{"product_id":"it-all-adds-up-isbn-9780143106685","title":"It All Adds Up","description":"\u003cb\u003eA fascinating journey through literary America over the last forty years, guided by one of the \"most gifted chroniclers in the Western World\" (\u003ci\u003eThe Times \u003c\/i\u003e[London])\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA Penguin Classic\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sentence by sentence, page by page, Bellow is simply the best writer we have.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn \u003ci\u003eIt All Adds Up\u003c\/i\u003e, Pulitzer and Nobel Prize-winning author Saul Bellow takes readers on a brilliantly insightful journey through literary America over a forty-year period. In sentence after sentence, page after page, readers are offered brilliant perceptions and unusual insights into everyday life in America and the life of the mind. Moving from political figures like Roosevelt and Khrushchev to artists like Mozart, Dostoevsky, and John Cheever, from New York and Chicago to Paris—and including the deeply personal “Autobiography of Ideas”—Bellow, with great humor and wisdom, records the enduring thoughts and opinions of a lifetime of observation, thoughts that speak to us with renewed energy for our times.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,800 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eBy the Winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eSaul Bellow\u003c\/b\u003e (1915-2005) is the only novelist to receive three National book awards, for \u003ci\u003eThe Adventures of Augie March\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHerzog,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eMr. Sammler’s Planet\u003c\/i\u003e.  In 1975, he won the Pulitzer Prize for his novel \u003ci\u003eHumboldt’s Gift\u003c\/i\u003e.  The Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded to him in 1976 \"for the human understanding and subtle analysis of contemporary culture that are combined in his work.\"  In 1990, Mr. Bellow was presented the National Book Award Foundation Medal for distinguished contribution to American letters. He has also received the National Medal of Arts. His books include \u003ci\u003eDangling Man\u003c\/i\u003e (1944), \u003ci\u003eThe Victim\u003c\/i\u003e (1947), \u003ci\u003eThe Adventures of Augie\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eMarch \u003c\/i\u003e(1953), \u003ci\u003eSeize the Day\u003c\/i\u003e (1956), \u003ci\u003eHenderson the Rain King\u003c\/i\u003e (1959), \u003ci\u003eHerzog \u003c\/i\u003e(1964), \u003ci\u003eMosby’s Memoirs\u003c\/i\u003e (1969), \u003ci\u003eMr. Sammler’s Planet\u003c\/i\u003e (1970), \u003ci\u003eHumboldt’s Gift\u003c\/i\u003e (1975), \u003ci\u003eTo Jerusalem and Back\u003c\/i\u003e (1976), \u003ci\u003eThe Dean’s December\u003c\/i\u003e (1982), \u003ci\u003eHim With His Foot in His Mouth and Other Stories\u003c\/i\u003e (1984), \u003ci\u003eMore Die of\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eHeartbreak\u003c\/i\u003e (1987), \u003ci\u003eA Theft\u003c\/i\u003e (1989), \u003ci\u003eThe Bellarosa Connection\u003c\/i\u003e (1989), \u003ci\u003eSomething to Remember Me\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eBy \u003c\/i\u003e(1991), \u003ci\u003eIt All Adds Up\u003c\/i\u003e (1994), \u003ci\u003eThe Actual\u003c\/i\u003e (1997\u003ci\u003e), Ravelstein\u003c\/i\u003e (2000) and \u003ci\u003eCollected Stories\u003c\/i\u003e (2001). A longtime resident of Chicago, Bellow was living and teaching in Boston at the time of his death in 2005.Mozart: An Overture\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e (1992)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In preparing this essay, I have found myself sizing up Mozart as      if I were thinking of writing a novel in which he might appear as      a character. I was not aware at the outset that this was what I      was doing. It was only after I had written half of it that I      recognized what I had done.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mozart is immediately accessible to the naive. Others obviously      require preparation. It is no criticism of twelve-tone composers,      to choose an obvious example, to note that they oblige us to give      some thought to the formal assumptions they expect us to share.      Mozart, however, can be loved freely and naturally by amateurs. It      is because I am an amateur that I have been invited to discuss      Mozart, and I intend to make the most of my amateur standing,      bypassing the problems that intrigue and vex the learned      specialists I have read in my efforts to get a handle of my own on      this subject.