Download Free Paul Randolph Lonely Eden Raritan

2012 Sonar Kollektiv 2012 Sonar KollektivWhy buy on Qobuz. Stream or download your musicBuy an album or an individual track. Or listen to our entire catalogue with our high-quality unlimited streaming subscriptions.

Zero DRMThe downloaded files belong to you, without any usage limit. You can download them as many times as you like. Choose the format best suited for youDownload your purchases in a wide variety of formats (FLAC, ALAC, WAV, AIFF.) depending on your needs. Listen to your purchases on our appsDownload the Qobuz apps for smartphones, tablets and computers, and listen to your purchases wherever you go.

American Pastoral Philip Roth VINTAGEINTERNATIONALVintage Books A Division of Random House, Inc. New York To J. FIRST VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL EDITION, FEBRUARY 1998 Copyright © 1997 by Philip Roth All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Houghton Mifflin Company, New York, in 1997. 'Dream' by Johnny Mercer.

Copyright 1944 (renewed), WB Music Corp. All rights reserved.

Used by permission. Publications U.S.

Inc., Miami, Florida, 33014. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Roth, Philip. American pastoral / Philip Roth.—1st Vintage International ed. ISBN 0-375-70142-7 1. United States—History—1961-1969—Fiction. PS3568.08 97-35623 813'.54—dc21 CIP Random House Web address: Printed in the United States of America 3579B864Dream when the day is thru, Dream and they might come true, Things never are as bad as they seem, So dream, dream, dream. — Johnny Mercer, from 'Dream' popular song of the 1940$ the rare occurrence of the expected.

— William Carlos Williams, from 'At Kenneth Burke's Place,' 1946 I Paradise Remembered The Swede. During the war years, when I was still a grade school boy, this was a magical name in our Newark neighborhood, even to adults just a generation removed from the city's old Prince Street ghetto and not yet so flawlessly Americanized as to be bowled over by the prowess of a high school athlete. The name was magical; so was the anomalous face. Of the few fair-complexioned Jewish students in our preponderantly Jewish public high school, none possessed anything remotely like the steep-jawed, insentient Viking mask of this blue-eyed blond born into our tribe as Seymour Irving Levov.The Swede starred as end in football, center in basketball, and first baseman in baseball.

Only the basketball team was ever any good—twice winning the city championship while he was its leading scorer—but as long as the Swede excelled, the fate of our sports teams didn't matter much to a student body whose elders, largely undereducated and overburdened, venerated academic achievement above all else. Physical aggression, even camouflaged by athletic uniforms and official rules and intended to do no harm to Jews, was not a traditional source of pleasure in our community— advanced degrees were.

Nonetheless, through the Swede, the neighborhood entered into a fantasy about itself and about the world, the fantasy of sports fans everywhere: almost like Gentiles (as they AMERICANPASTORALimagined Gentiles), our families could forget the way things actually work and make an athletic performance the repository of all their hopes. Primarily, they could forget the war. The elevation of Swede Levov into the household Apollo of the Weequahic Jews can best be explained, I think, by the war against the Germans and the Japanese and the fears that it fostered. With the Swede indomitable on the playing field, the meaningless surface of life provided a bizarre, delusionary kind of sustenance, the happy release into a Swedian innocence, for those who lived in dread of never seeing their sons or their brothers or their husbands again.

And how did this affect him—the glorification, the sanctifica-tion, of every hook shot he sank, every pass he leaped up and caught, every line drive he rifled for a double down the left-field line? Is this what made him that staid and stone-faced boy? Or was the mature-seeming sobriety the outward manifestation of an arduous inward struggle to keep in check the narcissism that an entire community was ladling with love? The high school cheerleaders had a cheer for the Swede.

Unlike the other cheers, meant to inspire the whole team or to galvanize the spectators, this was a rhythmic, foot-stomping tribute to the Swede alone, enthusiasm for his perfection undiluted and unabashed. The cheer rocked the gym at basketball games every time he took a rebound or scored a point, swept through our side of City Stadium at football games any time he gained a yard or intercepted a pass. Even at the sparsely attended home baseball games up at Irvington Park, where there was no cheerleading squad eagerly kneeling at the sidelines, you could hear it thinly chanted by the handful of Weequahic stalwarts in the wooden stands not only when the Swede came up to bat but when he made no more than a routine putout at first base. It was a cheer that consisted of eight syllables, three of them his name, and it went, Bah bahbah! Bah bah bah.

