SAUL BELLOW (1915-2005)

In an essay on Saul Bellow literary critic Alfred Kazin quotes him as saying that a novelist's function is greater than that of a saint's. I am neither a poser-novelist to concur nor a sham-saint to dispute but I'll comment because I wish to be both, wishfully with just a little effort on my part: forget the function; a novelist's death will always be overshadowed by that of a future saint's.

We will never know if Bellow's demise would have commanded lengthier newspaper space and extended topics of conversation if it didn't happen right after Pope John Paul's own. Bellow had some Polish connections himself, being born in Quebec with a huge Polish population, so probably the Poles must have given him some thoughts too in their prayers for the beloved pope.

One other thing I am not is being Pole, though heaven help me that not a single one of them reads this blog for I will bash: everytime I struggle to look for some files and find my assistant screwing up her alpha filing, I chastise her, Are you Polish? But here's what I am, I am an admirer of both deceased.

Saul Bellow came into my consciousness courtesy of my sister who, when I was in High School, adored her and Roth and Updike and Hemingway and Faulkner for all I cared. I was probably 15 with the reading aptitude of a 12 when she asked me, probably even forced me, to read Henderson the Rain King, which I did, to no avail. To no avail because, excuse me, I did not understand what I read.

All writers are good (because bad writers are not writers?) and some writers are great, according to another critic, but Bellow to him belongs to the even rarer breed of writers that are better than great writers, and for one extremely good reason: he cannot be copied.

For all intents and purposes I agree. First, not everyone, including me when I was 15, can read Bellow. His works are an overindulgence of characterizations and descriptions that if you looked at his most famous short story The Silver Dish and tried to read the first and last sentences of any paragraph, you will be hard pressed in finding a connection between the two.

Bellow's wife Janis once said that a reader cannot read him without being aware of his laughter beneath every word. Which is definitely true. One exact way of properly reading him is by picturing him as writing while laughing, and of course at your expense.

(No connection: Take the first two letters in Updike's name, then take one l from Bellow's, and then tell me who sits where. Who do you think is better? Why has Updike not been bequeathed a Nobel, for Alfredssake!!! No offense, Sir Saul.)

Ahhh, Silver Dish. I read this short story (chosen by, uhmmm, John Updike as one of the greatest in the last century) thrice. First, while a freshie in college, and the outcome was bad. I dropped it after the 2nd or 3rd freakin' page. I was no longer a moron but I was not able to follow what I was reading. The second time was 5 years ago when I bought the Greatest American Short Stories. The result was just fine, or a good ho-hum, uh-okay if cute, but really just fine...

I read it again the other day, after the news of his death. The terrible miracles of death! I loved the story.

I am now a Bellovian convert, somebody who finds awe in his description of a character "with an honest nose". Har. If he laughed I must laugh, too, or in the midst of numerous readers in a fullpacked library I must only smile, wryly, if possible, for I will be experiencing the joy of literary creation very obvious in Bellow's prose. Obvious, just as the others' greatness are unnoticeable.

I have started reading Seize the Day, his novella where the character Tommy Wilhelm sees the great crowds walking in Broadway Uptown (where was this book when I was doing my entries New York State of Mind?) and and seems to see "in every face the refinement of one particular motive or essence - I labor, I spend, I strive, I design, I love, I cling, I uphold, I give away, I envy, I long, I scorn, I die, I hide, I want."

As tribute, and in this my hidden pseudo-Nyorker persona, I will try to be the Everyface, the Everyman, that Wilhelm sees in Broadway Uptown, serving as my response-applause to the trasition of a great man, Fare thee Well, Sir Saul...

And so...

I spend
- a lot of money on books
- a little attention to pro bono
- a lot of time in the Internet
- a little isolation from sin

I strive
- to serve stronger in tennis (and fail)
- to keep awake in the morning (but hardly succeed)
- to not be an average person, and succeed mightily (I'm way below)
- to pay attention to anything, and fail mightily (fail mightily to what?)

I love
- my daughter Angela Solis, even if she does not respond to my text
- to read Montaigne while doing my thing in the toilet, knowledge in, garbage out
- to discover all the corny bloggers in the Internet
- Jars of Clay

I cling
- to my faith, even if my faith kicks me in the butt
- to my bedsheet, everytime my alarm kicks me in the butt
- to my principles, in the few times that they visit
- to the vine...Today

I envy
- U. Eliserio's vow of secrecy
- Schadenfreude's vow of chastity
- Donald Trump's vow of poverty
- Toilet bowl of charity

I long
- to hug Charlotte Belialba
- to break bread with Jobert and sip tequila with Belle
- to read the blog of Marcus Solano
- to savor the adobo of Jet David

I hide
- because I belong to a family of baboons
- even though I show up on dates
- though not seek
- and you will never find

I want
- to see a picture of kiwipinay
- to find the blog of UZ Eliserio and his nerve!
- to rotate my lungs
- to be Saul Bellow's description, probably the honesty in someone's nose