Why is it that Canadians don't understand this book? While I agree it's not Bellow's best work, it's certainly a worthwhile read, painting a memorable portrait of a neurotic New Yorker tripped up by his own erroneous thinking.

Surely this is not Bellow's best work, but it's deeply affecting nonetheless. Okay, I'll admit it: I'm an enormous fan of Mr. Bellow's and had this been written by another writer I was less familiar with, I perhaps would have gone the three star route (three and a half--but that isn't an option, so Saul gets rounded up), but there is still a lot to admire here. The prose is gorgeous and, while the story sometimes falls off track, anyone reading should be able to identify with one of the two main characters (or, in my own case, with both of them at different times). It deals with the struggles of the modern world and blaming your own mistakes and misfortune on others to keep up the thin stirrings of hope and an optimistic idea of the future. There is also a lot to say about conformity in a modern world (regardless of the 1947 date of publication, the focus on these elements seems to have become 'modern day timeless', lasting forever as the days and seasons change), and how we are dehumanized by the swift pace and grubbing filth and greed of inhuman business, automated people shuttling to and from whereever it is they for some reason need to be. The way these themes are expressed humanizes this sort of fear and explains the way many people feel as their lives settle down and the sky darkens, with an ominous future of nothing left to look forward to. Now if only Asa weren't so irritating (and believe me--I perfectly love unlikable protagonists, but this guy is kind of grating at times and you often find yourself wishing his nightmare could get worse and worse and worse and worse . . .)

Saul Bellow's novel, The Victim, first got under my skin about fifteen years ago. It is not an easy book to read, but not because it isn't well written or well conceived. The style of writing here is very clean, particularly in comparison to later works by this same author, and the plot is both very simple and very tight, maybe too tight for readers who prefer to luxuriate in a more leisurely unfolding of events. It seems to me that what makes the novel somewhat difficult is Bellow's nearly claustrophobic presentation of Asa Leventhal's character and dilemma. He places his reader so close to his main character that at times the proximity becomes unbearable. But this is what makes The Victim such a compelling read. I can think of no modern American novel I would recommend more highly than this one.

The first work I've read by the 1976 Nobel Laureate, and quite disappointing. Characters are self-absorbed and psuedo-intellectual, Bellow spends all his time describing people through conversation rather than through their actions, and nothing much seems to happen: sort of "My Dinner With Clara," except with bad food. The book ultimately is a character study of boring, unsympathetic characters, and a chore for the reader. I'll have to read Bellow's Pulitzer Prize-winning "Humboldt's Gift" before passing judgment on him as an author, but he's lucky that this work is currently out of print.

"A Theft" is kind of a throwaway in Bellow's mighty cannon. Just over one hundred pages long, the book drops you into the High Society world of Clara, who has married four times and is still fond of her first love, who gave her an emerald ring. She gets her strength from this ring, which she loses once, but then recovers, only to have it stolen. Unfortunately, it takes 60 pages to get to the theft, and that first section is little more than monotonous pining over how bad life is for Clara, whom you never feel much for, anyway. But the theft introduces you further to the nanny, Gina, who is a brilliant character. Whenever Bellow concentrates on her deep and interesting problems, the book picks up pace. The final confrontation between Gina and Clara, (Clara believes that Gina's boyfriend, Frederic stole the ring) is so good it makes you wonder just what Bellow could have done if he'd applied this kind of passion to the rest of the book. Not bad, but really for Bellow-collectors only

This novella is so beautifully written, I stopped after about twenty pages and re-read from the start to savor the writing. Bellow is so good at describing everyday people and things while subtly showing the bigger picture simultaneously...

Of these six short stories - written between 1951 and 1968 - it is easy to find things to praise, difficult to find things to criticise. They are, all of them, dense, substantial, well-crafted, (highly?) intellectual, richly satisfying. Why should one want to say anything against them? Well: 'satisfying' - more, perhaps, in the manner of a cross-country run than a raspberry souffle. 'Intellectual': perhaps too intellectual to avoid the charge of monotonousness. All Bellow's characters are assiduously introspective and intensely aware. In consequence, Bellow has perfected a prose style based upon the agglomeration of clauses rather than the sequencing of fully-formed sentences; a type of stream-of-consciousness. This can be as tiring as it is effective. More than this, Bellow's characters are always radically isolated people. They think, think, think and hardly do any interacting with other people (although they often think about doing so). One never hesitates to say that Bellow, in these stories, is telling us the truth about man; one does hesitate to say that he entertains us with that truth.

As one of the contributors to this collection of essays, I wish to point out that the quality of individual essays is uneven. There was a delay of several years in the publication of this volume, owing to a number of mysterious circumstances. Even after waiting for years and contacting AMS Press and the editors at Georgia State University, I have not been able to obtain my copy of the book, and have had to rely on a library copy. The experience has been unprofessional and disappointing to say the least.

When a collection contains stories by such writers as Agnon, Aleichem, Babel, Malamud, Singer, and Zweig, you know that you're not going to get a bunch of junk ! Sure enough, there are some great stories in this volume, some by people perhaps not so well known, like Joseph Opatashu and Leo Litwak. There are also weak links, but "weak" is certainly in the eye of the beholder, I admit. Nevertheless, I'd have to say that this is an uneven collection and I wonder what the purpose of it was, other than to say, "Yep, we can compile a bunch of stories written by Jews and mostly about themes which relate to Jews." Perhaps the time for such collections has gone by and we can now say that as people, Jews have intimate connections to every aspect of human existence, just like everyone else. Is there really "African-American literature" which is only of interest to African-Americans ? Is there really a "Jewish" literature ? This book provides proof of two answers: one is yes, the other is no. I suppose it depends upon your already-existing perspective. Anyhow, if you want to read some excellent stories, whether you are Jewish or not, try this book. There are a lot of five star stories here---I give the book three stars as a "concept".