The Plot Against America by Philip Roth

And I couldn’t just go and sign one out from the playground back of the school unless we were going to use it right there, so what I did—I who’d not stolen anything so far other than some change from my parents’ pockets—what I did without a moment’s hesitation was to stroll down Kerr avenue to where there were one-family houses with front and back lawns and case every driveway until I saw what I was after—a football to steal, a real leather Wilson football, scuffed from the pavement, with worn leather lacing and a bladder you inflated, that some kid with money had left unattended. I tucked it under my arm and tuck off, tearing all the way up the hill to Summit Avenue as if I were returning a kickoff for old Notre Dame.

Mmm… Philip Roth. I love Philip Roth. Just looking at that cover image makes me froth with joy. The Plot Against America. How corny is that? If somebody told me they were reading a book called this, I’d think, Oh you read those types of books. But then below the title is the bold, almost protruding, ROTH—a freaking monosyllabic force—and then you know this book is about to punch you in the stomach. If you’ve read the novel you’ll know that that actually doesn’t make any sense and I don’t know where all this worthless rambling is coming from but “I already typed it so it’s staying.”

In the book, Charles Lindbergh, aviation hero, is elected President in 1940 instead of FDR. Lindbergh ran on a “keep America out of the European war” platform, and, when he won, scared the crap out of American Jews for it appeared that he was an Anti-Semite, albeit much more subtler than Hitler. This is all set up in the beginning of the book and it’s extremely interesting and then we are introduced to the Roth family (the fictional version), who are the microcosm of all Jewish families in America at the time, and eventually a little civil war breaks out in the home. The first third of the book is absolutely incredible. I really can’t understate how much I liked it. The rest is still good but is more frantic. A lot more people involved in the “plot” are introduced and Roth seems to really be tying up all the loose ends of his mastermind hypothetical history and I think this makes the book less tragic. But, like I said, it’s still really good; it’s just that the first hundred twenty some pages are especially amazing.

The writing, of course, is top shelf. Roth’s command of his story is beautiful. It’s so incisive and sharp that the words seem to exist on their own, without a creator, and that, my friends, is the pinnacle of good writing. It reads so effortlessly and you can tell that this is a mature author writing at his most comfortable. I think the best word to describe the writing is lucid. It’s definitely the most clear and articulate stuff I’ve read this year.

This and American Pastoral make me want to scream high above the mountaintops: Philip Roth is the best living author publishing in the English language. Now you might say, “But Zach, how can you make such a bold proclamation unless you’ve read every book by every author?” And after shoving my groin in your face, I would probably say, first of all, What have YOU read? and second, the proof is in the pudding—once you’ve tasted the best, you know it can’t be topped. “But Zaaccchhhh.” “But Zach nothing, Roth cannot and will not be beat. It’s gotta be either him or McCarthy… Mary McCarthy that is.” (I’m obviously kidding. I always see her books beside Cormac’s and although she’s renowned she’ll always be the lesser McCarthy.)

Seriously, folks, I really recommend this. You might try American Pastoral first but either way you’re winning the lottery.