The overwhelming consensus appears to be that Bellow knows very much. In fact, he gives the impression of knowing very little.

Bellow understands very little about allusion. With respect to his use of copious references, the problem is not their esoteric quality, rather that they aren't references at all. When Bellow mentions a stoic philosopher, a brief quotation, or a turn of phrase in French, one must understand that these references are skin-deep. There is nothing being signified beyond the phrase itself. I know this is correct because an actual understanding of the referred object does not enhance the text. When Bellow wants us to know more, he bores us with an explicit (insulting) explanation. This is best exemplified in the multi-paragraph summary of the The Symposium. If Bellow expected anything at all from the reader (and if he were actually using references to communicate real ideas), a single sentence would have been enough. When Bellow mentions a brand of suit, or speaker, or kitchenware, we aren't even meant to know what this sort of thing conveys. What he is actually trying to communicate is the implication that the brand is expensive or that Ravelstein (the character) is particular in his tastes. That is, nothing of particular interest.

Bellow understands very little about human relations. Take, for instance, the character representing his ex-wife, Vela, who is a 'chaos scientist.' (not a very subtle metaphor...) Vela and Ravelstein have a falling-out because, among other things, R. violates her privacy. R. then justifies himself with the following,

“As for Vela, he judged her even more severely. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have rushed into the bedroom.’ He granted that, but added, ‘There wasn’t all that much to be seen. Anyway, I wasn’t interested. She was far from exposed. She had on her slip, and all kinds of other stuff under that. So what’s all the hue and cry?’”

Even in 2001, this would have been a bit on-the-nose and doesn't mean what Bellow intends. (Not to mention Ravelstein's description of Michael Jackson as a "glamour monkey" or his praise of black servicemen as "well-spoken.") Vela is cold, standoffish, and is always working on Chaos Science. She doesn't emerge into a real person from the collection of eccentricities, and it is here in which we see the negative of Bellow's actual relationship. It doesn’t take a particularly astute reader to recognize the cry, “What could she mean, that Chaos Scientist?” as the intellectual impotence which prevents understanding in human relations. (Side Note: Bellow spends a portion of the novel discussing his relationship with Grielescu, who likely was a Nazi during the War. Eventually, Bellow is put-off by G.'s interest in Jung and mythology, which he interprets as a proxy for anti-antisemitism. He never considers the implication of the more disturbing fact that G.'s Nazi ideology is entirely soluble in a discussion of the Classics which Bellow so enjoys.)

Bellow understands very little about the importance small detail. Bellow’s stumbling, off-the-cuff descriptions remind me of Perec’s brilliance by their lack. For Bellow only the signifier exists. The brand name is enough to communicate the Object. To him, small off-hand details are matters of complete indifference. Take, for instance, the following phrase which he uses to conclude a lengthy description of Ravelstein,

“...two long arms hanging over the sides of his chair and the strange shapes of his mismatched feet. One was three sizes bigger than the other.”

The detail about the mismatched feet is impossible not to have mentioned earlier. I wonder if Bellow has ever seen the things he describes, considering such a drastic, surreal impression this would have made on anyone witnessing this deformity (something so bizarre it borders on the absurd). Though this is quibbling over small beans, it represents how Bellow has taken one of the few possible refuges in his work (pure delight in prose) and left it barren.

Maybe I'm being too harsh. ( )

Well-written but a little too narrow. ( )

Initially I thought this was a book with a limited appeal, mainly concerned with intellectual ideas but it broadened out into a colourful picture of an individual (based on Allan Bloom) in the shadow of mortality. I admired aspects of The Closing of The American Mind so I was sympathetic to him but less admirable was his lavish lifestyle and vanity. But he was a complex man and Bellow shows him as a charismatic personality who drew acolytes aswell as enemies. Along with the heavy-hitting philosophy there's plenty of gossip and probably contentious views on figures like Radu Grielescu and his anti-Semitic past (based on Mircea Eliade). Based on this I'd read more Bellow. His mixture of the 'high and 'low' culture is appealing though initially it felt like he was throwing the 'common reader' a bone. ( )

En la vida de Saul Bellow su relación con el filósofo Allan Bloom fue decisiva. Tanto que en esta novela Bloom se convierte en Abe Ravelstein, un brillante profesor universitario que, gracias al éxito de su revolucionario libro, se convierte en un intelectual millonario. Pasión y conocimiento se unen en esta deslumbrante narración.
En el Hotel Crillon de París, Abe Ravelstein y su amigo Chick celebran, entre lujos y excentricidades, el éxito del revolucionario libro del primero. Tras años como brillante profesor universitario, con un salario que no le permitía alcanzar la vida hedonista y fastuosa que tanto deseaba, Ravelstein se ha convertido por fin en un intelectual millonario. Así se inicia la travesía por las emociones y las ideas de estos dos fascinantes personajes, que recorren en sus valientes conversaciones temas como el amor, la historia, la política y el humor.

When it was published critics called it one of Bellow's "minor" books. I disagree. It's softer and subtler than Augie March or Henderson the Rain King, but the narrative exuberance here is unsurpassed even by Bellow himself in earlier decades. Because the book is at its heart the story of friendship between two men who loved one another, Bellow's inability to write about women except in a misogynistic way is a minor flaw in this particular book, one that barely registered for me here, even though the same flaw made Herzog impossible going for me. Ok, I can do without women flaunting their pudenda in their ex-husband's faces as a mean way of saying goodbye, a scene that happens in Ravelstein, and in at least one other Bellow book. Augie March, I think. But even so. While reading Ravelstein I could forgive these trespasses, because I was swept along by the life force of these two main characters, Chick and Ravelstein. I was captivated by the depth of their friendship, and I was moved by this clear-headed, thoughtful, beautiful exploration of their own mortality as it played out in these pages. Only Henderson the Rain King came close for me to Ravelstein's moving and deep a portrayal of friendship and mortality. ( )