Foreshadowing Francis Fukuyama’s The End of History, this book takes “post-historical” America as its setting. "That’s where the action is." The protagonist, Kenneth, has moved all the way from Paris to be there – to be closer to his uncle Ben, the brilliant, world-famous botanist. Kenneth thinks Ben has something to teach him, and the novel is composed almost entirely of their conversations as they fret about their romantic problems, interspersed with the meandering, stop-start reflections of Kenneth as he thinks through his life, philosophy, and the predicament of man after “enlightenment, science, and democracy” have triumphed. Man should be happy, but instead he is sucked into the ever-expanding vortex of ideas, obsessions, sexual neuroticism, money mania, and second-rate art. It’s a novel of ideas:
“The U.S.A. … that terrific posthistorical enterprise carrying our destinies, lost momentum, sagged, softened. There threaded itself through me the dreadful suspicion that the costs of its dynamism were bigger than I had reckoned. I was warned to keep away. My parents both told me I was making a mistake. My father especially said I was too ambitious and wanted to put my ill-hidden hubris to the ultimate test by taking on America itself. I could, and did, fill in the details for myself. Your soul had its work cut out for it in this extraordinary country. You got spiritual headaches. You took sexual Tylenol for them. It wasn't an across-the-counter transaction. The price was infinitely greater than the easy suppositions of the open society led you to expect. … There seems to be a huge force that advances, propels, and this propellant increases its power by drawing value away from personal life and fitting us for its colossal purpose. It demands the abolition of such things as love and art ...
Of course, we all have these thoughts today instead of prayers. And we think these thoughts are serious and we take pride in our ability to think, to elaborate ideas, so we go round and round in consciousness like this. However, they don't get us anywhere; our speculations are like a stationary bicycle. And this, too, was dawning on me. These proliferating thoughts have more affinity to insomnia than to mental progress. Oscillations of the mental substance is what they are, ever-increasing jitters.”
An almost Platonic dualism runs throughout the book as it works out the disastrous consequences of Uncle Ben descending from on high into the messy particularities of contemporary life and contemporary sexuality. The contrast is an amusing one: how can a man this brilliant be so useless with women? Bellow takes a keen eye to all this, and as always there are so many quotable passages:
“…maybe a man does lie to himself when he's in love, but … in love he lies well and it transfigures him, it makes him rich, more powerful, fuller, it makes him an artist. Without it, only a fraction of him is alive and that fraction isn't enough to sustain a real life.”
We’re in a bind; we search admirably for love and kindness, but more often than not we find instead “two psychopaths under one quilt”. Nevertheless, we must go on striving, for otherwise there is little of us left:
“And what if she wasn't the woman of his heart? He probably wasn't the man of her heart, either. There are people who advise you to leave the heart out of it altogether. It shouldn't figure, it's untrustworthy. In some cases the heart takes early retirement. A philosopher over at the university surprised me once by saying, ‘Your heart also can be a sophist.’ That one puzzled me for some time, but I think now that I perfectly grasp his idea. It's not a dependable criterion. Everybody pays the heart lip service, of course, but everybody is more familiar with the absence of love than with its presence and gets so used to the feeling of emptiness that it becomes ‘normal.’ You don't miss the foundation of feeling until you begin to look for your self and can't find a support in the affects for a self.”
The book’s talkiness and its high-brow, digressive musings will try the patience of some readers. But this is precisely the point: in a world where history has supposedly ended, all that remains is consciousness turning on itself, desperately trying to locate something solid to stand on. Bellow gives us that predicament without sentimentality and without despair. The result is a novel that is wry, restless, and wholly alive.