Philip Roth Quote
They were just bones, bones in a box, but their bones were his bones,and he stood as close to the bones as he could, as though the proximitymight link him up with them and mitigate the isolation born of losing hisfuture and reconnect him with all that had gone. For the next hour and ahalf, those bones were the things that mattered most. They were all thatmattered, despite the impingement of the neglected cemetery's environmentof decay. Once he was with those bones he could not leave them, couldn'tnot talk to them, couldn't but listen to them when they spoke. Between himand those bones there was a great deal going on, far more than nowtranspired between him and those still clad in their flesh.
They were just bones, bones in a box, but their bones were his bones,and he stood as close to the bones as he could, as though the proximitymight link him up with them and mitigate the isolation born of losing hisfuture and reconnect him with all that had gone. For the next hour and ahalf, those bones were the things that mattered most. They were all thatmattered, despite the impingement of the neglected cemetery's environmentof decay. Once he was with those bones he could not leave them, couldn'tnot talk to them, couldn't but listen to them when they spoke. Between himand those bones there was a great deal going on, far more than nowtranspired between him and those still clad in their flesh.
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About Philip Roth
Roth was one of the most honored American writers of his generation. He received the National Book Critics Circle award for The Counterlife, the PEN/Faulkner Award for Operation Shylock, The Human Stain, and Everyman, a second National Book Award for Sabbath's Theater, and the Pulitzer Prize for American Pastoral. In 2001, Roth received the inaugural Franz Kafka Prize in Prague. In 2005, the Library of America began publishing his complete works, making him the second author so anthologized while still living, after Eudora Welty. Harold Bloom named him one of the four greatest American novelists of his day, along with Cormac McCarthy, Thomas Pynchon, and Don DeLillo. James Wood wrote: "More than any other post-war American writer, Roth wrote the self—the self was examined, cajoled, lampooned, fictionalized, ghosted, exalted, disgraced but above all constituted by and in writing. Maybe you have to go back to the very different Henry James to find an American novelist so purely a bundle of words, so restlessly and absolutely committed to the investigation and construction of life through language... He would not cease from exploration; he could not cease, and the varieties of fiction existed for him to explore the varieties of experience."