If Roth had stopped here he would have had a savagely funny satire built around the theme of divided loyalties: he’s a post-modernist who lampoons postmodernism, a Jew with misgivings about Israel. His trouble is, he doesn’t know when to quit; he’s done in by his own ambition. He’s hardly begun before he cuts away from the doppelganger theme to an account of the trial of Ivan Demjanjuk. Pondering the Holocaust gives way to a debate with an old Palestinian friend. Then up pops a mystery man proferring what he claims to be the travel diaries of Leon Klinghoffer.
Roth compares his story to “narrative Ping-Pong in which I appear as the little white ball.” The analogy is misleading, for while there is indeed a lot of back and forth, there is finally nothing very playful about the novel, because Roth is too busy arguing. He argues with his double, with his Palestinian friend, with the Mossad. When he can’t find anyone else to argue with, he argues with himself. The point seems to be to air all sides in the Mideast debate, but the book’s aggrieved, hectoring tone acts like static and by the end, it is impossible to hear what Roth is saying. The author’s arty approach is no help. If he intended to replicate the ironic contradictions in the Mideast, he succeeded all too well, exhausting our patience in the bargain. Our lasting impression is of a prodigally gifted writer searching for evermore complicated and arcane ways to keep himself amused.