Paul Randolph Football

Bah-fraW and the tempo, at football games particularly, accelerated with each repetition until, at the peak of frenzied adoration, an explosion of skirt-billowing cartwheels was ecstatically discharged and the orange gym bloom-ers of ten sturdy little cheerleaders flickered marveling eyes. And not for love of you or 'Swede Levov! It rhymes with. 'The Love'!. It rhymes withlike fireworks before our me but of the wonderful Swede. It rhymes with. Yes, everywhere he looked, people were in love with him.

The candy store owners we boys pestered called the rest of us 'Hey-you-no!' Or 'Kid-cut-it-out!' ; him they called, respectfully, 'Swede.' Parents smiled and benignly addressed him as 'Seymour.' The chattering girls he passed on the street would ostentatiously swoon, and the bravest would holler after him, 'Come back, come back, Levov of my life!' And he let it happen, walked about the neighborhood in possession of all that love, looking as though he didn't feel a thing. Contrary to whatever daydreams the rest of us may have had about the enhancing effect on ourselves of total, uncritical, idolatrous adulation, the love thrust upon the Swede seemed actually to deprive him of feeling.

In this boy embraced as a symbol of hope byso many—as the embodiment of the strength, the resolve, the emboldened valor that would prevail to return our high school's servicemen home unscathed from Midway, Salerno, Cherbourg, the Solomons, the Aleutians, Tarawa—there appeared to be not a drop of wit or irony to interfere with his golden gift for responsibility. But wit or irony is like a hitch in his swing for a kid like the Swede, irony being a human consolation and beside the point if you're getting your way as a god. Either there was a whole side to his personality that he was suppressing or that was as yet asleep or, more likely, there wasn't.

His aloofness, his seeming passivity as the desired object of all this asexual lovemaking, made him appear, if not divine, a distinguished cut above the more primordial humanity of just about everybody else at the school. He was fettered to history, an instrument of history, esteemed with a passion that might never have been if he'd broken the Weequahic basketball record—by scoring twenty-seven points against Barringer—on a day other than the sad, sad day in 1943 when fifty-eight Flying AMERICANPASTORALFortresses were shot down by Luftwaffe fighter planes, two fell victim to flak, and five more crashed after crossing the English coast on their way back from bombing Germany. The Swede's younger brother was my classmate, Jerry Levov, a scrawny, smallheaded, oddly overflexible boy built along the lines of a licorice stick, something of a mathematical wizard, and the January 1950 valedictorian. Though Jerry never really had a friendship with anyone, in his imperious, irascible way, he took an interest in me over the years, and that was how I wound up, from the age of ten, regularly getting beaten by him at Ping-Pong in the finished basement of the Levovs' one-family house, on the corner of Wynd-moor and Keer— the word 'finished' indicating that it was paneled in knotty pine, domesticated, and not, as Jerry seemed to think, that the basement was the perfect place for finishing off another kid.

The explosiveness of Jerry's aggression at a Ping-Pong table exceeded his brother's in any sport. A Ping-Pong ball is, brilliantly, sized and shaped so that it cannot take out your eye. I would not otherwise have played in Jerry Levov's basement. If it weren't for the opportunity to tell people that I knew my way around Swede Levov's house, nobody could have got me down into that basement, defenseless but for a small wooden paddle.

Nothing that weighs as little as a Ping-Pong ball can be lethal, yet when Jerry whacked that thing murder couldn't have been far from his mind. It never occurred to me that this violent display might have something to do with what it was like for him to be the kid brother of Swede Levov. Since I couldn't imagine anything better than being the Swede's brother—short of being the Swede himself—I failed to understand that for Jerry it might be difficult to imagine anything worse. The Swede's bedroom—which I never dared enter but would pause to gaze into when I used the toilet outside Jerry's room—was tucked under the eaves at the back of the house.

With its slanted ceiling and dormer windows and Weequahic pennants on the walls, it looked like what I thought of as a real boy's room. From the two windows that opened out over the back lawn you could see the roofof the Levovs' garage, where the Swede as a grade school kid practiced hitting in the wintertime by swinging at a baseball taped to a cord hung from a rafter— an idea he might have got from a baseball novel by John R.

Tunis called The Kid from Tomkinsville. I came to that book and to other of Tunis's baseball books— Iron Duke, The Duke Decides, Champion's Choice, Keystone Kids, Rookie of the Year—by spotting them on the built-in shelf beside the Swede's bed, all lined up alphabetically between two solid bronze bookends that had been a bar mitzvah gift, miniaturized replicas of Rodin's 'The Thinker.' Immediately I went to thelibrary to borrow all the Tunis books I could find and started with The Kid from Tomkinsville, a grim, gripping book to a boy, simply written, stiff in places but direct and dignified, about the Kid, Roy Tucker, a clean-cut young pitcher from the rural Connecticut hills whose father dies when he is four and whose mother dies when he is sixteen and who helps his grandmother make ends meet by working the family farm during the day and working at night in town at 'MacKenzie's drugstore on the corner of South Main.' The book, published in 1940, had black-and-white drawings that, with just a little expressionistic distortion and just enough anatomical skill, cannily pictorialize the hardness of the Kid's life, back before the game of baseball was illuminated with a million statistics, back when it was about the mysteries of earthly fate, when major leaguers looked less like big healthy kids and more like lean and hungry workingmen.

