Philip Roth and Cynthia Ozick are both members of a generation of Jewish writers who displayed remarkable literary ability and did much to shape the American cultural scene. Thus one can’t but be fascinated by Ozick’s assessment of Roth, which appears just a few weeks before the sixth anniversary of his death. Although both Ozick and Roth filled their novels with unmistakably Jewish characters, Ozick openly advocated an embrace of Jewish particularism—what she described as blowing through the “narrow end of the shofar”—while Roth always chafed at being labeled a Jewish writer.
Ozick notes a 2014 interview in which Roth, confronted with that label, insisted that his “family has been here 120 years, or for more than half of America’s existence. They arrived during the second term of President Grover Cleveland, only seventeen years after the end of Reconstruction.” “What,” asks Ozick, “might Henry Adams say to that? Or Gore Vidal?” She adds:
In Roth’s assemblage of family members, fictional and otherwise, his foreign-born grandmother is curiously, and notably, mostly absent. “She spoke Yiddish, I spoke English,” he once remarked, as if this explained her irrelevance. Was this insatiable student of history unaware of, or simply indifferent to, her experiences, the political and economic circumstances that compelled her immigration, the enduring civilization that she personified, the modernist Yiddish literary culture that was proliferating all around him in scores of vibrant publications in midcentury New York? Was he altogether inattentive to the presence of I.B. Singer, especially after Bellow’s groundbreaking translation of “Gimpel the Fool,” which introduced Yiddish as a Nobel-worthy facet of American literature?
Speculation about the private, intimate, hidden apprehensions of Roth-the-Fearless may be illicit, but what are we to make of his dismissal of the generation whose flight from some Russian or Polish or Ukrainian pinpoint village had catapulted him into the pinpoint Weequahic section of Newark, New Jersey? Was it the purported proximity of Grover Cleveland, or the near-at-hand Yiddish-speaking grandmother, who had made him the American he was? Had Roth lived only a few years more, he might have discovered a vulnerability that, like the [fictional] Roth family under President Lindbergh [in his 2004 The Plot Against America], he might have been unprepared to anticipate.
More about: American Jewish literature, Cynthia Ozick, Philip Roth