Reviews
A simple but powerful reminder to cherish the life we have, to hold our loved ones close, to consider the pain and remorse carried by every individual, and to utilize the time we have left to attempt to account for our earlier wrongs.
Woah! Finished in a day. Will be reading more of Philip Roth 🤩
رحلة إنسان عاش لمجرد الحياة فقط فكر بنفسه فقط ونتيجة أنانيته بقى وحيداً
Come sempre Roth ti toglie tutte le speranze: nel mondo, nelle persone, in te stessa. Quando finisco un suo romanzo rimango seduta in poltrona a guardare il vuoto come una cretina, ma evidentemente è una sensazione che crea dipendenza. E' uno di quegli autori che mi costringono a non leggere niente per i seguenti 3/4 giorni perché tutto il resto sarebbe una sicura delusione.
After reading The Gathering and Disgrace, I thought I'd be tired of reading about death and the decline of the body. However, while The Gathering was simply depressing for the sake of being depressing (and not that well written anyway), Disgrace and now Everyman treat the subject with depth that looks beyond the initial depression and into what I consider to be the deeper implications, all of the conflicting emotions, of growing old and watching your body and others' bodies decline. I did not think this book was depressing, though it begins with the funeral of the protagonist. On the contrary, it seems to show even more how meaningful life is. Perhaps this was based more on my perspective since I don't think Roth's primary objective was to make people go live life to the fullest. I think he just candidly presents a difficult subject without shirking the many emotions and practicalities.
1,5* - I hadn't been this bored in a while
Highlights
longing for the best of boyhood, for the tubular sprout that was then his body and that rode the waves from way out where they began to build, rode them with his arms pointed like an arrowhead and the skinny rest of him following behind like the arrow's shaft, rode them all the way in to where his rib cage scraped against the tiny sharp pebbles and jagged clamshells and pulverised seashells at the edge of the shore and he hustled to his feet and hurriedly turned and went lurching through the low surf until it was knee high and deep enough for him to plunge in and begin swimming madly out to the rising breakers—into the advancing, green Atlantic, rolling unstoppably toward him like the obstinate fact of the future and, if he was lucky, make it there in time to catch the next big wave and then the next and the next…