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Flashes, Then Fog. The book ends, therefore, exactly where it began: with a gloomy young man who does not like himself or the world, and does not know why. The sole change in Gabe after 600 pages is that he realizes somewhat more clearly the fact (though not the explanation) of his malaise. Page by page, the novel is a rare pleasure to read; the author's strong, astringent style is always under sure control, and his ability to develop and sustain a characterization is astonishing. But there must be some failure of art when every character in the book is more clearly drawn, more comprehensible and more interesting than the hero—and when the hero grows muddier, not clearer, as the book progresses. In fact, Libby runs away with the book.
Perhaps Letting Go should have been her novel; certainly the narrative comes fully to life only when she is present.
But the major reason for the novel's uncertain mood is that it tries, unsuccessfully, to deal with the 20th century's grey plague—a paralysis of the apparatus that detects meaning in life. Greyness of spirit is what one writes about these days; fair enough. But the author's view of things must not be greyed. And in Letting Go, after a few fine satirical flashes at the beginning, Roth becomes bogged in solemnity whenever he tries to assess his dreary hero.
Letting Go must finally be counted a failure, although it is a failure of a quality few writers could achieve. Novelist Roth joins a select and puzzling company of young American writers—among them John Knowles (A Separate Peace}, whose second novel was disappointing, and John Updike, whose last few books have been second ones. Roth's similar floundering raises the question: Will the spreading greyness continue to muffle all the best new voices?