Philip Roth, you are among the authors whose works remain opaque to me. This makes me feel like an ignoramus, but also like an elitist for thinking that I have such impeccable taste that I must agree with literary critics.

James Joyce is the leader of this movement, but you are most certainly in my Top 10.

"it was ok" enough for me to read 2/3 of it, but not good enough for me to remain interested enough to read the last 1/3. I was a bit torn about giving up when I had made it so far, but I had already read enough to be able to verbalize what I don't like about Philip Roth (this is the second book of his I've read) and didn't think I was going to pull much more than that. I didn't care about the characters and I feel like the narrator is just a channel for Roth's voice. It is the same narrator in all of his books with a different first name slapped on. I also was bothered by how he frames the story - on some level it is the narrator's high school teacher telling him a story, but when you get into it, it is really the story of the narrator's relationship with the Communist in the title and the teacher just gets in the way of the telling. I don't know what the pretense of the story being just about Ira is for. It is entirely Nathan centric, Ira is supposed to be the protagonist, or at least the central character around whom the events unfold, but the narrator evidently can't get far enough past himself to tell a story about someone else. I get the distinct feeling that Philip Roth is the one who can't get far enough past himself to tell a story about someone else and he picks a new alias for himself in each book. I don't know if the events in any of his books line up with his own experience or he's just imagining himself into most of it, but he's definitely too much of a presence while reading.

I think that the three most powerful characters in these three books of Roth's "America Trilogy" aren't the main characters, not even close. They're the others. The cynics and skeptics. The life-beaten and disabled. Those driven to their last mile by the exhaustion of time itself. For American Pastoral, it's Jerry Levov, the Swede's brother, who almost laughs at his brother's devastation but is actually justified in his lack of sympathy; for The Human Stain, it's the murderous husband who suffers from so much PTSD from the Vietnam war that he even hates the Chinese, who is himself the ultimate cliche, the ultimate example of a horrible war made a farce; here in this book, I Married a Communist, it is Murray Ringold, who has suffered as much, if not more, than any of the characters in this spiritual trilogy, and he is far from the focus of the story.

Roth books, if you're a fan, are usually littered with sentences and passages you ache to remember, and this book is no different. I quote this, a rather inconsequential bit of the story that comes towards the end that might've hit me harder than anything I read in American Pastoral (a book I had to put down to keep composure as well as fend off tears). It sums up the whole of the emotional impact these three books collectively had on me; three books that are heartbreaking in their own ways.

"And so who I betray is my wife. I put the responsibility for my choices onto somebody else. Doris paid the price for my civic virtue. She is the victim of my refusal to-- Look, there is no way out of this thing. When you loosen yourself, as I tried to, from all the obvious delusions--religion, ideology, Communism--you're still left with the myth of your own goodness. Which is the final delusion. And the one to which I sacrificed Doris."

It isn't even the best bit in the book, but look at that second line: "--Look, there is no way out of this thing." Roth has gone on and on in each book, sometimes beautifully, about our inability to accept what cannot be remotely fathomed: what burns alive our hearts until we shrivel up with them, yet that single line is it: the answer, or the closest to. It is the equivalent to the author throwing up his hands, proclaiming "I dunno, man, people are really fucked up," (paraphrasing). This trilogy, especially this book, is about what we lost in the fire in the 20th century (are still losing), and Murray Ringold--more than Zuckerman or the central tragic figure of the story, Ira Ringold (aka "Iron Rinn")--is a victim to time. Roth doesn't only want to get across the point that Joe McCarthy and his Commi-witch-hunt were responsible for pushing so many honest people in the quicksand (aka "getting thrown under the bus"), he wants us to know that the time and place isn't of consequence in the long run, it's that we all walk into the sinking pit at some point.

Sounds depressing as shit, right? The book is pretty marvelous, though, and should be read. It is almost as funny as it is bleak, and it is almost strange how intimate and touching it becomes, since seasoned readers of his might expect the author to pull the rug from under us and show more human dirt and depravity, but instead he gives us catharsis akin to that of a long, loud, heaving crying spell; Roth is actually comforting you.

