Everyman

I picked up Philip Roth's 2006 novel "Everyman" at the Newport Beach Friends of the Library bookstore a while back for a mere single dollar. After reading this book, I wish I still had my dollar.

A little background: When I was an undergraduate, the name Philip Roth was tossed around a lot as one of the great contemporary American writers. I picked up and read his book "American Pastoral" and was completely underwhelmed. I didn't get it. I didn't see what the big deal was. I flipped through it again, thought about it, and still couldn't figure out why people were so enamored with that book. At that point, I just let it go and postulated that I would try it again later.

So I went into "Everyman" with a lot of trepidation tempered with a lot of hope. Trepidation because my mind still ached with the disappointment of my first attempt. Hope that maybe this book would hook me more than the first and that it would finally all come together for me. Unfortunately, it was about halfway through the book that the hope died.

Briefly, "Everyman" begins with the funeral of the unnamed protagonist, attended by a scant few people who came to pay respects to a man to whom they connected but not necessarily attached (such as his two sons from his first marriage). The book then backtracks and jumps around to various episodes throughout his life which provide insight into his broken relationships with the people at the funeral.

I guess my biggest problem was that I felt no sense of attachment, or pity, or sympathy, or anything for the protagonist. He was a philanderer, a misanthrope, a malcontent, and, ultimately, a cranky, whiny, sick old man. I understand the idea that as the "everyman" he is an imperfect being, acting on his impulses, but I still could not dig out any flake of interest in his life. It's not that I was taking some sort of moral stance against this character (consider my half-decade interest in the semi-perverse Leopold Bloom of "Ulysses"), but I never felt like accepted any control over his life. Many of his internal monologues blame others or ask others to consider his perspective, but he never tries to consider anyone else's feelings.

From a literary analysis perspective, the book was weak. The "begin at the end" structure of the novel is unimpressive. The various chunked episodes are too choppy and disconnected (although, consider life - isn't that how it is?). The protagonist is static and flat, and the minor characters are somehow flatter than flat. Nothing clicked together or jumped out as being of any literary importance. Instead, it seemed more like a formulaic novel written by an aspiring creative writing student than a potential masterpiece by an iconic writer.

I guess I just felt that the book was merely a book, and not some sort of intellectual or moral challenge - and not that I require that of all my books, but I do of books that come wrapped in such mystique and renown. But, if the book merely exists as a forum for fiction, I'd rather spend my time reading some genre works.

Sorry, Philip Roth. Maybe I'll try "Portnoy's Complaint" or "The Human Stain" in a few years. But I'm not sure I'm ready to go out with you again yet. Perhaps we should see other people.