A review by some_okie_dude27
Ravelstein by Saul Bellow

5.0

Back in high school, I befriended my Freshman English teacher. We bonded over our mutual interest in the more esoteric, philosophical issues that beguile most people in life, but not any that really consume the average person rather than the occasional existential angst. We came to the realization pretty quickly that we both had a yearning appreciation for 'deep conversation' as well as a search for the more fruitful things in life, and not just passively accept what is given to us.

I was 15 when I first met him, I was rather self assured in my own worldview, a bit cocky in a way, and still slightly naive about the world even with my precocious nature. But as I got to know him, I found out that the Examined Life is a lifestyle that often requires one to be continually challenged, and challenge everything that's around them. He knocked a lot of nonsense out of me for sure, but always in a patient, understanding manner.

His interest in deep conversation ended up attracting other like-minded students like myself who weren't content to take life for what it was, but rather to search for something deeper and more meaningful and from that, we began a symposium, where we would get up, go out, and vigorously discuss and debate about the meaning of life, love, friendship, and justice, among other things. But don't think that it was just a serious, intense affair, there was plenty of joy, laughter, and camaraderie to be found at our symposiums. Sadly though, no one wanted to commit to the group, and as thus it ended. But my teacher and I stayed in contact throughout my high school years, and we still talk today, often through monthly emails.

Thus this brings me to Ravelstein (alas, we're getting somewhere), a novel that my teacher had introduced to me during our many conversations. Saul Bellow wrote it following the death of his close friend, the philosopher and social/cultural critic Allan Bloom, who was a teacher and mentor to the man who would mentor and teach my teacher, and in turn my teacher would become a mentor and teacher to me. It's a thread I would come to notice in my literary studies as much as it was in my philosophical studies that writers and philosophers were not just influenced by their peers, but were actively responding to them. Yet in Ravelstein, Bellow uses the opportunity to explore his friendship with Bloom, using fiction to serve its purpose: to explore truth by using lies.

Ravelstein is a book that surprised me, it challenged me, it wasn't always a romp or an easy read. It could occasionally be slow and tricky to get through, yet at the same time it's humorous, sharp, and full of wit and insights into human nature, aging, and dealing with intense grief. At the forefront of the story is a simple exploration of a close friendship, having come to a sudden end with the death of the titular Ravelstein. It's a candid, no bars held exploration into losing a friend and grappling with the fearful sensation of growing older, but it's also an exploration of a tender and deeply felt friendship between two men who, despite being in different fields, find a connection with each other that lasts through the years. It is a sad lamentation of a loss of a close friendship, while also a heartfelt celebration of what was found by having said long friendship.

As much as it is about a friendship, we also see Bellow's desire to reach for more, to find something that is more meaningful and profound. As Hitchens would point out, Bellow was always searching for a sort of transcendence, which plays into his friendship with Bloom, having to do with their mutual interest in The Examined Life, I think that is what drew them together, and what kept them coming back to each other. In this, we see Bellow go on about life, aging, friendship, and other topics that fascinated him as he kept going along with this book. I was reminded of watching a film from Tarkovsky or Bergman, slow, philosophic, and esoteric, while also being grounded in a love for humanity.

I was also reminded a bit of Twain, Dickens, The Coens, and Eisner when reading through this novel. Much like their work, Bellow can be harsh and uncompromising in his exploration of human suffering, but also isn't afraid to be grateful for all that is good, true, and beautiful in the world (I'm probably not using the term in the way that my teacher would have intended it, but still I think it's applicable), as well as all of the joy and happiness that comes from a great friendship. Bellow understands the value of a close friendship, and why friendship is such an important part of the human experience. I think that Bellow's insights into friendship is what makes this book so moving for me, and its influence on my already strong beliefs on the value of friendship that makes it so lasting in my mind. Even if this novel is about two Jewish, white old men who were professors at a college in Chicago, it's exploration of friendship is still understandable and comprehensive for anyone who wishes to explore it.

But Britton, one may say, what can we learn from a couple of old Jewish white guys who were professors at a university in Chicago. Well, my friend, as I've learned over my years as a consumer of artistic works, the human condition is universal, rather it be from a comic book about demi-gods punching common criminals in the face, a sci-fi fantasy romp, or a book about random little nobodies, trying to find their way through a chaotic, messy world. Perhaps we can't always understand the narrater of the story or his friend Ravelstein, but they are relatable and all too human, and it is our mutual understanding of human condition that allows us to empathize with them. Certainly, Ravelstein can be dry and difficult, but also emotional, tender, and profoundly human, as all great books tend to be. It is certainly a Great American Novel.

Often when I think of this novel, I think back to all of my teacher and I's conversations and the symposiums that we had with our mutual friends, often catching myself smiling in delight in the process.