From the Superficial to the Jamesian (Part Four of Six)

Zuckerman, however, continues to harbor some degree of ressentiment against the Swede. He begrudges him for having succeeded too easily, becoming an AAmerican not by sheer striving...[but] by virtue of [his] isomorphism into the Wasp world" (89). I would argue, moreover, that this ressentiment causes the narrator to continue misreading the Swede long after issuing his initial disclaimer.

As I see it, Zuckerman gets it wrong "all over again" in attempting to expose the torment beneath the Swede=s robust figure of contentment. Working with only a handful of facts, supplied by the Swede's brother Jerry -- who is himself a highly biased source -- the narrator concocts his own "dazzling illusion...an astonishing farce of misperception" to account for the Swede's inner life, up through and beyond his daughter's debut as the Rimrock bomber. In fact, this is one of the few morbid details that Zuckerman manages to uncover about the Swede. The rest is all a "realistic chronicle" that the narrator "dream[s]" up (89). (He admits this in a mid-paragraph confession that is easily missed on a first read of the novel.)

Operating on the basis of Jerry's assertion that "simple is never that simple" (68), Zuckerman takes the liberty of portraying his subject as the survivor of a series of traumatic episodes which, in reality, may never have occurred. Indeed, Zuckerman has no way of knowing whether any of the following ever took place: the Swede's incestuous moment with his young daughter at the beach; Merry's involvement with Rita Cohen and her confession to killing four people and to becoming a Jain; his wife=s self-indulgent breakdown and subsequent affair with Orcutt; and his own liaison with his daughter's psychiatrist.

Even if these are imagined events, however, the question remains of how the narrator's misreading of the Swede constitutes ressentiment. Where is the wrath and self-deception behind it? Given that the novel ends with the question of "[w]hat on earth is less reprehensible than the life of the Levovs?" (423), it would seem that Zuckerman views the Swede with sympathy, as opposed to wrath. I would argue, though, that this is precisely where the narrator's and reader's self-deception lies. If Zuckerman were truly sympathetic towards the protagonist, he would not have concocted a fantasy in which the latter endures suffering on the level of Job's. Simply by imagining a Rita Cohen to demonize the Swede, the narrator suggests that the protagonist is in some way guilty and, thereby, shows his contempt for him. While the Swede may protest that "[t]here's more human sense in one page of [Merry's] stuttering diary than in all the sadistic idealism in [Rita's] head," her persistent accusations have the effect of tarnishing the Swede's shining image. Like those falsely accused of hideous crimes, he becomes a criminal in perception, if not in fact. His semblance of guilt, moreover, is exacerbated by the hostility he encounters from Merry. The Swede=s daughter, as she is imagined by Zuckerman, performs a role similar to that of Isabel in Portrait. Though exceedingly bright, and basically well-intentioned, both are destructive to themselves and to others. Indeed, Merry lashes out against her father just as Isabel lashes out against Goodwood. In both cases, the charges filed against the accused are nebulous; one can only conclude that Merry and Isabel resent any encroachment on their freedom, even when it is made in their best interest.

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