I didn’t do this book justice. I listened to it on my walks, and I let my mind wander too often. Herzog’s letters to the living and dead were full of philosophical meandering and worthy of a closer listen. Bellow has a terrific mind. I’d love to discuss his life views over dinner. ( )

I cannot believe I finally finished this book. I really, really hated the first third, loved the middle third, and was ok with the last. Major slog, though I suppose I get that Bellow is someone to look at again. Someday. In the distant future. When I've recovered. ( )

I read this in High School. I do vaguely remember liking it, but my memory from April 1975 is a might bit hazy. ( )

"Pseudointellectual" is a term which is almost entirely misused. We ought to think of it as analogous to Adorno's conception of "pseudoactivity": a kind of signature-gathering ostensibly toward political ends, which functions as catharsis ('blood is a cathartic agent'), but necessarily fails as a kind politics (see: posting for clout).

Bellow's "intellectualism" is disquieting in a similar way. Most reviewers note his frequent reference to such august authors as Hegel, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard (and more!) As I have already noted in an earlier, less-mature review, these are all empty signifiers. Not only is every detail required for (Bellow's) interpretation of these thinkers contained within the novel itself, but an understanding of their work often detracts or contradicts the simplifications Herzog appears to synthesize. Herzog's Hegel is someone who said 'modern man is a product of history', Herzog's Nietzsche is someone who said 'god is dead', Herzog's Kierkegaard is someone who said 'before he can live, man must come to experience hell.'. This "pseudointellectual" activity explains why the so-called 'philosophical letters' throughout the text do not progress beyond the first object of thought before breaking off.

Who was it who noted "the reactionary is not capable of experience"? Bellow writes like someone who has been divorced (wikipedia corroborates), but as someone who has never 'experienced' it. Herzog is incapable of understanding this issue, ostensibly the central plot of the novel, as even suggesting a personal failing of our protagonist. The 'philosophical letters', obviously the extruded displacement of an emotional crisis, never rise to the level of introspection. In what is presented as a triumphant "moving on" in the final act of the novel, Herzog sends his daughter an ugly piano, which is sure to provoke an argument with his ex-wife (like a child/bully who must constantly engage the object he claims to hate). This kind of puerile backbiting appears to have resulted in four divorces (wikipedia), and a perhaps five, were the last not forestalled by infirmity and oblivion.

Herzog's conception of fatherhood as a kind of aestheticized 'ownership' of children is another perplexing (if not uncommon) delusion. Not even the author can conceive of a relationship with Herzog's daughter which lasts more than three hours (or in which she isn't affectionate and deferential). Though he often cites a particular (mis)quotation of Kierkegaard (above), the more appropriate reference from The Concept of Anxiety is that the Aesthetic, in contrast with the Ethical, does not exist in time (duration). The aestheticized relationship between Herzog and his daughter would dissolve/suffocate if extended past a couple scenes.

Thank goodness we are already "driving our oxcarts over the bones of the dead," Bellow, Roth, and Heller too. ( )

This book hit the spot. I have never read Saul Bellow before and don't know too much about him either, but I loved this book. It was like catching up with an old friend. At times this reminded me of something by John Updike or Arthur Miller or something completely different for me. I loved the writing and easily could get lost in his words. I'll be reading more Bellow in the future. ( )