The Philip Roth We Don't Know: Sex, Race, and Autobiography

The Philip Roth We Don’t Know

University of Virginia Press

Charlottesville and London

University of Virginia Press

© 2021 by the Rector and Visitors of the University of Virginia

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

First published 2021

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Berlinerblau, Jacques, author.

Title: The Philip Roth we don’t know : sex, race, and autobiography / Jacques Berlinerblau.

Other titles: Philip Roth we do not know.

Description: Charlottesville : University of Virginia Press, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020058638 (print) | LCCN 2020058639 (ebook) | ISBN 9780813946610 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780813946627 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Roth, Philip—Criticism and interpretation.

Classification: LCC PS3568.O855 Z575 2021 (print) | LCC PS3568.O855 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020058638

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020058639

Cover art: Philip Roth, 1984. David Levine. (© Matthew and Eve Levine)

To Rubin Berlinerblau (1929–2019)

So you’re going to redeem Lonoff’s reputation as a writer by ruining it as a man. Replace the genius of the genius with the secret of the genius. Rehabilitation by disgrace?

—Philip Roth, Exit Ghost

Lucidity, he said, is more important than happiness, because there isn’t any perpetual happiness, but there can be perpetual lucidity.

—Philip Roth, His Mistress’s Voice

Contents

Introduction: Art Is Slimy/Reverse Biography

Part I. Race, Gender, Sex, and Autobiography in Roth’s Writing

1. Roth and Race

2. Old Men, Young Women

3. Misogyny and Autobiography

4. Before We Conclude That Roth’s Fiction Is Misogynistic

Part II. Roth Unsexed

5. You Must Change Your Life!

6. Go Flux Your Self! Philip Roth as Self-Help Guru

7. Fiction Is Truth! (Right?)

Conclusion: Philip Roth’s Legacy

Acknowledgments

List of Abbreviations

Appendix

Notes

Works Cited

Index

• INTRODUCTION •

Art Is Slimy/Reverse Biography

And as he spoke I was thinking, the kind of stories that people turn life into, the kind of lives that people turn stories into.

—Philip Roth, The Counterlife

In October 2017, the #MeToo movement burst onto social media, igniting a multinational, multi-industry reckoning about sexual misconduct. Seven months later, on May 22, 2018, Philip Milton Roth passed away at the age of eighty-five. There is, obviously, no causal relation between these two events; the former did not precipitate the latter. Then again, the types of concerns that #MeToo raises about male misbehavior and privilege might precipitate the demise of Roth’s literary legacy. By which I mean to say that among younger readers—readers attuned to our age’s sensitivities about gender, race, and class—this author is a really, really hard sell.

Roth’s fictional protagonists can outrage and turn off the current generation in myriad ways. When Mickey Sabbath in Sabbath’s Theater plots to seduce a woman forty years his junior, he reflects thusly: "He could not let her get away. . . . The core of seduction is persistence. Persistence, the Jesuit ideal. Eighty percent of women will yield under tremendous pressure if the pressure is persistent."¹ Tonally, Sabbath reminds us of David Kepesh in The Dying Animal. He is a professor who serially preys upon his students. Reflecting on one of his lovers with whom he has had sexual relations for decades, Kepesh remarks, Carolyn the undergraduate flower you pollinated, Carolyn at forty-five you farmed.²

When they’re not sounding like epaulet-bearing brand ambassadors from rape culture, Roth’s men find other ways to alienate vast swaths of today’s readership. They indulge in racist banter.³ They mock multiculturalism. With especial verve, they lampoon feminists and feminism.⁴ After decades of teaching Roth to college students, I find more than a few losing patience with him. Some appreciate his awesome talent, obviously. But with each passing year, more and more appear impervious to his charms.

It certainly doesn’t help that many of Philip Roth’s fictional bad boys greatly resemble Philip Roth; some of his characters actually bear his name. This tendency to write fictionalized autobiography—a tendency that he denied until his death—imbues debates about his work with a certain ferocity. Roth criticism often gets personal. His detractors, be they women’s studies majors or even professional literary scholars, frequently associate the misogyny of the author’s characters with the author himself.⁵

If a readership skeptical of white male privilege needed any other reason to dismiss, or cancel, Roth, let’s never forget his lofty cultural stature.⁶ This cisgendered, heterosexual genius was garlanded with every imaginable major literary prize save the Nobel.⁷ Many of his twenty-eight novels were greeted by fanfare, hype, and scrutiny likely unknown to any previous American author.⁸ His name was a virtual watermark on the pages of the New York Times, New York Review of Books, New Yorker, and other high-toned places. He started his career in the mid-1950s as a Jewish outsider. Yet, like so many of his industrious coreligionists, he eventually scaled the fence, and soon the peak, of his gentile profession. In the mostly white, mostly male, preserve of American letters, few writers attained Philip Roth’s wealth and prestige.

