dimanche 5 septembre 2010
Philip Roth, THE GHOST WRITER, Londres, Vintage, 2005 
When I had recently raised his name before the jury at my first Manhattan publishing party - I'd arrived, excited as a starlet, on the arm of an elderly editor - Lonoff was almost immediately disposed of by the wits on hand as though it were comical that a Jew of his generation, an immigrant child to begin with, should have married the scion of an old New England family and lived all these years "in the country" - that is to say, in the goyish wilderness of birds and trees where Amercia began and long ago had ended. However, since everybody else of renown I mentioned at the party also seemed slightly amusing to those in the know, I had been skeptical about their satiric description of the famous rural recluse. In fact, from what I saw at that party, I could begon to understand why hiding out twelve hundred feet up in the mountains with just the birds and the trees might not be a bad idea for a writer, Jewish or not.