Take a photo of a barcode or cover
3.66 AVERAGE
3.66 AVERAGE
Humboldt's Gift was a very good, if dense, novel. It was particularly interesting knowing that he pretty much taught Philip Roth how to write novels; you can see what Roth picked up from him, and what Roth added (or, as one curmudgeon I know pointed out, subtracted). The philosophical passages bogged me down at times, but that may have been more my fault than the author's.
I started this book with very high hopes. I’d been meaning to read something by Bellow since I got back into reading fiction, and “Humboldt’s Gift” drew me in right from the start when I stumbled across it in a used book store.
We’re introduced to Charlie Citrine—a successful, now wealthy middle-aged author in Chicago—as he reminisces about his time as a young man under the mentorship of Von Humboldt Fleischer, a dazzlingly literate poet.
The novel skips back and forth between the present day (the novel was written in the mid-70’s) and Charlie and Humboldt’s earlier days in West Village, when starving artists could actually afford to live there. Present-day Charlie is going through a divorce, dealing with an obnoxious, henpecking mistress; financial difficulties, and a low-level Chicago gangster named Cantabille, who drives much of the plot.
Bellow’s prose is dense with literary and cultural reference. Sometime I think that it’s an elaborate excuse for the author to show off how culturally literate he is, but for the most part it really is a joy to read.
The first 1/3 or so of the book went along well. We see poor Charlie twisted about by the winds of fate, being dealt blows by the terrible women who he somehow finds himself attracted to, getting caught up with gangsters, and so on. Bellow also starts to develop his larger themes and messages. What is the role of the artist in society? Can we align good art with financial success? Citrine gets wealthy from a selling the movie rights to his play; Humboldt, though just as creative, dies in poverty. How can we deal with aging gracefully? I had high expectations for the rest of the book after the first 200 or so pages.
But then…nothing happens. We climb up the hill with Charlie, but never really get down. All sorts of things happen to him. We’re introduced to some excellent characters: the moneyed, pompous Thaxter and nouveau riche brother Ulick.
What about Charlie? Despite his big brain, he’s always detached. He’s an aloof academic who doesn’t seem to change. To what end is all of Charlie’s endless philosophizing about? He’s obviously reflective, but it doesn’t seem to help him. Is Bellow’s message here that you can philosophize all you want, but life just keeps going on as it does, and the smart and creative are no better at weathering life’s difficulties than anyone else? That’s my takeaway, and the author uses a lot or words to make the point. At the end, Charlie is liberated by Humboldt’s gift, and seems to reconcile the pursuit of money and art.
I really think that this book had enormous potential. I would have liked to see Charlie…just do something. He doesn’t need to discover the meaning of life, just do something other than be limp and ineffectual. It takes ~500 pages to show and tell very little.
But maybe I’m being too hard. It really was a memorable book, despite the disappointments. Perhaps one just needs to go along for the ride that Bellow takes you on. I would like to re-read this when I’m middle aged, as I’m sure that my perspective would be quite different.
We’re introduced to Charlie Citrine—a successful, now wealthy middle-aged author in Chicago—as he reminisces about his time as a young man under the mentorship of Von Humboldt Fleischer, a dazzlingly literate poet.
The novel skips back and forth between the present day (the novel was written in the mid-70’s) and Charlie and Humboldt’s earlier days in West Village, when starving artists could actually afford to live there. Present-day Charlie is going through a divorce, dealing with an obnoxious, henpecking mistress; financial difficulties, and a low-level Chicago gangster named Cantabille, who drives much of the plot.
Bellow’s prose is dense with literary and cultural reference. Sometime I think that it’s an elaborate excuse for the author to show off how culturally literate he is, but for the most part it really is a joy to read.
The first 1/3 or so of the book went along well. We see poor Charlie twisted about by the winds of fate, being dealt blows by the terrible women who he somehow finds himself attracted to, getting caught up with gangsters, and so on. Bellow also starts to develop his larger themes and messages. What is the role of the artist in society? Can we align good art with financial success? Citrine gets wealthy from a selling the movie rights to his play; Humboldt, though just as creative, dies in poverty. How can we deal with aging gracefully? I had high expectations for the rest of the book after the first 200 or so pages.
But then…nothing happens. We climb up the hill with Charlie, but never really get down. All sorts of things happen to him. We’re introduced to some excellent characters: the moneyed, pompous Thaxter and nouveau riche brother Ulick.