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My best course is to convert ignorance to an advantage. What      follows is a confession, supplemented by such tentative ideas as      are bound to flutter out when any of us makes an open declaration      of this sort. I shall begin by saying that there are corners of my      existence which from the first were furnished by Mozart. It does      not seem to me that any other musical tenant ever had to be moved      out to make room for him. I had an older sister-much my senior-who      played the piano. She did not play particularly well. She was a      perfect metronome (metrognome) of a pianist, but she did      familiarize me with Mozart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was a manufacturer in Chicago by the name of Gulbrantsen,      and in his advertisements, painted on brick walls, an infant was      shown pressing the pedals of a piano. The legend was: \"The richest      child is poor without a musical education.\" This was a warning      taken seriously by parents in the Midwest. I was given violin      lessons at an early age. Many of the music teachers were refugees      from revolutionary Russia. Mine was a stout gloomy man from Odessa      seeking a prodigy, a second Heifetz or Menuhin or Elman, to make      his reputation. Obviously I lacked the gifts he was looking for,      and he would snatch the bow and whip my bottom with it. He was so      peevish and futile that I was more amused than hurt. I did,      somehow, learn to fiddle adequately, and until middle age I was on      the lookout for amateur musicians like myself and had the pleasure      occasionally of playing Mozart sonatas arranged for duets and      trios. In my student years I was an unpaid usher at the Auditorium      Theater; the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo and the San Carlo Opera      came regularly to Chicago. Samuel Insull, the utilities tycoon,      gave the city an opera house (before he fled to Greece and had to      be extradited). International celebrities were brought to      Orchestra Hall by Hurok the impresario. There were excellent      teachers of theory and music history and first-rate performers at      the south end of the Loop. Although I was not trained in a      conservatory, I absorbed a considerable amount of music, and while      I preferred books to instruments, there were odd corners of my      existence reserved for Handel, Mozart, Pergolesi, etc.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I have now explained my amateur standing and will go on to the      confessions I promised. But what does one confess today, when the      worst of the sins have become venial? It is the violation of      orderly process of thought as prescribed by the higher rationality      that throws you into sin. To be unscientific is in our time a      grave mental offense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Some of my speculations on Mozart are notably unscientific. I      often puzzle over the nature of his genius. How was it that it      should appear so early and develop so swiftly and be so complete?      Was it because his father was an educator of corresponding genius?      Nobody ever suspected genius of any sort in Leopold. Neither do      the educational or genetic contributions of his mother strike his      biographers as exceptional. Mozart, to borrow a figure from      William Blake, was a piece of ground already spaded and seeded. It      looks, in other words, as if he had brought it all with him. And      then I think of other prodigies born into mathematical or musical      families. The mature forms assumed by these exceptional creatures      are not to be accounted for by environmental or historical      theories. They resemble the flowers or the insects, they have      powers that astonish and physiological refinements or resources of      intelligence too curious to be explained by probability theory or      the ponderous slowness of time, or by trial and error. What they      suggest is the intervention of invisible purposes. \"To a certain      extent,\" writes Alfred Einstein, \"it is true that Mozart was only      a visitor upon this earth. Mozart as a man was nowhere truly at      home: neither in Salzburg, where he was born, nor in Vienna, where      he died.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At the heart of my confession, therefore, is the hunch that with      beings such as Mozart we are forced to speculate about      transcendence, and this makes us very uncomfortable, since ideas      of transcendence are associated with crankiness or faddism-even      downright instability and mental feebleness. These are the charges      and the guilts you open yourself to when you confess that you find      it impossible to dismiss such speculations. To some reasonable      minds this might lead to the limiting of art-art in which      religious or other \"undesirable\" tendencies survive-to ceremonial      or traditional observances. On occasions like the present one:      occasions of cultural piety.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Music, I assume (amateurishly), is based on a tonal code      containing, inevitably, expressions of the whole history of      feeling, emotion, belief-of essences inseparable from what we call      our \"higher life.\" I suggest also that this is where we tend to go      when we have gone as far as we can in the new positive orthodoxies      that keep us within bounds-the assumptions which our education and      the business of the world have trained us to accept as normal,      practical, and indispensable: the founding postulates of our      scientific and technological achievements.