I haven’t read a lot of books about friendship between two older men, nor a lot about aging and dying. You can sort of tell this is a minor novel but (putting aside the fact that they’re all basically my grandfather so i’m inclined to like them) these midcentury jewish writers like Roth and Bellow are so rich and so existentially funny that they make lots of modern stuff feel so bloodless. It’s just that quality without a name where in some novels it feels like life itself is being reproduced and in some it feels like “characters” are “being described”. Ya either have it or ya don’t and this guy has it. 

This is not really Bellow’s fault but it feels a bit low to play spot-the-thinly-disguised-midcentury-intellectual every time a character is introduced. It’s a bit Marvel Cinematic Universe.