нет, это не было безумием, эти письма были попытками изложить на бумаге свои экзистенциальные вопросы.

During the time I was reading "Herzog," NPR coincidentally ran one of its "You Must Read This" pieces, this one by Jeffrey Eugenides and touting Saul Bellow's novel. In the piece, Eugenides says:

There's a little thing I do when I can't write: When I'm feeling sleepy, when my head is in a fog, I reach across my desk, digging under the piles of unanswered mail, to unearth my copy of "Herzog" by Saul Bellow. And then I open the book — anywhere — and read a paragraph.

It always works. Right away I'm restored to full alertness and clarity. Style, in literature, has gone out of style. People think it's just ornament. But it's not: The work that goes into a writer's style, the choices that are taken, the cliches that are chucked, represent a refining of thought and feeling into their purest, most intelligent, most moral form.

The danger with great stylists such as Bellow, Eugenides says, is that the style can overshadow the substance. Bellow, he argues, successfully avoids this potential pitfall. "His sentences pack maximum sensual, emotional and intellectual information into minimum space — all the while generating an involving, deeply moving story." Eugenides goes on to say:

The impulse here is to quote. Every single page of "Herzog" teems with jokes, apercus, deep-thinker riffs — little genius moves every other sentence. The impulse is to read the entire book out loud.

I quote Eugenides at length here because I think he hits the nail right on the head. While "Herzog" is the only Bellow book I've read so far (Eugenides, in the New York Times, called it "the best of Bellow’s great novels") I feel I can already say that he's one of the great ones — one of the great 20th century prose stylists, along with such writers as Nabokov. (I single out Nabokov mostly because I just read "Pnin" for the first time a few weeks back, and find him to be another novelist, like Bellow, who truly loves and makes the most of the English language.) Just as I plan to read more Nabokov almost solely for his prose style, I'll be reading more Bellow as well.

So why four stars rather than five for "Herzog?" While Bellow's prose style is wonderful, and serves the story well and the character of Moses Herzog perfectly, the story itself felt a bit thin at times. That caused the novel, even at just 350 pages, to be a bit of a slog to get through at some points. (And I say this even though I was reading the almost 1,500-page "Count of Monte Cristo" at the same time. It'd be an overstatement to say that book seemed shorter than "Herzog," but they perhaps felt close to the same length.)

"Herzog" is nevertheless worth reading by anyone who enjoys great prose stylists — writers who know how to match their style to their story, while avoiding the use of verbal gymnastics simply to show off. Such writers are a rare find.

This is impeccable writing of the highest order and a reading experience I simply will not forget.
But it was never an enjoyable read, how could it be, as the main focal point Moses Herzog is such a depressing and bewildering figure to spend time with , dwelling on the past of failed marriages and writing letters to people that he never intends to send. As Moses is a writer and teacher Herzog does take a the philosophical approach with it's narrative, and Herzog himself is such a deeply drawn character that in the end you can't help take to your heart, similar to what John Williams done with Stoner.This does demand your full attention to get the most out of it, not the sort of book to tkae to the beach or read in a cafe, some of the time it's difficult to tell whether things are happening in the past or the present but this never spoils a single page. A masterpiece of fiction, and it's easy to see Bellow was a big influence on Authors such as Philip Roth and Richard Ford.

Dear Saul,
I'm afraid it's over. I can no longer have you on my favorite authors list. (No, no let go of F. Scott's sleeve. You're only making this harder than it needs to be.) I want to tell you how much I loved Henderson the Rain King. One of my favorites. It was so full of wit and energy. Then I had to go and read this piece of crap, Herzog. Whereas Henderson was an adventure, this was just a big long bitch session. (Hey, give Borges back his cane.) Yes, fine maybe it's me. In fact I'm sure it is. Just like songs with melodies I can easily whistle, I need books with plots where things happen. I'm just not smart enough to be satisfied with the philosophy laden interior monologues that comprise most of this book (416 pages, for chrissakes!) I mean I can't make heads or tails of this passage:

Whereas a man like me has shown the arbitrary withdrawal of proud subjectivity from the collective and historical progress of mankind. And that is true of lower-class boys and girls who adopt the aesthetic mode, the mode of rich sensibility. Seeking to sustain their own version of existen...

