When a customer asks for a book recommendation, requesting
something gritty, modern, perhaps involving families (customers really can be
precise in their requests), I often turn to Mr Roth’s ‘American Pastoral’. One such time the customer responded that she
had read it, adored it and reread it. We got to talking about how Roth would
invariably be studied for years to come, such is his calibre. However, she had
one complaint; ‘I wish he wouldn’t write the filth. If he leaves out those
bits, he’s amazing’. The Dying Animal, I imagine, is an
example of what this customer dislikes in Roth’s work.
David Kapesh is an aging professor, critically exclaimed and
respected, and a prolific shagger of his female students. So much so that his
marriage failed and his son hates him, but he cares not because he is free to
wine and dine a new groupie each term. After years of sexploits, a female
student named Consuela, daughter of Cuban exiles, wields a power over Kapesh that
no other woman has been able to achieve. What ensues is insecurity, frustration
and an elderly man’s meditations on life, sex, freedom, legacy, what have you.
One particularly visceral scene sees the Professor desperate to compete with
ghosts of teenagers past. I hate spoilers, so I will just say that your eyes
will widen, and those with soft constitutions will feel a little queasy.
There is the danger of reading this novella and not being
able to get past the young woman. It’s all a bit Woody Allen, you might think. In
fact, there’s really no getting around it. It is. But Woody’s penchant is
accompanied, in his best work, by the charm of funny, earnest dialogue. Roth’s
protagonist is not so much endearing because of his neurosis, so much as
compelling because of his flaws. But he
is compelling. Yet Consuela, the one woman who can drive Kapesh to frustration,
is to the reader somewhat empty. Kapesh even tells us she is not brilliant. But
he does love her breasts. Man, does he love her breasts. Does Roth condone
his narrator’s callous objectification of women? Are we meant to like it or
hate it? Be aroused by it? It’s
difficult to know. That’s for your own analysis and your own moral
compass (and or book club) to process. The language is fantastic, but like
Woody, like Rivers Cuomo singing ‘Across the Sea’, it is a little difficult to
shake that vibe of great artist questionable views. Yet by the end of the
novel, again, no spoilers, the reader cannot help but feel sympathy for Kapesh.
It is with hindsight you question that sympathy.
As for the ‘filth’, I have no qualms. I was raised Catholic
so I’m as inwardly perverse as the next priest. If Fifty Shades sparks a new
wave of erotica I will be quite happy. The problem is, writing erotica is
bloody difficult. Roth, thankfully, is no E.L James. He has the chops to undress
characters and entrance, not leave you smirking or scratching your head: unless
you’re particularly adolescent. The problem with The Dying Animal, despite Roth’s
unquestionable talent, is that Kapesh is too adolescent. Roth is an incredible
writer, The Dying Animal a
captivating read and his inclination to write about sex absolutely welcome as
far as I’m concerned. It’s just a shame his thoughts on sex appear so one
sided.
