Saul Bellow's Enigmatic Love

Abstract

On a summer afternoon approached the old farmhouse where was scheduled to meet my teacher, Saul Bellow. He sat on the porch in a rocking chair with a book in his lap. was nervous about how he would respond to my stories. What else could do but trip on the wooden stairs? He looked up and grinned in sympathy. He was fresh from a great novel's success. The Adventures of Augie March had just won the 1954 Pulitzer Prize, and wondered why he would bother coming here to the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference in Vermont to teach. He was handsome as a movie star. Large brown eyes, wide mouth, head thrown back to enjoy his own laughter an image familiar now from book photos. But then! He gleamed. The presence of Saul, as we students democratically called him, added a giddiness to the already over-excited atmosphere, the boundless aspirations of writing students. Those in the know that summer said Saul was recently divorced. So was I, as it happened, but was not gleaming. had come to Bread Loaf in the hope that someone would lift my disillusion by telling me that my writing, at least, was good. Saul opened my folder, studied it again for a second. There was no other chair. sat on the porch steps to wait for his comments. At dinner the night before, had had to pass him to get to my place. He shoved his chair from the table and said, I seem to recognize you. was pleased but blank. Must be racial memory, then, he said, amused. Who could tell if he was parodying himself, me, the remark, or all three? His books were full of comedy. At the same time, every moment was weighted with significance. The hero's glance took in the random world and transformed it into one where light, falling on a house, a wall, a hillside, spoke of cosmic matters. Material things and events could be more than one knew, Bellow's novels told us, and his heroes all searched for that more. He had a mystic's awareness of hidden matters, and a skeptic's humor about his avidness for them. Saul looked up from my folder. Something's wrong with your stories, he said. He recognized whose work had been reading, and told me to lay off Henry James.