One might imagine that this establishment novelist, deemed too-testosterone-y by graduate students, and assailed by critics for the superabundance of cock in his prose, might fare badly among those with a #MeToo sensibility.⁹ And, in truth, he often does! We shall encounter pre- and post-#MeToo feminist critics who lament the manner in which Roth writes about women, love, masculinity, and eroticism.

Yet it is simplistic to suggest that anyone who is sympathetic to #MeToo’s intervention might be allergic to Roth’s prose. This movement is not an orthodoxy. Those who concur with some, or all, of its goals have discovered characters and/or ideas that intrigue them in his fiction. What I’m about to show is that there are unexpected, and unnoticed, conceptual synergies in how both approach aesthetics. The relation between Roth and #MeToo, I will argue, is more complicated than either his admirers or critics recognize. Once we understand that relation, new possibilities for studying his work will emerge. And maybe, just maybe, a younger generation of readers might be persuaded to engage with his art.

The #MeToo Reckoning

In 2006, the activist Tarana Burke coined the phrase Me Too.¹⁰ Ms. Burke did so in order to draw attention to sexual violence experienced by young women of color. A decade later, on October 15, 2017, her slogan reemerged.¹¹ The Me and the Too were conjoined, hashtagged, and primed for the staggering amplification of solidarity and outrage that social media enables.

The scholar Carly Gieseler notes that within just ten days, the handle had spread to eighty-five countries, with 1.7 million tweets.¹² On Facebook, 12 million people had posted about these two words within twenty-four hours.¹³ Women of color, however, were no longer the focus of this viralizing phenomenon. Rather, the first revelations and reactions centered on the mostly white actresses whose suffering at the hands of the Hollywood mogul Harvey Weinstein had just fully come to light. (Alyssa Milano, who reintroduced the term #MeToo, apologized for the inadvertent appropriation. Ms. Burke appeared to accept.)¹⁴

According to one writer, #MeToo is an attempt to get people to understand the prevalence of sexual harassment and assault in society.¹⁵ The movement, in the words of the New York Times, is a national reckoning over harassment and gender discrimination, toppling powerful figures in nearly every industry.¹⁶ Media icons such as Matt Lauer and Charlie Rose grabbed a lot of the headlines. But of all the industries in which powerful figures were exposed (and sometimes toppled), it was the misbehavior of the creative class that consistently produced the most riveting story lines.¹⁷

Philip Roth’s name was everywhere in this new conversational intersection between #MeToo and the arts.¹⁸ What are we to make, asked Erin Vanderhoof in a reflection on Roth’s dirtbag aesthetic, of literature’s towering male figures in the #MeToo era?¹⁹ Katy Waldman saw the occasion of his death as an inflection point—a prompt to ponder the gendered blindness of a more patriarchal literary era.²⁰ Upon his passing, the New Yorker gathered some of his closest friends for a dialogue entitled Philip Roth in the #MeToo Era.²¹ Elsewhere, Meghan Daum cheekily praised Roth for writing fiction that provided women with a bestiary of toxic men.²² The title of her piece says it all: In the Age of #MeToo, Philip Roth Offers an Unlikely Blueprint for Feminists. When asked about Roth’s alleged misogyny, the writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie commented, "I read his women and roll my eyes but there is a truth there, because there are many men like his men."²³

Upon first glance, Roth’s consistent inclusion in these discussions is baffling. An artist streaks across the #MeToo Radar Screen because of an alleged sexual misdeed. The accusation is made through a journalistic exposé, a revelation on social media, or some fusion of both. Roth, for his part, was eighty-four years old in 2017, when #MeToo’s viral roar was first heard.²⁴ He announced his retirement from writing in 2012.²⁵ He thus lived most of his life well before the digital era’s facility for effectively drawing attention to male misbehavior.

