There are two things we can say. Many feel Bellow is the best
novelist of his generation, or at the very least, the best stylist.
Herzog is not one of his best novels. It is, however, irritatingly
impressive, and a very crucial work in the canon. It looks
backwards and forwards. Something of Seize the Day is here- the
Levantine honesty; something too of Henderson's nervy brilliance;
and something quite new: the hero, an intellectual schlemihl, a
professor of philosophy, a searcher trying on the masks of comedy
and tragedy, seems to be an alter ego, as if Bellow were on a trial
run, getting rid of the more subjective kinks for a forthcoming
Major Leap. And that might explain the self-indulgence which
inhabits the book, and a particular strategy-charming, funny,
educative, boring- whereby Herzog is kept writing letters to the
great or near-great, past and present, from Nietzsche to Ike. The
plot is as cluttered as a case history: married twice, cuckolded by
his best friend, romancing hither and thither, Herzog engages in
numerous journeys both through his own mind and the worlds of New
York, Chicago, Montreal. He contemplates murder, remembers the
Jewish experience, takes the temperature of the metropolis (Bellow
is of course a master at evoking alienation), meditates as an
open-ended scholar, a self-conscious lover: "But what do you want,
Herzog?" "But that's just it- I don't want anything." Characters
dart in and out, for the most part, like the dialogue, demandingly,
dexterously real; the details are splendid. In the end wry, whipped
Herzog (I will do no more to enact the peculiarities of life. This
is done well enough without my special assistance) has no messages
for anyone. He will presumably, Just Live. Bearing an odd-shaped
resemblance to the Henry of Berryman's Dream Songs, Herzog sums-up
prevalent mood: a Chaplinesque acceptance of the end of ideals. It
should be read. (Kirkus Reviews)
Is Moses Herzog – philosopher, suffering romantic and cuckhold – losing his mind? His formidable wife Madeleine has left him for his best friend and he is left alone with his whirling thoughts, yet he still sees himself as a survivor, raging against private disasters and those of the modern age. His head buzzing with ideas, he writes frantic, unsent letters to friends and enemies, colleagues and famous people, the living and the dead, revealing the spectacular workings of his labyrinthine mind and the innermost secrets of his troubled heart.
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