. Spinning .

Jeez this is great; what a perfect complement to Augustine’s wondering of soul. 

Henderson and his man, Romilayu find that they’ve been set up with a corpse in their small hut.  After the initial shock and anger, they must decide what to do.

When he came back we squatted down, the two of us, beside the dead man to deliberate and what I felt was not so much fear now as sadness, a regular drawing pain of sadness.  I felt my mouth become very wide with the sorrow of it and the two of us, looking at the body, suffered silently for a while, the dead man in his silence sending a message to me such as, "Here, man, is your being, which you think is so terrific."  And just as silently I replied, "Oh, be quiet, dead man, for Christ’s sake."  (p. 132)

I don’t know how Augustine can top that one for entertainment value.

Henderson, waiting to meet with the officials of the village, finds that he’s broken his bridge and this brings recall of his dentist, his past, and a meeting with his grown son.

But a father is a father after all, and I had gone as far as California to try to talk to Edward. (p. 120)

This doesn’t seem to say much, and yet for me it epitomized Henderson’s thinking.  He’s talking about flying from Connecticut to California.  That’s all, 3000 miles.  This is a man who’s been traveling all over the world all his life.  He doesn’t quite get it, that this should not be considered a great accomplishment for a father to do for his son, particularly one in his situation.  He’s reminded us many times throughout the narrative that a) he has loads of money, and b) he doesn’t have a regular job or responsibilities.  Henderson seems apart from reality, such as shown by the advice he gives his son at this time:

"You should become a doctor.  Why don’t you go to medical school?  Please go to medical school, Edward." 
"Why should I?"
"There are lots of good reasons.  I happen to know that you worry about your health.  You take Queen Bee tablets.  Now I know that…"  (p. 120)

That is just too funny.  It emphasizes that part of Henderson’s feeling of being out of touch with the rest of the world is obviously true, and likely self-imposed.  Bellow then mellows this insight into Henderson’s oddity by this rather heavy philosophical statement he makes just moments later:

"Oh, I am a fighter.  I fight very hard." 
"What do you fight for, Dad?" said Edward. 
"Why," I said, "what do I fight for?  Hell, for the truth.  Yes, that’s it, the truth.  Against falsehood.  But most of the fighting is against myself."  (p. 121)

He knows, and doesn’t know that he knows, so he knows not.  I love this guy.

I had gotten more of a result than I could have known in the first instants, and instead of an answering cry I heard shrieks from the natives, and looking to see what was the matter I found that the dead frogs were pouring out of the cistern together with the water.  The explosion had blasted out the retaining wall at the front end.  The big stone blocks had fallen and the yellow reservoir was emptying fast.  "Oh!  Hell!" I grabbed my head, immediately dizzy with the nausea of disaster, seeing the water spill like a regular mill race with the remains of those frogs.  "Hurry, hurry!" I started to yell.  "Romilayu!  Itelo!  Oh, Judas priest, what’s happening!  Give a hand. Help, you guys, help!"  I threw myself down against the escaping water and tried to breast it back and lift the stones into place.  The frogs charged into me like so many prunes and fell into my pants and into the open shoe, the lace gone.  The cattle started to riot, pulling at their tethers and straining toward the water.  But it was polluted and nobody would allow them to drink. (p. 107)

A dozen guns massed at you is bad business, and therefore I dropped my .375 and raised my hands.  Yet I was pleased just the same, due to my military temperament.  Also that leathery small man had sent us into an ambush and for some reason this elementary cunning gave me satisfaction, too.  There are some things the human soul doesn’t need to be tutored in.  (p. 114)

The confusing thing is that I always have some real basic motivation, and how I go so wrong, I can never understand.  (p. 92)

Bellow gives us insight into his protagonist via the first person pov (Henderson), though this is a self-image and the reader must assimilate it with his own opinions based on what the character relates as his actions, both from the past (colored by the character’s own memory–if this is conforming to the realistic world) and his current situation.  Henderson is being hard on himself, and yet he is no better or worse than most of the human race.

That’s called developing empathy, and Bellow has indeed achieved this element of writing.

Henderson is such a goof–as are we all.  Goofballs down to the core of our souls.

