Herzog by Saul Bellow

Moses E. Herzog is a modern-day hero. As his life crumbles about him -- his wife leaves him for his best friend, he gives up a scholarly career -- he writes unsent letters to both the living and the dead, revealing his innermost thoughts. At the edge of sanity, Moses' words are startingly true, deep with thought and emotion. At the end of the book, Moses thinks:

I will do no more to enact the pecularities of life. This is done well enough without my special assistance...

Anyway, can I pretend I have much choice? I look at myself and see chest, thighs, feet -- a head. This strange organization, I know it will die. And inside -- something, something, happiness... "Thou movest me." That leaves no choice. Something produces intensity, a holy feeling, as oranges produce orange, as grass green, as birds heat. Some hearts put out more love and some less of it, presumably. Does it signify anything? ...

Is it idiot joy that makes this animal, the most peculiar animal of all, exclaim something? And he thinks this reaction a sign, a proof, of eternity? And he has it in his breast? But I have no arguments to make about it. "Thou movest me." "But what do you want, Herzog?" "But that's just it -- not a solitary thing. I am pretty well satisfied to be, just as it is willed, and for as long as I may remain in occupancy." (340)

Bellow is a master with language. I will leave only one example:

Herzog felt nothing but his own human feelings, in which he found nothing of use. What if he felt moved to cry? Or pray? He pressed hand to hand. And what did he feel? Why he felt himself -- his own trembling hands, and eyes that stung. And what was there in modern, post ... post-Christian America to pray for? Justice -- justice and mercy? And pray away the monstrousness of life, the wicked dream that it was? He opened his mouth to relieve the pressure he felt. He was wrung, and wrung again, and wrung again, again. (240)

Will have to re-read this book, preferably after I pick up a little French!