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levitybooks's review against another edition
3.0
As in Humboldt's Gift, Bellow perfectly captures the midlife crisis of a weak and failing professor. The problem is that these aren't the people you wouldn't want to invite or talk to at a party, let alone spend a whole book with. Being a PhD student in Neuroscience, one of the most navel-gazing academic disciplines ever, it's hard to believe these professor characters can be 'this' in their heads. It feel like an unintentional caricature of analysis-paralysis, or the dithering intellectual, given the reality given to all else in the story.
Charlie Citrine in Humboldt's Gift has lost a wife and is chasing a new woman, he is weathered and bitter but still a man going down with a fight. By contrast, Moses Herzog in Herzog is utterly ruined by his divorce. I don't know if I want to know what a desperate man spying through his ex-wife's window is feeling? I don't know if there's something to learn about playing life from griping like this. The melodrama in The Sorrows Of Young Werther were more enlightening than this, if you're going to be sad then let it be a flood for the reader. Don't drag me into a plodding frail drone of dejection with you, damn it!
Charlie Citrine in Humboldt's Gift has lost a wife and is chasing a new woman, he is weathered and bitter but still a man going down with a fight. By contrast, Moses Herzog in Herzog is utterly ruined by his divorce. I don't know if I want to know what a desperate man spying through his ex-wife's window is feeling? I don't know if there's something to learn about playing life from griping like this. The melodrama in The Sorrows Of Young Werther were more enlightening than this, if you're going to be sad then let it be a flood for the reader. Don't drag me into a plodding frail drone of dejection with you, damn it!
prochmen's review against another edition
dark
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
2.0
andra_cati's review against another edition
Thus far I am undecided. The plot is rather scattered and unstructured in a way that is vexing. I could understand how an unstable plot could contribute to creativity, but it does not appear to do so in this way. The protagonist of the novel is a writer, though Bellow has chosen to narrate in third person, thus excluding the writing abilities that could have been presented. This was an odd choice. The writing was not captivating, nor was it tasteful, and the plot was rather slow and mundane. Perhaps Bellow's genius can be shown in another piece of his work, but I do not find it to be present in this one. However, I am eager to read more from him and further explore his literary world.
rita_pereira's review against another edition
2.0
Deixado a meio, uma daquelas derrotas literárias. Demasiado aborrecido, egocêntrico, obsessivo. Talvez um dia volte a ele.
jacob_longini's review against another edition
5.0
This is undoubtedly one of my new favourite books, as well as one of the greatest American novels of all time. I am beyond excited to read more of Saul Bellow's work, and I only hope that it is literature of the same quality. In telling a short, painful section of Moses E. Herzog's life, Bellow conveys his entire human experience to the fullest extent. Herzog blends the dread of the modern existential perspective with the ancient notions of suffering from the Jewish Old World sensibilities. A comparison from film is the Coen Brothers' "A Serious Man", which has a similar power in conveying centuries of struggle through a few months of a single man's life. From the fantastic opening line, "If I am out of my mind, it's all right with me, thought Moses Herzog", to one of the last ones, "I will do no more to enact the peculiarities of life. This is done well enough without my special assistance", this novel is full of beauty, pain, and a mastery of human philosophical hunger to know "why?".
anfribogart's review against another edition
5.0
Travolgente, eccessivo, forse bipolare, Herzog rimarrà a lungo nelle mie corde. Come sostiene Alessandro Piperno in un bell'articolo sul settimanale di letteratura del Corriere, i personaggi di Bellow si dividono in passivi aggressivi e prepotenti. Herzog appartiene al primo gruppo ed è a mio avviso irresistibile. Herzog è anche stato definito un romanzo epistolare, perché è pervaso da improbabili lettere che Moses Herzog scrive compulsivamente a chiunque, dai suoi più stretti conoscenti agli intellettuali per lui più influenti per arrivare a Dio. In realtà quella delle lettere, spesso farneticanti, è la parte che ho apprezzato di meno, anche se serve bene a rendere l'idea del furore intellettuale che scuote quest'uomo travolto dalla passione. Come spesso mi accade, sono proprio questi romanzi, densi e farraginosi, che mi rimangono più nel cuore.
mirivii's review
emotional
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
3.0
Bought this book on a day trip to Bruges. As I was walking to visit the windmills, I reached a little bookshop and this book was hanging on a shelf with its beautiful green type cover. I had to buy it.
I really like Bellow's writing style, especially his descriptions never fail to sound interesting and well written. My attention for the plot, while reading it, keep on going up and down, as I was failing to see something deeper.
There are plenty of autobiographical elements in the novel, and a reader can really sense how Moses was real. And I suspect this is why a lot of critics managed to identify so deeply with the character. You can't tell me that such a tormented academic man, both unlucky and lucky in love, in pursue of better things won’t tickle the egocentrism of men that are interested in literature. A bit biased, yes.
