For an intellectual product of any value to exert an immediate influence which shall also be deep and lasting, it must rest on an inner harmony, yes, an affinity, between the personal destiny of its author and that of its contemporaries in general. Men do not know why they award fame to one work of art rather than another. Without being in the faintest connoisseurs, they think to justify the warmth of their commendations by discovering in it a hundred virtues, whereas the real ground of their applause is inexplicable-it is sympathy. Aschenbach had once given direct expression-though in an unobtrusive place-to the idea that almost everything conspicuously great is great in despite: has come into being in defiance of affliction and pain, poverty, destitution, bodily weakness, vice, passion, and a thousand other obstructions. And that was more than observation-it was the fruit of experience, it was precisely the formula of his life and fame, it was the key to his work. What wonder, then, if it was also the fixed character, the outward gesture, of his most individual figures? -Thomas Mann, Death in Venice (384)Luckily for them, they did not know where the comedy left off and the tragedy began; and we let them remain in their happy belief that the whole thing had been a play up till the end (Mann 1946: 529). With its stereotypically Rothian ring, this sentence could easily be applied, as a thesis statement of sorts, to several of Roth's major novels. Portnoy's Complaint, for example, balances comedy with tragedy, the comedy of sexual appetite emancipated in the Age of Aquarius with the tragedy of Alexander Portnoy's hyperactive superego. Portnoy's therapy is tragicomic theater, an act of self-invention detached from the unknowable realities of his adult life. Its very title a reference to a play, Operation Shylock fits the overlapping tragedies of twentieth-century Jewish history into the genre of screwball comedy, of faked identities, madcap schemes, and a relentless uninvited absurdity. It is inundated with the theatrical, people acting out within and against their given historical roles, however serious and implacable the history in question may be. The thin line between comedy and tragedy, made thinner by constant playacting, is precisely the principle that underscores Sabbath's Theater. Mickey Sabbath is a puppeteer, a man of the theater down to his fingertips, and the tragedy of his brother's death, in World War II, pushes him toward the comedy of his irresponsible maturity. Indigent and suicidal, Sabbath plays King Lear on the New York subway, and he makes a comedy out of this most formidable of tragedies. Yet the sentence cited above is not Roth's. It is from Thomas Mann's short story, and the Magician (1929), a story with which Roth has had an enduring literary relationship. As an undergraduate at Bucknell University, Roth received a prize for a paper he had written about Mario, and according to Claudia Roth Pierpont, Roth says that if he were dying and were allowed to read just one more thing, it would be Mario (76-77).That Roth has a deep love of European literature is no secret. He came of age, intellectually, at a time when Europe was the self-evident center of gravity in American literary culture. His literary education at Bucknell inclined toward the literature of Britain and of continental Europe. The criticism he read, in the Commentary and Partisan Review of the 1950s, was equally European in aura. American writers were expected to immerse themselves in the achievements of Joyce, Proust, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Flaubert, etc. Either American literature was an offshoot of the European family tree, or there was no meaningful separation between America and Europe in literary matters. Roth's mastery of the English language was, among other things, his point of entry into a European world unfamiliar to his parents and even more so to his Yiddish-speaking greatgrandparents. Roth would never lose his curiosity about modern Europe. …