American Pastoral

American Pastoral
Philip Roth

(30/06 – 07/07)

Reading this as I did, across two weeks in a old wooden-slatted beach house in Pawley’s Island, South Carolina—it occured to me that even at the best of times: here, in one of my favourite climates, in one of my favourite places in the world — it can still be difficult to read a story about a man’s life being torn apart by the of inevitability of change.

There’s something uniquely American, in that implicit connection between the epochs of society and changes to industry. You may call it the Protestant Work Ethic—but seems to leave the sense that whilst the economics were painful, de-industrialisation actually hit the ego first, and the hardest. This pattern holds also, to an extent, in Europe and in the North of England. The only real difference being that — as is typical for the old-world, where age-old social stratification tends to make a pariah out of those on the periphery — the consequences played out more like a political side-show, a talking piece for unionists and xenophobes. As a result, the crisis did not manifest at a national level; it did not challenge the soul of the nation.

Enter the Swede: our prototypical American Dream. Haggard by the winds of olde Usonia’s changing norms, jobs, cities and faith. For a man whose value is totally modern; for whom the past (including his own inherited Jewish faith) is at most a distraction—this change becomes something altogether more substantial: that is, a change in his mode of living. 

The sound of a biplane passes overhead. The almost decadent timbre of crumbling slate: as an old stone building collapses under the weight of itself. That we will be burdened by the sheer mass of history; pulled down to our foundations, and reduced to a dusted pile intersected by wrought iron girders, is an unfortunate, almost unforgivable, but nonetheless undeniable, fact about life. That we can only mourn the past; that we do not get it back. An internal screaming—about lost cars, about lost momentary loves and hopes. About nostalgia; about unconsummated desire. About lives that could have, maybe, should have been lived, shuttered away by the swing of that revolving door: the one with ‘Permanent Choices’ written in neon-red above it. The lesson from American Pastoral? That those that bear all the fruit of modernity also stand to lose it all in just the same way.

I think we all can, even absent prior experience, imagine what this feels like. Hell, even if we can’t appreciate it—we can certainly feel it. This is the politics of the ‘Rust Belt’ that has driven he who shall not be named to the White House (twice, now). The politics of ‘We desparately need to take back what we deserve‘. The politics of the great American Life once unbounded, and now, seemingly, completely unavailable. And somewhat depressively I can only see that particular feeling getting worse, as the feeling of having missed-out on some great and ultimate thing is more entrenched in today’s youth than ever.

So — to read the Swedes’ story… About his rise, and about his fall — and as thrillingly tragic of a story as it is, it also remains just as relevant and relatable as it has ever been. Where the old ways of doing things are under profound challenge from artificial intelligence the consequences of the Internet and the side-effects of globalisation, climate change and wealth inequality. That these things have not yet been blown apart completely (as against the Swede, once the dust had settled after Merry’s bomb) is something — but I can still feel in me, old Lou Levov’s forlorn confusion at the end of the glove trade of the early 20th century. I can feel it in the not knowing the apex of my prospects, the arc of my life or purpose — to what end, these old thoughts, really have.