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From all this a Mozart gives us an orderly and also an emotional      exit-an endlessly rich and exalted release.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don't want to make too much of this notion of a profound      originality coming from God knows what source. I invoke it as a      corrective to the earthbound psychology that rules our minds in      this century. It does no harm to be reminded that this psychology      is painfully limiting to the intelligence and is often little more      than a convenient way to dispose of troublesome intimations of a      forbidden nature. The miracles that fascinate us are the      scientific and technological ones. These have changed space, time,      and nature. To positivists ours is an object world ruled by ideas.      A contemporary environment is made up of such embodied ideas-ideas      of residence, transportation, seeing and hearing at a distance,      etc. By means of such ideas (and they are highly sophisticated)      the earth itself has been humanized. This is simple enough to see,      and externally self-explanatory. Press a switch and you will see      people, you will hear them speak. Few of us, however, can explain      the techniques by which this is accomplished.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Years ago I read a curious book by Ortega y Gasset called The      Revolt of the Masses. In it Ortega explains what a Mass Man is: he      is not invariably a proletarian-educated professionals may also be      mass men. This is not the place to explain what Ortega was talking      about. Only one of his arguments concerns me here: he says that      the Mass Man is unable to distinguish between a natural object or      process and an artifact, a second-nature object. He takes it for      granted, as part of the order of things, that when he enters an      elevator and presses the button he will go up. When mechanisms      fail, when, for instance, elevators do not rise or buses do not      arrive, the spirit in which he protests reveals that he      understands elevators or buses to be free commodities like      daylight or the universal availability of breathable air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To congratulate ourselves, however, on our educated enlightenment      is simply an evasion of the real truth. We the \"educated\" cannot      even begin to explain the technologies of which we make daily use.      We speak of electronics or cybernetics-but it is all in vain.      Natural processes are beyond us too, and despite our talk of      lipids or carbohydrate metabolism, we understand virtually nothing      about the physiology of digesting or the transmission of nerve      impulses. Face-to-face with the technological miracles without      which we could not live our lives, we are as backward as any      savage, though education helps us to conceal this from ourselves      and others. Indeed, it would utterly paralyze us to ponder      intricate circuits or minicomputers, or attempt to gain a clear      understanding of the translation of the discoveries of particle      physics into modern arms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e These, however, are the miracles for which we have a very deep      respect and which, perhaps, dominate our understanding of what a      miracle is. A miracle is what brings people to Australia in ten      hours. And we owe this to the scientific revolution.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What I am calling to your attention is entirely transparent. No      other generation in history has lived in a world miraculously      transformed by readily available artifacts. Ortega y Gasset      notwithstanding, we are by and large no better at distinguishing      nature from artifice than his Mass Man. Worse, we have lost      Ortega's old-fashioned confidence in our power to explain what      nature is. Can we say that we comprehend the metabolic internal      blizzard that converts matter into energy?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Our assignment, in one sense, is simply to man the artifacts that      technology provides in ever more esoteric and miraculous      variations. But what of the music of Don Giovanni or Cos“ Fan      Tutte considered as a miracle-as a comprehensive revelation of      what Eros can be in two such different outpourings of sound?