And it just goes on like that. Sorry I couldn't bring myself to type the rest of that paragraph. So it's me. I'm obviously not wise enough for this book. But still you gotta go. (And don't steal Nabokov's pen on the way out. Could someone send Dostoyevsky in here, please?)

I read Saul Bellow's Herzog novel in June 1966, and my recollection is that I enjoyed it. On the 25th of June, I decided to reread it, and I had such a pleasant experience on pages two and three that after reading about 10 pages, I posted on Goodreads that I was rereading Herzog.

As I've explained elsewhere, I've been pretty busy of late, so it always took me a week or so to get back to Herzog. When I did, I never could recollect what I had already read, so I always just restarted from page 1 each time. Also, I always had a great time on pages two and three, then quit around page 10.

Today, I  have decided to call it quits, but I'm not going to DNF Herzog because I did read it in June of 1966, and my recollection is that I enjoyed it.

I should note that the narration uses stream of consciousness and takes a first-person point of view. That's something I would have enjoyed in 1966, but which I rarely enjoy today.

Even though I very much enjoyed pages two and three, because they remind me of fun stuff, I can't wholeheartedly recommend those two pages to you. They probably won't remind you of the same stuff. Plus, they probably won't even remind you of stuff. Even if they do, they may remind you of unpleasant stuff, and no one needs to be reminded of the unpleasant stuff we're all trying to forget.

Most of us have one big advantage over rich people and fictional characters when it comes to dealing with our personal issues. For example, look at Moses Herzog in this book. Herzog goes through an ugly divorce, and his circumstances allow him to wallow in his misery and behave erratically for months. I’m sure any of us in similar circumstances would like to put our lives on hold as we picked at our emotional scabs while ignoring our jobs and taking trips across Europe.

However, most of us don’t get that luxury. Those are usually the times when we can least afford to screw up so even though all you really want to do is hide under the covers or drink heavily or eat ice cream or drink heavily while eating ice cream under the covers, we gotta get up and go to work. And pay the bills. And do the laundry. And get the oil changed in the car.

And that’s to our advantage. Because getting over something like a divorce means moving on, even if you’re faking it half the time. Eventually, you’re not faking it anymore, you are actually living your life, and that’s how you finally recover.

Or you just completely lose your shit and end up getting stuck in endless loops inside your own head as you ping pong from one impulsive thought and whim to another until you’re completely unable to tell the good ideas from the bad. Like Moses Herzog. If he would have had to get off his ass and go back to work rather than mooching off his family then he might not have gone cuckoo for Coco-Puffs and come unglued while writing a series of bizarre letters to family, friends, celebrities and dead historical figures.

Yes, I know that Saul Bellow was using Herzog to make a statement about how a modern man viewed his life and society in the ‘60s, and the writing is as good as his reputation. But I just couldn’t get into it, mainly because I wanted someone to give Moses a brisk slap and tell him to grow up and get over himself. I didn’t dislike the character, I actually felt bad for him. That just made me wish even more that Herzog could start pulling his life back together instead of indulging in his self-involved musings.

The reader sees the people, things and places through Herzog's eyes. Herzog, the protagonist of the novel, a middle-aged intellectual and a philosopher, lives in the world of ideas, asks a lot of questions and answers them in his numerous mental 'letters'. He is trying to come to terms with his own imperfection, his being a victim and his dissimilarity from others (more down to earth ones) while his personal life is falling apart...

I liked the author's writing, his unique style, the depiction of the numerous characters - all those people who exist or existed in Herzog's universe.

'Three hundred million human beings exist, each with some possessions, each a microcosmos, each infinitely precious, each with a peculiar treasure. There is a distant garden where curious objects grow, and there, in a lovely dusk of green, the heart of Moses E. Herzog hangs like a peach.'
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'I grew up in a time of widespread unemployment, and never believed there might be work for me. Finally, jobs appeared, but somehow my consciousness remained unemployed. And after all, he continued beside the fire, the human intellect is one of the great forces of the universe. It can’t safely remain unused. You might almost conclude that the boredom of so many human arrangements (middle-class family life, for instance) has the historical aim of freeing the intellect of newer generations, sending them into science.'
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'I go after reality with language.'
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'I aged. I wasted myself in stupid schemes, liberating my spirit.'
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'What I seem to do, thought Herzog, is to inflame myself with my drama, with ridicule, failure, denunciation, distortion, to inflame myself voluptuously, esthetically, until I reach a sexual climax.'
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'It’s fascinating that hatred should be so personal as to be almost loving. The knife and the wound aching for each other.'

