My first Roth and, I’m sure, not my last. A fun Freudian phallodrama that moves at a breathless neurasthenic clip. Roth holds outsiderness and othership under a jeweler’s loupe and twirls them against the light. He makes himself a Christ figure and begs us to consider if we aren’t doomed to do the same when we engage in psychotherapy. When a confession is given so freely we of course have to wonder whether the penitent truly feels bad or if they’re just enjoying some catharsis of the chaise lounge variety.
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*chaise longue. But I agree, this was my first and so far only Roth and I don’t have a good excuse.