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I suppose almost everyone would feel that just as the principles      behind a product of technology can be fully grasped if we      determine to study the method laid down for us by intelligent      beings whom basically we resemble, we will be able also to give a      full account of these operas. But when we try to do that, the      music brings us to a standstill. There is a dimension of music      that prohibits final comprehension and parries or fends off the      cognitive habits we respect and revere. We appear to feel that we      are riding the crest of a wave of comprehension that has already      overcome nature, and we are committed to the belief that there are      no mysteries-there is only the not-yet-known. But I think I have      made myself clear. We are as ignorant of fundamentals as human      beings ever were. Self-respect demands that we appear to be \"with      it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And perhaps what I have been saying is related to the growing      importance of Mozart, for as the twentieth century concludes, his      Romantic rivals seem less great than they did fifty or sixty years      ago. The most accomplished of contemporary music historians,      writers like the brilliant Wolfgang Hildesheimer, feel that he is      the sort of man we find singularly familiar, and Peter Porter some      time ago in an Encounter essay (June 1983) wrote that Mozart      \"seems a modern man,\" closer to ourselves than Bach, \"a      personality in sight and comprehensible to our temperament.\" He      goes on to say that there is enough evidence (by which he means      documentary evidence-correspondence, personal reminiscences, data      brought to light by researchers) \"to induce a great sadness when      we consider Mozart's life. It will not look like a triumph, it      refuses to allow us to escape an uncomfortable if anachronistic      sense of guilt; no arrangement of facts or twisting of fiction,      from the sugary distortions of Sacha Guitry to the demeaning      simplifications of Peter Schaffer's Amadeus, will fit Mozart out      in the garments of vindication or apotheosis. He is so very unlike      Beethoven, a titan of a very different sort.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now, \"modern\" is a curious term: it can be used to degrade as well      as (or more often than) to elevate. It can mean decadent,      degenerate, nihilistic, abysmal, at one end-or it can signify a      capacity to overcome contemporary disorder, or to adumbrate a      stage in the formation of a new superiority, or to begin to      distill a new essence. It can mean that the best of contemporary      minds show qualities of power, subtlety, scope, and      resourcefulness, of infinite plasticity, adaptability, of the      courage to cope with all that world history has dumped on the      generations of this present age. \"The human mind,\" E. M. Forster      observed, \"is not a dignified organ.\" And he called upon us to      \"exercise it sincerely.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In Mozart's case, \"sincerity\" is a marginal consideration, since      he was not obliged to seek the truth in German, French, Italian,      or English. His objective was not sincerity; it was bliss. But as      we will all understand immediately, the view that the mind is not      a dignified organ is modern. It is exactly what we expect. It is      this casualness, irony, levity, that we seem in our time to take      for granted. The starchiness of nineteenth-century ideals, the      pompousness of twentieth-century dictators, are rejected and      mocked as dangerous and false. Reading about Mozart's personal      life, we recognize that he was informal, to say the least, sans      faon. He struck no attitudes-the very idea of \"genius\" was alien      to him. From his letters we see that as an observer he was      singularly modern. Let me give a few examples of this. Here is his      description of the Archduke Maximilian, a brother of the emperor      and the new Archbishop of Cologne:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When God gives man a sacred office, He generally gives him      understanding; and so it is, I trust, in the case of the Archduke.      But before he became a priest, he was far more witty and      intelligent and talked less, but more sensibly. You should see him      now. Stupidity oozes out of his eyes. He talks and holds forth      incessantly and always in falsetto-and he has started a goitre. In      short, the fellow has changed completely. (1781-aetat. 35)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And here is his description of a Dominican monk from Bologna:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . . regarded as a holy man. For my part I do not believe it, for      at breakfast, he often takes a cup of chocolate and immediately      afterwards a good glass of strong Spanish wine; and I have myself      had the honor of lunching with this saint who at table drank a      whole decanter and finished up with a full glass of strong wine,      two large slices of melon, some peaches, pears, five cups of      coffee, a whole plate of cloves, and two full saucers of milk and      lemon. He may of course be following some sort of diet, but I do      not think so, for it would be too much; moreover, he takes several      little snacks during the afternoon. . . . (21 August 1770)","brand":"Penguin Classics","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304917029093,"sku":"NP9780143106685","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780143106685.jpg?v=1767730227","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/it-all-adds-up-isbn-9780143106685","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}