In the decades prior, when print media ruled, little was known about his private life. Occasionally former lovers published accounts about him. In a few of these portrayals, as we shall see, the author comes off as likable, though colossally self-absorbed.²⁶ There were, however, some unflattering reports, most notably his ex-wife Claire Bloom’s Leaving a Doll’s House (1996).²⁷ There, Roth is depicted as manipulative, emotionally abusive, and occasionally mentally unwell. But neither in Bloom’s memoir nor anywhere else was he publicly accused of the types of crimes that have been discussed in the #MeToo reckoning.²⁸

Which is to say that to the best of our knowledge, he did not rape numerous women as Harvey Weinstein was convicted of doing.²⁹ He did not allegedly drug and rape multiple victims, a crime that a jury convicted Bill Cosby of committing against Andrea Constand in 2018.³⁰ He did not have unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor, a felony to which Roman Polanski pled guilty in 1977.³¹ He did not molest his seven year-old stepdaughter, a charge leveled against Woody Allen.³² He did not physically or sexually assault women, as the authors Junot Díaz and David Foster Wallace are alleged to have done.³³ He did not masturbate in front of female colleagues without their consent, an indecency which the comedian Louis C.K. admitted was true.³⁴

To the best of our knowledge, Philip Roth did none of the things that justifiably raise the concerns of #MeToo. He wrote, however, a lot of fiction about men who did do things like that. In another one of those #MeToo-themed engagements with his work, the New York Times asked him about the present moment in which so many women [are] coming forth and accusing so many highly visible men of sexual harassment and abuse.³⁵ Roth riposted that he spent his career writing about the lunacy that overtakes men hungry in the grip of carnal fervor.³⁶ He was, therefore, not surprised by any of this.³⁷ None of the more extreme conduct I have been reading about in the newspapers lately, he summed up dryly, has astonished me.³⁸

Roth was not astonished by what the #MeToo moment illuminated. That’s because men behaving shabbily toward women was part of his subject matter. Nathan Zuckerman in My Life as a Man is attracted to his twelve-year-old stepdaughter. A few years later, after her mother’s suicide, he runs away to Italy with his now-teenage lover.³⁹ In the same book, the novelist and troubled genius Peter Tarnopol assaults his former wife so viciously that she nearly dies. Violence against women is also intimated in Sabbath’s Theater. Mickey Sabbath looks a young woman in the eye and declares, I have never said anything more seriously to anyone: I killed a wife.⁴⁰ Rape is attempted—and played for laughs—in the infamous finale of Portnoy’s Complaint (I had the edge, and forced her body down beneath me—and shot my tongue into her ear. . . . ‘Oh I am going to fuck you, Jew girl,’ I whispered evilly).⁴¹

In Roth’s fiction, many male protagonists behave monstrously. Let us recall, however, that #MeToo scandals occur in the nonfictional world. Insofar as no allegation of impropriety has surfaced, why is Roth’s name such a fixture in these discussions? In order to answer that question, we need to understand how intellectuals influenced by #MeToo reflect on the arts.

Bringing the Artist Back In

The essayists, journalists, and scholars who examine the intersection between #MeToo and the arts are a diverse cohort. They could not easily be described as a school of thought. Nor does the charge that they espouse a victimology paradigm and emit an inquisitorial whiff seem warranted to me.⁴²

I do notice some key methods and assumptions that most, but not all, of these writers share when assessing novelists, filmmakers, comedians, musicians, and others accused of sexual impropriety. To begin with, they spend a great deal of time discussing the accused artist, who is usually, but not always, a heterosexual male (I will assume a heterosexual male perpetrator throughout this analysis).⁴³ This focus on the accused may seem like an obvious move. In the study of aesthetics, however, it actually upends scholarly conventions.

By concentrating on the artist and his deeds, the #MeToo critics are revolting against what used to be a tacit Golden Rule of cultural analysis. The unspoken edict prohibited us from studying anything but the art itself. In the words of the New York Times’ A. O. Scott, the only thing that mattered was the work.⁴⁴ Scott argues that this separation of art and artist was a cultural habit rather than a philosophical principle.⁴⁵ He underestimates, though, how philosophical this premise was for professors in the humanities.⁴⁶

Scholars of literature are rarely trained as biographers, or interested in writing biographies. Sure, we can tell you when an author we research was born, died, etc. We might know that our author once studied glassblowing in Zurich. But this pales in comparison to what we know about his or her body of work. Many of us are theorists deploying very sophisticated—and to outsiders, utterly incomprehensible—tools of textual analysis. These approaches have names like New Criticism and reader-response theory, or fly under a postmodern banner that reads Death of the Author.⁴⁷ Contrary to Scott’s claim, these theories provide us with highly philosophical reasons for concentrating on the fiction, and the fiction alone.