Con Roth adotto sempre un atteggiamento circospetto. Lascio passare del tempo, tra un libro e l'altro e lo tengo d'occhio. Non sai mai in che modo il caro Philip arriverà a darti una mazzata, non sai mai quale debolezza umana affronterà puntigliosamente. Io però non sono capace di leggere in punta di piedi, leggo "rotolando" sgraziatamente da una pagina all'altra, tipo valanga. Una valanga circospetta. Praticamente un ossimoro con le gambe.
In questo libro Philip demolisce, pazientemente, un uomo. Aveva demolito lo Svedese, il professor Silk, ora tocca a Ira. Ho pensato per tutto il libro di dargli 4 stelline, finché le ultime pagine non mi hanno dato il colpo di grazie e sono finita inzuppata come una macina nelle parole di Roth.
Mi ero dimenticata di aggiungere una cosa che mi ero appuntata su un quadernetto sul treno. Ce la copio.
Mai definire un terzetto di libri trilogia nonostante l'apparente diversità (cioè non è una saga, non è il solito argomento, non è così scontato chiamarla trilogia, intendo quindi trilogia un po' nascosta) fu più azzeccato. Io mi sono sentita sbudellare da tutti questi tre libri. Misteriosamente La macchia umana su tutti. Ricordo chiaramente che faticavo a leggerla. Mi riusciva proprio difficile andare avanti di pagina in pagina, una sensazione strana, una bevanda buonissima che però mi graffiava l'esofago. Pastorale americana l'ho letto col Nano piccino che mi dormiva a fianco. Lo guardavo e leggevo e cercavo nel suo profilo incontaminato i semi di abissali lontananze. Insomma mi chiedevo come era il processo da bambino che mi si addormentava contro il petto a individuo compiuto che avrebbe potuto (speriamo di no) rivelarsi quasi un estraneo per me. Come quando ti guardi tutte le mattine allo specchio e a un certo punto hai le occhiaie perenni e ti domandi in quale giorno quelle si sono installate con ciottoli e ciottolini sul tuo visino ggggiovane. Ora è stata la volta di Ira. Vuoi bene a Ira, vuoi giustificarlo, perdonarne le manchevolezze, le ottusità, ma non puoi proprio. Ci sono, è umano, e ti girano le scatole, perché i miti non andrebbero mai spogliati. E poi mi è preso un dubbio. A un certo punto, parlando del fratello di Ira, suo vecchio professore, Z dice che quello era stato il primo a insegnargli a boxare coi libri, e ora tornava per insegnargli a boxare con la vecchiaia. Ecco, tralasciando la vecchiaia (pur sentendomi spesso vecchia dentro non sono ancora vicina anagraficamente alla vecchiaia, perciò ci penserò tra un po') mi sono domandata, ma io ci boxo coi libri? O mi limito ad ammirarli? Per boxare ci vuole uno scambio dialettico importante, chissà quanti cazzotti mi sono persa o quanti non ne ho dati. Pagine su pagine che mi sono sfuggite di mano.

Nathan Zuckerman – Roths Alter ego – trifft zufällig seinen ehemaligen Englischlehrer Murray Ringold, sie kommen ins Gespräch und reden über die Vergangenheit. Im Zentrum ihrer beider Erinnerung steht Murrays jüngerer Bruder Ira.

Nathans große Gabe ist das Zuhören, und so hört er als Kind natürlich seinem Lehrer zu, und dann dessen Bruder, den er bei einem Besuch kennenlernt. Auch fünfzig Jahre später lauscht er den Erzählungen des alten Murray, der Entwicklungen schildert und Geschehnisse enthüllt, die dem Jungen seinerzeit entweder unbekannt waren oder nichts sagten. Nathan bringt das mit seinen Erinnerungen zusammen, sodaß ein farbenprächtiges, handlungsreiches und hochemotionales Bild entsteht, in dessen Zentrum Ira Ringold steht.
Mehr auf meinem Blog "Notizhefte": https://notizhefte.com/2020/09/30/es-war-einmal-in-amerika/