I really like Bellow's writing style, especially his descriptions never fail to sound interesting and well written. My attention for the plot, while reading it, keep on going up and down, as I was failing to see something deeper.
There are plenty of autobiographical elements in the novel, and a reader can really sense how Moses was real. And I suspect this is why a lot of critics managed to identify so deeply with the character. You can't tell me that such a tormented academic man, both unlucky and lucky in love, in pursue of better things won’t tickle the egocentrism of men that are interested in literature. A bit biased, yes.
dvlavieri's review against another edition
5.0
Dear Herzog, Dear Bellow,
This book 'bout the fellow
Down-trodden, seems awfully bleak.
His life's done to Hell, lo
His skin's turned all yellow,
So what is there for him to seek?
Dear Moses, Dear Saul,
Where's gone your wherewithal?
It would seem that you've gone quite astray.
Lost two wives in all,
And your child: a lost doll,
Is it true "every dog has his day"?
Dear lover, Dear debtor,
Forgive me this letter,
I think I have quite lost my marbles!
I swear I'll get better,
Perhaps its the weather
That's making my life all fits and garbles?
Dear reader, Dear friend,
When you've reached the dear end
of youth, take my word you will wonder!
About what you misspend
On a once lady friend,
And you'll say to yourself "what a blunder!"
This book 'bout the fellow
Down-trodden, seems awfully bleak.
His life's done to Hell, lo
His skin's turned all yellow,
So what is there for him to seek?
Dear Moses, Dear Saul,
Where's gone your wherewithal?
It would seem that you've gone quite astray.
Lost two wives in all,
And your child: a lost doll,
Is it true "every dog has his day"?
Dear lover, Dear debtor,
Forgive me this letter,
I think I have quite lost my marbles!
I swear I'll get better,
Perhaps its the weather
That's making my life all fits and garbles?
Dear reader, Dear friend,
When you've reached the dear end
of youth, take my word you will wonder!
About what you misspend
On a once lady friend,
And you'll say to yourself "what a blunder!"
roithamer's review against another edition
4.0
That my edition of Herzog features an introduction by Philip Roth feels significant, because the latter exemplifies in my mind a certain category of novelists writing essentially about upper-middle-class Jewish intellectuals strongly resembling themselves & spending the entire length of the narrative having non-problems of a psychosexual nature--a category of which Herzog could be considered an early example. Bellow's book, however is infinitely superior to his peers'--finer, more ambitious, more genuine despite its irony, reaching sometimes an almost Proust-like introspective beauty.
ferretonfire's review against another edition
2.0
“For Christ’s sake don’t cry, you idiot! Live or die, but don’t poison everything.”
Writing negative reviews is difficult for me. I used to wonder why, since many of the most purely entertaining reviews I’d read bordered on mean-spirited. They used sarcasm to cut through bloated novels and reveal the weakness in prose, storytelling and character development underneath the pomp.
The more I read, though, and the more I go back and consider the novels I’ve enjoyed after smart, convincing differing opinions which don’t sway one iota of my love for books others hate, I become less and less convinced of any universally ‘good’ novel. There are only ones which let me feel something that is (I know, barf) true, powerful, affecting.
I have picked up books with stunning prose, well-thought out characters, and exciting dialogue, which for whatever reason never connected with me. Herzog by Saul Bellow is one of these. It’s an honest, erudite, and beautifully written journey with a character I loathe travelling with — and this doesn’t feel by design, like with novels about genuine misanthropics like Notes from Underground.
Herzog explores New York of the 1950s a very particular mind-set: a frustrated, Jewish, middle-class and divorced professor. It feels as though every page of Herzog is stuffed with obscure allusions, metaphysics, ornate descriptions, and even more obscure history. These are stereotypically considered some elements of an “important” book: it wants to encompass a whole world in its pages, its extremely erudite, and it expects you to keep up and not complain. Something in the mixture ruined Herzog’s flavour, however.
I felt pity for Moses Herzog, but not appreciation, because I thought the way he looked at the world — and the way I couldn’t help but feel the novel itself endorsed, through its romanticization of this confused, pathetic man. The revelations and story here certainly feels authentic as a character, but this novel has made me realise that I don’t think authenticity is necessarily a virtue in a writer. For example, Lovecraft was being “authentic” in his portrayal of other races with regard to his own prejudices. That doesn’t mean we can’t criticise those prejudices while still appreciating other aspects of his work.
There were things I liked about the novel, the prose particularly, but some of the views being espoused weren’t just outdated (I read Roth recently and thought he found the humour in his generation’s attitudes to gender) — they were spiteful.