#MeToo interventions expose how ill-equipped most humanists are to ponder the interplay between an artist and that which he creates. We’re not biographers; our training itself shunts our attention away from any sort of inquiry into the artist himself. This blinds us to understanding how sexual misbehavior is connected to creativity. It’s the type of investigation we pass off to an ethicist, a neuroscientist, or a district attorney. This is business as usual for a literature professor—and there’s nothing intentionally sinister about it. The problem is that it gives immoral artists a free pass.

#MeToo theorists identify another reason why we tend to ignore the misdeeds of an artist—and it has little to do with obscure academic literary theory. Some argue that the problem stems from a misplaced cultural worship of male genius. We delink the art from the artist because we love to link sublime art with transgression. Stefania Marghitu uses the term "auteur apologism to describe the separation of the art from the artist, underpinned by the claim that a problematic identity is a prerequisite for creative genius."⁴⁸ The latter, as Rachel Cusk observes, does everything we are told not to do: He is violent and selfish. He neglects or betrays his friends and family. He smokes, drinks, scandalizes, indulges his lusts . . . all to be unmasked at the end as a peerless genius.⁴⁹

In a bravura meditation on David Foster Wallace (accused of physically and psychologically abusing his girlfriend), Megan Garber ruminates on how much we overlook antisocial and even criminal behaviors in the name of spectacular talent: Genius cannot be reasoned with. Genius is the answer and the question. It will be heard. It will be respected. Even when it kicks and stalks and climbs up the side of the house at night.⁵⁰ Garber provocatively refers to genius as its own kind of infrastructure, implying that the category is built to aid and abet male misbehavior.⁵¹ By questioning the category of genius, these thinkers have launched a preemptive strike against an age-old excuse for the misconduct of creative folk.

The Art Cannot Stand Alone

A feature of #MeToo-tinged analysis of the arts that we just observed might be called bringing the artist back in. Once he is reinserted into the analytical frame, these theorists ponder the relation, or lack thereof, between his immoral acts and what he creates. Sometimes a genius’s creation obscures his immoral deeds. Bill Cosby’s crimes never did square with the domestic saint he portrayed in The Cosby Show. As Sarah Stewart-Kroeker remarks, this disconnect is what made his case so unsettling: Bill Cosby . . . perturbs less because of a continuity between his personal life and his character than because of its discontinuity: the rapist who plays the loveable family man.⁵²

In other cases, by contrast, the transgressions of male geniuses surface in their texts. Once Louis C.K.’s bouts of unsolicited self-exposure became known, observers noticed similar acts depicted in his (recalled) movie I Love You, Daddy.⁵³ Once allegations of Woody Allen’s pedophilia were aired, critics reevaluated his film Manhattan, where an underage woman is the hero’s love interest.⁵⁴ The singer R. Kelly apparently had his girlfriend, Kitti Jones, reenact onstage a scene of sexual bondage, a cage girl ritual he subjected her to in their home.⁵⁵ These examples, as one legal scholar put it, show how art embodies and perpetuates the artist’s harmful conduct.⁵⁶

It emerges from all this that, in the #MeToo moment, the art cannot stand alone. If a writer’s biography includes acts of sexual misconduct, then the critic must make that information a part of his or her interpretation of the creative product. But how big a part? Here there is considerable diversity of opinion. It might be concluded from all the sound and fury surrounding #MeToo that its mantra is Immorality Trumps Aesthetics, Every Time! In other words, if Twitter alleges that a male acted inappropriately toward a woman, then his work will be canceled. For a few critics, and social media trolls, yes, this reductive and simple formula obtains. But some of the most insightful reflection stimulated by #MeToo does not necessarily subordinate art to morality.