Ο Μπέλοου μάς οδηγεί σε ένα ταξίδι όχι συνηθισμένο, ένα ταξίδι ζόρικο, δύστροπο και βραδυφλεγές που απαιτεί την υπομονή μας, κάθε απόθεμα νοητικής εγρήγορσης ώστε να το παρακολουθήσουμε επιτυχώς, με τις λιγότερες δυνατές απώλειες νοημάτων. Δύσκολο εγχείρημα για έναν μέσο νου, αν λάβουμε υπόψη ότι σε όλο το έργο ξετυλίγεται ατάκτως ένα εκρηκτικό φιλοσοφικό νήμα -σκέτη, καθαρή, θρασεία τρικλοποδιά- μέσα από επιστολές που συντάσσει ο Μόουζες Χέρτσογκ προς ζωντανούς και νεκρούς και που δε θα σταλούν ποτέ στους τελικούς παραλήπτες τους. Μένει, λοιπόν, στον αναγνώστη η μεγάλη πρόκληση της κατά το κατά δύναμιν αποκωδικοποίησης –ή και όχι. Αρκούντως γοητευτικό για όποιον έλκεται από καταραμένα μυαλά που αντλούν τις αλήθειες τους από το εσωτερικό τους σκότος, από φαινομενικούς weirdos που διατηρούν μια παιδική καρδιά στο γερασμένο τους σώμα, από αποστεγνωμένους και αγκυλωμένους συναισθηματικά ανθρώπους που δίνουν επίπονο αγώνα να αποτινάξουν από πάνω τους το βάρος των νεκρών κυττάρων μιας τραυματικής σχέσης που τους κρατάει πίσω.

Δεν είναι πάντα εύκολο∙ παρακολουθούμε το μυαλό του Μόουζες Ελκανά Χέρτσογκ να διαστέλλεται με έναν τρελό ρυθμό σαν μια διελκυστίνδα που έλκεται από κάθε σημείο του ορίζοντα. Είμαστε μέρος της δυναμικής ισορροπίας που τείνει να καταλήξει σε έκρηξη, είμαστε βέβαιοι για αυτό, το περιμένουμε. Πανταχού παρόν το αίσθημα της δυσκολίας του για οποιαδήποτε δέσμευση, ασφυκτιούμε μαζί του, θέλουμε να του δώσουμε μια σφαλιάρα να συνέλθει επιτέλους, αλλά την ίδια στιγμή μακάρι και να τον είχαμε πάρει στην αγκαλιά μας να τον παρηγορήσουμε όπως θα κάναμε με ένα απροστάτευτο, αβοήθητο παιδί. Φλερτάρει στενά με την τρέλα την ίδια στιγμή που σφίγγει τα δόντια να μην περνιέται για τρελός. Αδυνατεί να ψαλιδίσει, να καμουφλάρει την αυτοφυή εκκεντρικότητα του χαρακτήρα του.

Ο Μόουζες είναι καθηγητής πανεπιστημίου, έρμαιο της εσωτερικής του διανοητικής πάλης, πιασμένος στα δίχτυα της ιδιορρυθμίας του, της ιδιοτροπίας και της υπερευαισθησίας του. Τα φαινόμενα συνήθως απατούν, ωστόσο δεν είναι το πιο λογικό που μπορεί να μας συμβεί να ταυτιστούμε μαζί του ή να τον συμπαθήσουμε έτσι αυθόρμητα, έτσι με τη μία. Ο τρόπος που επιλέγει ο Μπέλοου να απλώσει την προσωπικότητα αυτή είναι εξαιρετικός. Και είναι τέτοιος γιατί δεν είναι τίποτα δεδομένο για τον αναγνώστη, τίποτα επεξεργασμένο, έτοιμο προς κατανάλωση παρά όλα τα στοιχεία και οι πληροφορίες υφέρπουν κάτω από το χαλί της αφηγηματικής του τέχνης και χορηγούνται σε δόσεις κατά την πεισματική βούληση του συγγραφέα. Υπάρχουν συνεχώς μεταβλητές, όλα είναι σε συνάρτηση και απαιτείται προσήλωση και εμπιστοσύνη από τον αναγνώστη για να παρακολουθήσει και τελικά να κατανοήσει την αλλαγή, το κλικ, τη στιγμή που όλα μπαίνουν σε μια νέα βάση, τη στιγμή που η δυνατότητα μιας κάποιας προοπτικής αρχίζει να αχνοφαίνεται στον ορίζοντα.

