Do we really need to read another novel by a narcissistic, misogynistic, wealthy, self-indulgent, old (or dead), white American man? Well… yes! And our instinct to shy away from such a man – to judge, to perfect, to villainise, to say, “but he doesn’t represent us” – is exactly what American Pastoral by Philip Roth so emphatically rejects.

Framed by an unexpected encounter at a high school reunion, the narrative fixes itself on the life of Seymour “Swede” Levov. The Swede is an almost mythic figure in his hometown of Newark: a celebrated sportsman, businessman, and charismatic embodiment of pure American masculinity. He is the American Dream. So, when at this reunion we learn that he is dead – and that his life has been a tragic one, forever mangled by his daughter’s bombing of a post office in protest of the Vietnam War – we are shocked. If his life is the American Dream, then the American Dream is more of an American nightmare. Through the Swede’s incongruent public image and personal life, Roth argues that people are unsolvable enigmas – too complicated to fully understand.

"Do we really need another dose of despair? Could we, if we wanted to, even take another?"

But do we really need another dose of despair? Could we, if we wanted to, even take another? Is there any fire left to extinguish in 2024? American Pastoral is a snuffer, a damp cloth – and surely, we want to keep the fire burning. So why am I writing about it now, 30 years after its publication, when hope feels so necessary? And why should you read it?

Perhaps, to build a bigger fire, the spark of optimism needs to die down first. Perhaps a setback to reality, however grim, is what’s required. Roth suggests that only by seeing the present as it truly is can change take place. At a time of widespread crises, political figures seem to be doing frustratingly little. Biden frames Israel’s response to Gaza as a slow-working remedy; political powers defer meaningful climate action; gun violence persists, while firearms remain more accessible than ever. Meanwhile, Ukraine is praised for holding up just well enough under the weight of Russia. Roth argues that we need to accept the seriousness of our situation – and act.

But this acceptance of reality extends to socio-political and personal implications too. Roth suggests that rather than insist on reasons and rationalities that don’t exist, we should let our lives and relationships exist in their interwoven, flawed states. Do not trace the threads, but recognise that nothing you find unlikeable, upsetting, or even repulsive has arisen in a vacuum. The Swede’s daughter commits an act of terrorism not simply because she’s a ‘bad person’, but because every moment of her life led her there.

"live like Philip Roth says: be wrong"

Rather than guess at the reasons for a man’s homelessness – apathy, moral decay, or simply “plain bad luck” – live, as Roth suggests, by being wrong. Rishi Sunak recently claimed that a “sick note culture” stems from laziness. Making such statements doesn’t solve the issue. Instead, we should focus on solutions: on helping people, rather than speculating about their inner lives. Roth urges us to look at exterior factors – systems, structures, knowable causes – and change them. Don’t attempt to ‘correct’ individuals or pass moral judgements. Instead, embrace imperfection: it’s unavoidable.

Philip Roth himself is unapologetic about his faults. His own potent character, whether through the perversity of Portnoy’s Complaint or the arrogance of I Married a Communist, offers an unabashed confession of moral infidelity. Roth understands that we’re all messed up. He also understands that we can never fully know why. The novel’s repeated maxim – “Life is just a short period of time in which you are alive” –may strike readers as nihilistic. But this harsh realism is itself a strangely defiant act of optimism. It’s a call to stop moralising, to stop judging, to stop explaining, and to simply be.

"The novel forecasts a timely call to accept and to forgive"

In one of the novel’s most fraught reflections, Roth writes: “That’s how we know we’re alive: we’re wrong”. Chasing perfection, idealism, or neat connections; writing history in orderly terms; demonising or rejecting people – it’s all a hoax. We do not fully know each other. Instead, the novel calls for acceptance and forgiveness.

In American Pastoral, the Swede spends his life trying to figure out why his daughter turned out the way she did. Her life seemed destined for greatness: the family was wealthy, well-liked, and she was a talented, straight-A student. But she had one small flaw – a stammer. Her parents tried to correct it, to perfect an ‘imperfect’ human. If any cause can be found for her acts of terrorism and mental collapse, perhaps this is the most profound: the Swede tried to ‘fix’ someone already great instead of accepting her imperfections.

Perhaps your first step toward acceptance is to read a novel by a man you might not like – a man I certainly don’t – in an act of unconditional embrace. A man whose views and perspectives may not align with your own, but whose greatest value lies in the fact that this doesn’t matter.