"She say," Itelo translated carefully, "world is strange to a child.  You not a child, sir?"

"Oh, how wonderful she is," I said.  "True, all too true.  I have never been at home in life.  All my decay has taken place upon a child."  I clasped my hands, and staring at the ground I started to reflect with this inspiration.  And when it comes to reflection I am like the third man in a relay race. I can hardly wait to get the baton, but when I do get it I rarely take off in the necessary direction."  (p. 83)

Why do we do it?  Why do we grasp at straws and turn them into I-beams?  Henderson is so anxious to find what he is seeking–and to find out what that is–that he has pronounced this village queen, Willatale, to be a woman of mysterious wisdom who will be capable of handing him all the answers he seeks.  He is now doubly anxious to save these people from the plague of frogs in their water cistern, and as he mentioned, as Moses saved the Egyptians.  Henderson, in his self-deprecating manner, feels that he is unworthy and must do something for others to become of value to himself and be deserving of the love he receives from his family. 

Is it a fact that no matter how well situated we become in life, however we feel about ourselves and our world, whatever our religion and politics, there comes a time that like Henderson we question it all and our place within it?  Do we, like Henderson, wonder if we are out of place in society–who in general seems to flow through its daily business despite great events, joy or grief–and have the nose-pressed-to-the-window feeling?  Not a feeling of envy at not belonging, but of wanting to understand what draws the border between us? 

I have; haven’t you?

Before I go much further with the reading, there’s something to this novel that for some reason I can’t seem to put into words.

The story of Eugene Henderson, a self-proclaimed millionaire of about fifty-plus, is seeking something and while he’s at a loss to understand exactly what it is, the reader can come up with many different ideas.  This theme of inner conflict aroused by desire is typical novel fare, yet this is more than mid-life crisis or boredom borne of wealth.  Many readers likely could not deal with this character and might write him off as self-centered and spoiled.  Henderson is much deeper than that though, representing clearly that voice within all of us that spurs us on to look further for…well…something.

Now I have already mentioned that there was a disturbance in my heart, a voice that spoke there and said, I want, I want, I want!  It happened every afternoon, and when I tried to suppress it it got even stronger.  It only said one thing, I want, I want!

And I would ask, "What do you want?"

But this was all it would ever tell me.  It never said a thing except I want I want, I want!  (p. 29)

Maybe we’re born with it, maybe that’s what we scream as toddlers, murmur to ourselves as young adults, try to ignore as responsible and mature individuals, miss terribly as the elderly. We’ve all done it (I think…): had a miserably frustrating day and sat out on the back steps and said it aloud: "I want…" and the rest of the sentence hangs there.

So Eugene Henderson has the money to go to Africa.  All this is is a step beyond the normal realm of our individual comfort zone and for the well-traveled Henderson, Africa is virgin territory.  For me, it might be that cabin in the woods, or a freefall from a plane.  It’s testing the water, tasting it and hoping for some sudden lightning bolt of realization.  Even what is sought is looked for not only in different territory and different ways, but since the discovery of what is just as important as where or how, anything goes.  And anything disappoints.

I was very upset, but what upset me was not his expression, which soon changed for the better; it was, among other things, the fact hat he spoke to me in English.  I don’t know why I should have been so surprised–disappointed is the word.  It’s the great imperial language of today, taking its turn after Greek and Latin and so on.  (p. 55)

For Henderson, excited and thrilled at finding a village of people so different from himself, so emotional and as they cry for a sacred cow he believes that he’ll be able to save them, help them.  He comes so close to thinking that he’s discovered his purpose, his want, that when one of them suddenly speaks to him in English it hits him like a dead end.  This wasn’t it.

The beginning of the book sets up Henderson’s story of his life up to that point, focusing on his two wives in particular.  For me, coming off of Updike’s Rabbit, Run, it was too familiar to initiate a posting, carrying me further into the book and the character led by Bellow’s carrot of Africa.  It was a necessary history, of course, but it appears that Henderson’s journey will be much more interesting and telling.

Again, here we must look beyond the circumstances of the character to find the spot where we are him, and he is us.  That’s where the real story lies.