«Μόλις που αρχίζει να προσεγγίζει την αφετηρία της αληθινής συνείδησης. Η απαραίτητη λογική βάση είναι ότι ο άνθρωπος είναι κατά κάποιο τρόπο κάτι περισσότερο από τα "χαρακτηριστικά του", από όλα τα συναισθήματά του, τους αγώνες του, τα γούστα του, και τις κατασκευές που αρέσκεται να αποκαλεί "η Ζωή μου". Έχουμε λόγους να πιστεύουμε πως η ζωή είναι κάτι περισσότερο από ένα σύννεφο μορίων, μια απλή πραγματικότητα. Προσπέρασε το κατανοητό και θα διαπιστώσεις πως μόνο το ακατανόητο δίνει κάποιο φως.»

Κάτι πάντα κακοφορμίζει μέσα μας, υπάρχει σε όλους –χωρίς αμφιβολία– μια μαύρη τρύπα που απορροφά τη ζωή μας και δε μας επιτρέπει να ζούμε, τελικά.

Υπάρχει πολλή φιλοσοφία στο κείμενο του Μπέλοου, καθώς και μεγάλη δόση ειρωνείας, χιούμορ του είδους που με κάνει και μόνη μου να γελάω, και αποκαθήλωσης του εαυτού με τρόπο έξυπνο, ευφυή, ελκυστικό. Ένα πολύ ανθρώπινο φιλοσοφικό/λογοτεχνικό έργο που αντλεί τη δύναμή του από τις πανανθρώπινες αδυναμίες, τον φόβο του θανάτου, την προσωπική παράνοια που κουβαλάει ο καθένας, τη δυσκολία του να σχετίζεσαι ουσιαστικά με κάποιον αφαιρώντας τις κακοήθεις ελιές του ανταγωνισμού, της υπεροχής σου, την ιστορία και το παρελθόν του γένους σου και τόσα άλλα. Υπάρχουν στιγμές συναισθηματικής έντασης όπου λιώνει ο πάγος του χαρακτήρα (ανασκόπηση της εβραϊκής οικογενειακής ιστορίας) και άλλες όπου υγροποιείται, μαλακώνει η στερεά, σκληρή, αγκυλωμένη κατάσταση (ερωτότροπες στιγμές με τη Ραμόνα, αισθησιασμός, τρυφερότητα, ερωτισμός φουλ!).

Είναι επίσης μια θεώρηση της διαφορετικότητάς μας και του βαθμού ανοχής μας απέναντι σε αυτήν, είναι και μια απλούστευση και μια στροφή της τελευταίας στιγμής προς την απλή ομορφιά της ζωής, ξεβοτανίζοντας τον κήπο μας από τα όποια ζιζάνια –συνήθως στο μυαλό φυτρώνουν τα πιο επικίνδυνα– που μας κάνουν τη ζωή μαρτύριο, πολλές φορές αναίτια.

Είναι ίσως τελικά κι ένα όλο νόημα κλείσιμο του ματιού στη συμφιλίωση με τον δαίμονα εαυτού.

This was the book that started me reading everything this Nobel Prize-winning American had written till then...

It was one gorgeous summer in the sixties, in the back yard, sprawled lazily in the bright blue and red plastic hammock, oblivious to work, mosquitoes and rain clouds!

I remember reading Norman Mailer’s Armies of the Night not long afterward. Yes - it was THAT summer - 1968.

George McGovern was the Dark Horse Democratic nominee in the Presidential election. The opposing Republican candidate? Richard Nixon. ‘Nuff said...

So it was another Long Hot Summer of riots, tear gas and anger. Herzog was my only escape.

And I was riveted to the story - as it should be.

Don’t know Bellow?

Sure you do!