The position is more nuanced. It’s not that Immorality Trumps Aesthetics, but that immoral conduct and aesthetics must be intertwined by us, the conscientious audience. This means that once we learn incriminating information about an artist, our understanding of his art changes radically. We can’t watch or listen to or read the great work without remembering the awful thing, writes Claire Dederer.⁵⁷ Although Dederer is outraged about the behavior of what she calls monstrous men, she shows no desire to censor them.⁵⁸

True, Dederer might have elsewhere called Roman Polanski (who statutory raped a thirteen-year-old girl) a fucking moron.⁵⁹ Yet Dederer never challenges his work’s right to exist. Instead, she reflects on what his cinema now says and means to her as the mother of a teenage girl.⁶⁰ Dederer signals that our evaluation of Polanski’s art can never be totally separated from his ethical failings. His misdeeds and his films have become enmeshed; one is a prism for the other. Amanda Hess makes a similar point and also eschews any gesture toward censorship. She urges us to linger on the connections between art and abuse.⁶¹ By repressing the old impulse to separate one from the other we would see the works more clearly . . . understand them in all of their complexity, and . . . connect them to our real lives and experiences—even if those experiences are negative.⁶²

So, it’s not that I won’t ever again listen to Michael Jackson’s Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’. It’s just that every time I hear it, the allegations of pedophilia leveled against him in the documentary Leaving Neverland infiltrate my thoughts, as do rumors about the abuse he himself suffered as a child.⁶³ It’s all entwined forevermore. Precisely as Hess suggests, the entire experience of listening to Jackson’s music becomes different, more tensile.

We honor art we love in fairly primal ways. We clap. We stand. We roar. We whistle. We imitate. We purchase more of the art. We rave to our friends. Perfectly fine, all of that. But #MeToo encourages more freighted reflections on what art is, who artists are, and how we ourselves engage with both. I don’t think Philip Roth would want us to do otherwise. And with that in mind we are ready to examine those conceptual synergies mentioned earlier.

Art Is Slimy

With this basic sketch rendered of how the #MeToo reckoning has reflected upon the arts, we can return to a question we asked above: why does Philip Roth’s name keep popping up in these discussions, even though there has yet to be an allegation of sexual misconduct made against him?

One reason was floated by Roth himself earlier, namely that toxic males are a staple of his prose diet. To borrow a line from Roxane Gay, this author practically revels in the unlikability of his men.⁶⁴ Roth serves up crazy cuntstruck fellows who are, in one critic’s estimation, unapologetic mixes of brainy sophisticate and borderline sexual predator.⁶⁵ Perhaps #MeToo analysts keep returning to his work for the unmediated access to masculine grotesquerie that it provides.

This is certainly one reason, but permit me to advance a less obvious suggestion. As I see it, Philip Roth and the #MeToo theorists we just encountered share a lot of core beliefs about art. Does it mean Philip Roth is a Pro-#MeToo Writer? Well, not really. A far better candidate would be Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, to whom I’ll return in a moment and whose talent is far too capacious to wedge into such a reductive category. For now, let’s look into those conceptual synergies between Roth and #MeToo.

We’ve discussed how #MeToo theorists dismantle the Wall of Separation between the life of the artist and the art he creates. They reason that a creative product should not be disarticulated from the immoral actions of the person who brought it into being. Herein lies a striking parallel with Roth.

In his fiction, Philip Roth does, at first, build a Wall of Separation between art and artist. And then he blasts through it, Wile E. Coyote–style—plunger detonator, flaming wire, dynamite sticks, all that. Many of his novels depict artists who, although they initially believe otherwise, gradually come to learn that their art can never be disarticulated from their existence. There is, they learn, no wall. His art often scrutinizes the delusion that artists maintain about their art’s originality and sovereignty from their own lives. We’ll see many examples of this, but for now let us focus on just one.

Early on in The Anatomy Lesson the writer Nathan Zuckerman avers: Life and art are distinct. . . . [W]hat could be clearer?⁶⁶ But the joke’s on Zuckerman. By story’s end, he is in excruciating physical pain. During his hospital convalescence, he prays that none of the afflictions he has just endured will end up being the subject of one of his novels. He pleads to himself: Just don’t make me write about it after. Not everything has to be a book.⁶⁷ A few sentences later he concedes: "everything can be a book. And doesn’t count as life until it is."⁶⁸ The delusion was that this mythical wall would prevent him from writing about his own experiences.

The Anatomy Lesson, a book published in 1983, is the book that emerged from all that pain Nathan Zuckerman underwent. If that sounds a bit dizzying—for who wrote this book, Philip Roth or Nathan Zuckerman?—then please recall that Roth is a master of what is known as metafiction. That