HERZOG AND ME
In 1964, when I was a senior in high school, I read a book at the recommendation of TIME Magazine. It was a strange book for me, growing up as I did in the remote deserts of the Mountain West. It was urban and it was adult. In 1964, I was neither. After two years of reading of Salinger, wringing meaning out of each word and phrase, I was ready for something new. What I found was an instantly-recognizable parallel to Catcher in the Rye, but written from an adult viewpoint. It was, in short, the perfect transition from the self indulgences of adolescence to the trajectory of adulthood.
The book was Herzog, by Saul Bellow. Like Catcher, I have read it a few times since, but unlike Salinger's works which I hunted down and studied in the manner of the Talmud, Herzog is the only book by Saul Bellow I have ever read. Nevertheless, it has been at least thirty years since last reading it, and I thought it would be interesting to write a review from the memory of the book, without referring to text in print or online. The thought occurred to me a few days ago, when, serendipitously, I blurted out verbatim a meaningless yiddish poem taken from the pages of Herzog. In that moment, I thought I should write this down, because, heaven forbid, something should actually influence my life.
Because looking back, I realize I did not read the book as a novel. I read it more like an operating system. A pattern book which would guide elements of my life. Memorizing obscure passages notwithstanding.
I am now sixty one years old. I truly don't know how old Moses Herzog was in the period of the novel, but I suspect he was somewhat younger than I am now. Still, I read him in my youth, so he will forever be older than me. And I have yet to steer my life into the morass of relationships Herzog finds himself in, and as far as I know, I have no trace of Jewish ancestry. Each of those elements, age, relationships, and ethnocentricity are the formative elements of Herzog's psyche. I do suspect, however, that we are all similarly burdened.
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In 1970, I moved to Boston to attend graduate school. I had offers on each coast but turned down Berkeley in favor of the East. The Bay Area had the good weather, but the alllure of the East had been ingrained in me from both Herzog and from Holden's ill-conceived Christmas vacation. Herzog, broken and distraught, still moved about New York City like a dancer, treating all the culture it had to offer as though it were some kind of vending machine item, used without regard. It was my goal to become that same casual consumer of a city's intellect and art.
I also wanted to move about the region with the same aplomb. The Berkshires. Martha's Vineyard. And I wanted to do it under the same auspices and by the same generosity of friends, having neither the pedigree nor the wealth to do it on my own. It is odd to me to think about these things now, understanding that a different kind of richness can be gleaned from the cultural setting, if, in fact, one has not actually earned (or inherited) the cachet.
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Herzog is a philosopher, an intellectual. He has a good and famous book to his credit, published early in his career, but nothing of note since. He teaches night classes in a city college. There is a tiredness to his approach. He is inspired neither by his teaching nor his studies.
Even at my early age, I understood what this was all about. It was painfully clear to to me that here was a man who only needed to APPLY himself, as Holden Caulfield would say, but chooses to take the more tragic and destructive path because it is just more interesting that way.
What is it about unscripted behavior that appeals to us? It is actually worse than un-scripted: it is anti-script. Refuse to take the prescribed path no matter what. Shake vigorously and see what happens. And once one's life is a complete jumble, start moving around at a dizzying pace, so you will not have a chance to think about it.
Is that a philosophy?
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I admit this is pretty shallow. Any student of literature can tell you that the novel has much more to offer than what you read here. (One of the Best Parts I am omitting from this discussion is how his then-wife builds a wall of books and research material in their bed, separating them from each other). The thing is, I am not a student of literature. I have merely lived more than half my life (by my counting) and suddenly see odd parallels with this book.
Perhaps the oddest is Herzog's penchant for writing letters. In the shambles of his life, he is compelled to write letters, never mailed, to a host of people influential to his life. Friends, family, historic figures living and dead. He writes them with ferocity, on scraps of paper, covering the range of his thought, philosophical and personal. Presidents and former wives. Teachers. Ancestors.
By writing the letters he reconstructs his past life and poses the questions for his future. I keep thinking: If he only had Herzog to read and BLOGS on which to write.
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