He’s your uncle Sid, who grabs you by the lapel and snickers, ‘Listen up, kid! This is a real doozy. Have I got a story to tell YOU, son!’

And holds you breathless till he’s reached his riotous punch line.

Except there’s no punch line in Herzog - or rather, the punch line dawns on you only after you’ve been reading it a while.

Like being taken on that awful first trip down the garden path, only to come to the first sudden ‘UH-oh’....

It’s masterfully woven into Moses Herzog’s obsession with writing letters - endlessly.

Again, enough said.

But this book took America by storm back in the Kennedy era, and I was now hearkening back to that time of hope, and catching up.

Like Uncle Sid, it grabbed the literate nation by the lapels and said, ‘Look, Son - this ain’t a book - it’s LIFE itself, endlessly unrolling in new and unpredictable ways before your very eyes! Just keep your eyes on the bouncing ball - this could be you...’

How true are these words!

For if you follow Uncle Sid’s argument to the end, you’ll fall as into a Vortex. And from that vortex there’s no escape.

It’s like the characters in Patrick White’s Eye of the Storm.

As they say in the ancient myth, once you see the full face of a Gorgon you die.

And, as you probably remember, each character in White’s wonderful novel is slowly putting that complete Face together in their frantic minds...

Once Herzog sees that Gorgon, he too dies, figuratively.

But you know WHAT else?

Unless a seed DIES it cannot be reborn.

So each of us, like a seed, must die AGAIN AND AGAIN to this crazy world.

Without hope and trust, though - you won’t die, but burn. With hope and trust, you will regain the COURAGE to Live.

Again and again.

Until all the living’s done and all that’s left is LOVE.

Yes, this is a book of Life. And freedom.

And the NECESSARY risks of living in freedom - WITHOUT brutal coercion.

AND... this is a book with HEART.

A Heart that reveals the Eternal Sacrifice that Love entails.

Ma io non ci sono più

Bellow pensa che l'anima sia un impedimento; se sei felice, nascondilo e se il tuo cuore è pieno, chiudi la bocca. Il suo protagonista, Moses E. Herzog, ama le donne con tutto l'essere; ne è attratto, affascinato, ammaliato. La sua brama del corpo femminile è tale da ingelosire gli dèi. Fare sesso è un atto da buon cittadino. Ma la sua natura gli causa dolore: ammette e nega il male nello stesso tempo, è riluttante e feroce, vuole avere tutto ma ha compassione del possesso. La sofferenza che Moses prova non accresce il suo credito morale, è una forma estesa di vita, un antidoto all'illusione. Herzog è in crisi perché Madeleine divorzia nel tradimento e in più si rivolge al suo stesso psichiatra e al suo stesso avvocato; del resto, è sempre Moses a causare l'unione tra moglie e amante. Herzog viaggia tra New York e Chicago, tra Martha's Vineyard e le Berkshires. Ha due figli ed è malinconicamente disordinato, è figlio di un contrabbandiere di liquori. La sua carriera di studioso è in un vuoto temporale, Herzog si interroga per trovare qualche risposta, è un sopravvissuto e commette innumerevoli errori. Si perde nell'irrazionalità e riscopre il valore di cose rare, dimenticate e rinnegate. Segue percorsi metafisici in un isolamento sociale che trascende la natura, insegue demoni e fantasmi in un'introspezione vertiginosa che si trasforma in forza e intelligenza. Infine le fantasie, le digressioni, i flussi di coscienza e le descrizioni si uniscono nel creare un'origine farsesca che è al tempo stesso uscita di scena, la rinascita di un'identità fallita che continua a cercare nell'instabilità una disposizione a sorprendere, una riconciliazione con le ambigue ombre del vivere quotidiano. E del nostro silenzio.

“Ma per se stesso l'uomo non ha bisogno della felicità. No, egli può sopportare qualsiasi quantità di tormenti – coi ricordi, con le proprie familiari malvagità, con la disperazione. È la storia dell'uomo non scritta, la sua vittoria non vista, negativa, la sua capacità di fare a meno d'ogni soddisfazione personale purché ci sia qualcosa di grande, qualcosa in cui il suo essere, e tutti gli esseri, possano immergersi. Egli non ha bisogno di significato fintanto che tale intensità abbia vastità di raggio. Perché allora essa è evidente in sé; essa è significato”.