The drawings seemed conceived out of the dark austerities of Depression America. Every ten pages or so, to succinctly depict a dramatic physical moment in the story—'He was able to put a little steam in it,' 'It was over the fence,' 'Razzle limped to the dugout'—there is a blackish, inkheavy rendering of a scrawny, shadow-faced ballplayer starkly silhouetted on a blank page, isolated, like the world's most lonesome soul, from both nature and man, or set in a stippled simulation of ballpark grass, dragging beneath him the skinny statuette of a wormlike shadow. He is unglamorous even in a baseball uniform; if he is the pitcher, his gloved hand looks like a paw; and what image after image AMERICANPASTORALmakes graphically clear is that playing up in the majors, heroic though it may seem, is yet another form of backbreaking, unremu-nerative labor. The Kid from Tomkinsville could as well have been called The Lamb from Tomkinsville, even The Lamb from Tomkinsville Led to the Slaughter. In the Kid's career as the spark-plug newcomer to a last-place Brooklyn Dodger club, each triumph is rewarded with a punishing disappointment or a crushing accident. The staunch attachment that develops between the lonely, homesick Kid and the Dodgers' veteran catcher, Dave Leonard, who successfully teaches him the ways of the big leagues and who, 'with his steady brown eyes behind the plate,' shepherds him through a no-hitter, comes brutally undone six weeks into the season, when the old-timer is dropped overnight from the club's roster.

'Here was a speed they didn't often mention in baseball: the speed with which a player rises—and goes down.' Then, after the Kid wins his fifteenth consecutive game—a rookie record that no pitcher in either league has ever exceeded—he's accidentally knocked off his feet in the shower by boisterous teammates who are horsing around after the great victory, and the elbow injury sustained in the fall leaves him unable ever to pitch again. He rides the bench for the rest of the year, pinch-hitting because of his strength at the plate, and then, over the snowy winter—back home in Connecticut spending days on the farm and evenings at the drugstore, well known now but really Grandma's boy all over again—he works diligently by himself on Dave Leonard's directive to keep his swing level ('A tendency to keep his right shoulder down, to swing up, was his worst fault'), suspending a ball from a string out in the barn and whacking at it on cold winter mornings with 'his beloved bat' until he has worked himself into a sweat. The clean sweet sound of a bat squarely meeting a ball.' By the next season he is ready to return to the Dodgers as a speedy right fielder, bats.325 in the second spot, and leads his team down to the wire as a contender.

On the last day of the season, in a game against the Giants, who are in first place by only half a game, the Kid kindles the Dodgers'hitting attack, and in the bottom of the and the Dodgers ahead on a run scored by characteristically muscular baserunning— running catch smack up against the rightfourteenth—with two down, two men on, the Kid with his audacious, he makes the final game-saving play, a center-field wall. That tremendousdaredevil feat sends the Dodgers into the World Series and leaves him 'writhing in agony on the green turf of deep right center.' Tunis concludes like this: 'Dusk descended upon a mass of players, on a huge crowd pouring onto the field, on a couple of men carrying an inert form through the mob on a stretcher.

There was a clap of thunder. Rain descended upon the Polo Grounds.' Descended, descended, a clap of thunder, and thus ends the boys' Book of Job. I was ten and I had never read anything like it. The cruelty of life. The injustice of it.

I could not believe it. The reprehensible member of the Dodgers is Razzle Nugent, a great pitcher but a drunk and a hothead, a violent bully fiercely jealous of the Kid. And yet it is not Razzle carried off 'inert' on a stretcher but the best of them all, the farm orphan called the Kid, modest, serious, chaste, loyal, naive, undiscourageable, hard-working, soft-spoken, courageous, a brilliant athlete, a beautiful, austere boy. Needless to say, I thought of the Swede and the Kid as one and wondered how the Swede could bear to read this book that had left me near tears and unable to sleep. Had I had the courage to address him, I would have asked if he thought the ending meant the Kid was finished or whether it meant the possibility of yet another comeback.

Paul Randolph Jazzanova

The word 'inert' terrified me. Was the Kid killed by the last catch of the year? Did the Swede know? Did it occur to him that if disaster could strike down the Kid from Tomkinsville, it could come and strike the great Swede down too?