Herzog feels like a satire on misogyny written by someone who didn’t understand his own joke. The presentation of Madeleine (who, had she been a man, would have been twirling her moustache), clearly based on Bellow’s actual ex-wife, is simply bitter to read about in an uncomfortable and uncompelling way. It was like having a stranger on the bus rant about what a monster his ex wife is. Romana, Herzog’s new girlfriend, was kind, but her need to please seemed to come from a place of supplication, as almost an apology for her promiscuity earlier in her life — there was one paragraph where Herzog made that point explicitly. Every female character feels like they have been solely defined by the world around them, and so lack the interesting interior lives afforded to the men.
Bellow once mused that “if you opened up a modern mind with a saw things would tumble out in every direction. You pitch yourself headlong into mental chaos and make your own way from there.” This book is mental chaos, but not in the fascinating, LSD-infused chaos of Pynchon; it’s bitterness and learning in equal measure spurted into the face of the world. But there’s real art here, insightful or funny lines that ultimately failed to move me because of the slog of a novel they were surrounded by:
“He wondered at times whether he didn’t belong to a class of people secretly convinced they had an arrangement with fate; in return for docility or ingenuous good will they were to be shielded from the worst brutalities in life.”
This book was simply so far from my tastes that, despite the strengths of the prose, picking up towards the end filled me with actual dread. It’s strange, though, because even while reading and not enjoying the book at all, I could understand why others might love it. The only novel I’ve had a similar experience with was The Corrections, which was at least self aware about how melodramatic and bombastic it could be. Oh well.
Writing negative reviews is difficult for me. I used to wonder why, since many of the most purely entertaining reviews I’d read bordered on mean-spirited. They used sarcasm to cut through bloated novels and reveal the weakness in prose, storytelling and character development underneath the pomp.
The more I read, though, and the more I go back and consider the novels I’ve enjoyed after smart, convincing differing opinions which don’t sway one iota of my love for books others hate, I become less and less convinced of any universally ‘good’ novel. There are only ones which let me feel something that is (I know, barf) true, powerful, affecting.
I have picked up books with stunning prose, well-thought out characters, and exciting dialogue, which for whatever reason never connected with me. Herzog by Saul Bellow is one of these. It’s an honest, erudite, and beautifully written journey with a character I loathe travelling with — and this doesn’t feel by design, like with novels about genuine misanthropics like Notes from Underground.
Herzog explores New York of the 1950s a very particular mind-set: a frustrated, Jewish, middle-class and divorced professor. It feels as though every page of Herzog is stuffed with obscure allusions, metaphysics, ornate descriptions, and even more obscure history. These are stereotypically considered some elements of an “important” book: it wants to encompass a whole world in its pages, its extremely erudite, and it expects you to keep up and not complain. Something in the mixture ruined Herzog’s flavour, however.
I felt pity for Moses Herzog, but not appreciation, because I thought the way he looked at the world — and the way I couldn’t help but feel the novel itself endorsed, through its romanticization of this confused, pathetic man. The revelations and story here certainly feels authentic as a character, but this novel has made me realise that I don’t think authenticity is necessarily a virtue in a writer. For example, Lovecraft was being “authentic” in his portrayal of other races with regard to his own prejudices. That doesn’t mean we can’t criticise those prejudices while still appreciating other aspects of his work.
There were things I liked about the novel, the prose particularly, but some of the views being espoused weren’t just outdated (I read Roth recently and thought he found the humour in his generation’s attitudes to gender) — they were spiteful.
Herzog feels like a satire on misogyny written by someone who didn’t understand his own joke. The presentation of Madeleine (who, had she been a man, would have been twirling her moustache), clearly based on Bellow’s actual ex-wife, is simply bitter to read about in an uncomfortable and uncompelling way. It was like having a stranger on the bus rant about what a monster his ex wife is. Romana, Herzog’s new girlfriend, was kind, but her need to please seemed to come from a place of supplication, as almost an apology for her promiscuity earlier in her life — there was one paragraph where Herzog made that point explicitly. Every female character feels like they have been solely defined by the world around them, and so lack the interesting interior lives afforded to the men.
Bellow once mused that “if you opened up a modern mind with a saw things would tumble out in every direction. You pitch yourself headlong into mental chaos and make your own way from there.” This book is mental chaos, but not in the fascinating, LSD-infused chaos of Pynchon; it’s bitterness and learning in equal measure spurted into the face of the world. But there’s real art here, insightful or funny lines that ultimately failed to move me because of the slog of a novel they were surrounded by:
“He wondered at times whether he didn’t belong to a class of people secretly convinced they had an arrangement with fate; in return for docility or ingenuous good will they were to be shielded from the worst brutalities in life.”
This book was simply so far from my tastes that, despite the strengths of the prose, picking up towards the end filled me with actual dread. It’s strange, though, because even while reading and not enjoying the book at all, I could understand why others might love it. The only novel I’ve had a similar experience with was The Corrections, which was at least self aware about how melodramatic and bombastic it could be. Oh well.