He never slides into pure surrealism, but the book calls for strong powers of suspension of disbelief. The introduction of the absurdist concept is the primary thrust into a debate of these topics in the form of a relentless interior monologue. A skillful manipulator of language, his stock libidinous narrator is back, giving us a skewed look at the trials of marriage, attraction, and deception, the cruelty of fate, the slippery slope of self-medication, the persistence of psychological wounds, all familiar territory, but displaying much compassion for the human condition. He makes use of extreme intimacy, as usual, to gain the reader’s trust. It ponders tried and true questions: Hypochondria, old age, shame, fear, the neuroses of modern men – all trademark Roth. Not always polished to a high gleam, not Nabokov, but well-rhythmed, easy to read, often intelligent in scope and content. Pristine prose stylings are why I read this author. A plot worthy of Woody Allen initially turned me off, but I’m reevaluating my impression toward Roth, and this was short enough to read in one sitting.

The Breast by Philip Roth