Roth Memorial Patrick O'Donnell (bio) Arguably the most compelling final paragraph of an American novel, perhaps only second to that of The Great Gatsby, occurs in Philip Roth's The Human Stain, published on the cusp of the new millennium: I turned from the shore, once I was safely there, to look back and see if he was going to follow me into the woods after all and to do me in before I ever got my chance to enter Coleman Silk's boyhood house and, like Steena Palsson before me, to sit with his East Orange family as the white guest at Sunday dinner. Just facing him, I could feel the terror of the auger—even with him already seated back on his bucket: the icy white of the lake encircling a tiny spot that was a man, the only human marker in all of nature, like the X of an illiterate's signature on a sheet of paper. There it was, if not the whole story, the whole picture. Only rarely, at the end of our century, does life offer up a vision as pure and peaceful as this one: a solitary man on a bucket, fishing through eighteen inches of ice in a lake that's constantly turning over its water atop an arcadian mountain in America. (Stain 360-61) "The only human marker in all of nature, like the X of an illiterate's signature": thus Roth's ironic acceptance of the unreadability—the sheer opacity—of the human and the possibility of ever relating "the whole story." Yet Roth's life-project was a prolific and relentlessly provocative attempt to do so, or at least to fill in as many of the blanks as he could, in the time that he had, through all of those flawed and stained narrators and protagonists who inhabit his novels, blind and blind-sided here, illuminated by visions pure and peaceful there. No American novelist I know of, with the exception of Hawthorne, understood how deeply riven with contradiction the "nature" of "human nature" can be. In charting its excesses and its limitations, especially in the realm of self-understanding, Roth lost a lot of friends and made a lot of enemies, members of either party unwilling to accept his scorn for familiar categories; a novelist of filiation, he had no time for affiliation. His satirical proclivities, his attraction to the scandalous, his comic [End Page 111] outrageousness—qualities that both vie and correspond with the philosophical seriousness and the probative cultural and historical density of his fiction—have confused some and irritated others. At century's end, he captures perfectly in The Human Stain the antinomies of our growing intolerance of our own deep imperfection, paired with our growing lassitude in the face of human corruption and violence. In this novel, Roth implicitly protests against reductionism in all of its forms; he is an adversary of the binary, the all-too-easy separability of guilt from innocence and pure from impure that seems to have invaded every aspect of our contemporary Manichean existence in the difficult new century he anticipates, via Nathan Zuckerman, as he takes a last look at a Vietnam veteran alone, ice-fishing on a lake "that's constantly turning over its water atop an arcadian mountain in America." Nature, or the paradoxical snapshot of impermanent, ever-changing nature captured in this "whole picture," may offer a vision of purity against which the illegibility of the human can be marked, but the unreadability of the human stain viewed not as DNA but as "X," a cross-out or cipher, signifies for Roth our impenetrability and excess beyond any mappings offered by science, law, politics, or religion. In a designation that he would have immediately recognized and embraced, he was the most secular American writer of his time. Roth was not interested in life as a singularity, but in lives as pluralities, alterities. Most Roth protagonists live at least two lives, and though we sometimes have Nathan Zuckerman and David Kepesh to try to sort things out, they almost inevitably fall back on a recognition that the story they can tell is only half the...
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