BELLOW’S HAND WRITING: THE TACTILE IMAGINATION MICHAEL GREENSTEIN University of Toronto Three times the concentred self takes hold, three times The thrice concentred self, having possessed The object, grips it in savage scrutiny. Wallace Stevens, “Credences of Summer” (7.8-11) makes Saul Bellow’s fiction so all-encompassing is his blending of details of Chicago’s underworld with the metaphysics of European philosophy. Sudden shifts from highbrow speculative thought to lower com edy or speculation on capitalist markets may prove exhilarating or dizzying to the reader, while his frequent insertions of irony render the task of in terpretation and evaluation slippery. To mediate between the extremes of abstraction and the concrete, Bellow relies on the sense of touch to examine the many channels and avenues of his characters’ universe. His emphasis on the tactile is a hallmark of his fiction, as characters grope for higher meaning while exploring the sensory pleasures of the quotidian: on the one hand, the higher reaches of thought; on the other, the reality of American streets paved with fools’ gold. It is a fact well known among Bellow aficionados that he places his manuscript on a music stand while typing and imagines that he is conducting an orchestra. Accordingly, the connection between the musical key and the typewriter key, the sublime and the tactile, is built into the very fabric of his work. By extension, Bellow orchestrates the mind-body problem within the individual or between couples embracing the mysteries of modern life. In Saul Bellow’s world one way of seizing the day is to grab the body, for, as Dr. Adler tells his beleaguered son Wilhelm, “the massage does a world of good.” Whereupon the doctor opens his “small hand on the table in a gesture so old and so typical that Wilhelm felt it like an actual touch upon the foundations of his life” (Seize the Day 44). The contiguity between table and personality extends to a Bellovian connection between touching and metaphysics, or between massage and the transcendental. Toward the middle of To Jerusalem and Back Bellow follows Dr. Adler’s advice and takes time off for the here-and-now of one of his sublime rubdowns: “Moshe English Stu d ies in C a n a d a , 2 1, 4, December 1995 W hat physical the masseur is delicate in person; his hands, however, have the strength that purity of purpose can give. ... He seems untouched by life” (64). And, while the author immediately explains the phrase “untouched by life” as pertaining to someone who has lived without cynicism, the reader should also note the contrast between delicacy and strength in the person of the masseur whose hands fulfil the carpe diem of the flesh. Moshe’s delicate strength not only enables him to relieve people of their muscular tensions, but his oxymoronic quality and purity of purpose transcend the anatomical aspects of his vocation: “For me, massage is a personal relationship and kind of an act of love” (65). If there is any doubt about Bellow’s metaphysics of massage in its approximation of Buber’s I-Thou relationship and Wilhelm Reich’s orgone therapy, then we need only turn the page of To Jerusalem and Back, for the next section begins with a reference to Israel losing touch with reality. In Bellow’s vocabulary “touch” is a loaded term connecting physical sensation to other realms of the imagination. While Bellow’s fiction advocates the therapeutic value of the steam bath, “Him with His Foot in His Mouth” reveals the hazards of excessive handling. In a long epistle to Miss Rose, Dr. Harry Shawmut — musicologist, ironist, and metaphysician — explains to the retired librarian why he insulted her thirty-five years earlier. Having wounded her a generation ago, he now suf fers not only from remorse but also from hypertension, cardiac disorders, cracked dental roots, a hemorrhoid the size of a walnut, and creeping arthri tis of the hands. In British Columbia, Shawmut discovers that something has gone wrong with the middle finger of his right hand: “The hinge had stopped working and the finger was curled like a snail — a painful new af fliction. Quite a...
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