What about Charlie? Despite his big brain, he’s always detached. He’s an aloof academic who doesn’t seem to change. To what end is all of Charlie’s endless philosophizing about? He’s obviously reflective, but it doesn’t seem to help him. Is Bellow’s message here that you can philosophize all you want, but life just keeps going on as it does, and the smart and creative are no better at weathering life’s difficulties than anyone else? That’s my takeaway, and the author uses a lot or words to make the point. At the end, Charlie is liberated by Humboldt’s gift, and seems to reconcile the pursuit of money and art.
I really think that this book had enormous potential. I would have liked to see Charlie…just do something. He doesn’t need to discover the meaning of life, just do something other than be limp and ineffectual. It takes ~500 pages to show and tell very little.
But maybe I’m being too hard. It really was a memorable book, despite the disappointments. Perhaps one just needs to go along for the ride that Bellow takes you on. I would like to re-read this when I’m middle aged, as I’m sure that my perspective would be quite different.
I was going to start leaving little reviews so I remember more of what I read. but I've got nuffin to say about this.
PULITZER PRIZE WINNER: 1976
===
Way too fucking long.
The writing was brilliant, and there were definitely aspects I enjoyed, but the pacing here was dead slow--we don't even get to "Humboldt's Gift" until nearly 3/4 into the book. Lots of random tangents, and I found Charlie, the main character, to be incredibly aggravating. He's surrounded by a bunch of wild characters who seem mostly out to fleece him of his money and take advantage of him, and he constantly lets himself be bullied into doing things he doesn't want, all while making continuous excuses for the behavior of everybody around him. I wanted to fucking shake him and tell him to stand up for himself! He's quite self-involved and almost *too* self-aware, and while there are some great lines and moments of prose, and I was more engaged than I expected, a lot of it is either tedious or frustrating.
===
Way too fucking long.
The writing was brilliant, and there were definitely aspects I enjoyed, but the pacing here was dead slow--we don't even get to "Humboldt's Gift" until nearly 3/4 into the book. Lots of random tangents, and I found Charlie, the main character, to be incredibly aggravating. He's surrounded by a bunch of wild characters who seem mostly out to fleece him of his money and take advantage of him, and he constantly lets himself be bullied into doing things he doesn't want, all while making continuous excuses for the behavior of everybody around him. I wanted to fucking shake him and tell him to stand up for himself! He's quite self-involved and almost *too* self-aware, and while there are some great lines and moments of prose, and I was more engaged than I expected, a lot of it is either tedious or frustrating.
Too much philosophy and introspection for me just now. But I kept plodding through to see if the plot got to a point. It did. I liked how the loose ends were tied. Mostly. The things that went over without shame in those days. My my. Leaving children with ex lovers for your honeymoon? Happy it can go to the donation pile.
I've heard so many people praise this book to no end, so I might have been expecting too much from it. Bellow is awesome, this was well-written, but it seems to appeal to a certain fantasy that I cannot yet entertain... one day, perhaps?
Not quite a tragedy, but not quite a comedy. Not a fan of picaresuqes, but this one poses some fair questions about art and poetry. I liked it. And it certainly deserves a slower read than I gave it. I shall review it properly when I've given it that read.
Bellow offers very divergent reading experiences to me. "Dangling man" was astounding and fresh, but I left the labyrinth of "Augie March" after 100 pages, "Herzog" was tough but briljant, and this, wel I must confess, this book I also left unfinished after 140 pages.
Bellow can write for sure, some episodes are really brilliant, intense, beautifully composed and witty. But then there are these fucked-up characters and situations, seemingly without purpose and end.
This book is going in circles, with the friendship, or better the master-pupil-relation between the successful, but shallow writer Charlie Citrine and the ingenious, erudit poet von Humboldt Fleischer as focal point.
That it didn't resonate is probably my fault: I've had it with all this midlife-crisis-stuff. Sorry, Saul. (2.5 stars)
Bellow can write for sure, some episodes are really brilliant, intense, beautifully composed and witty. But then there are these fucked-up characters and situations, seemingly without purpose and end.
This book is going in circles, with the friendship, or better the master-pupil-relation between the successful, but shallow writer Charlie Citrine and the ingenious, erudit poet von Humboldt Fleischer as focal point.
That it didn't resonate is probably my fault: I've had it with all this midlife-crisis-stuff. Sorry, Saul. (2.5 stars)