In 1965, Saul Bellow was rich. After the publication of his novel Herzog the previous year, the ornery and erudite Chicago-born writer was lavished with attention, praise, and (strangely, for a writer, even during those more literate times) money.
In my simplicity I thought the noise of Herzog would presently die down, but it seems only to get louder. I can’t pretend it’s entirely unpleasant. After all, I wanted something to happen, and if I find now that I can’t control the volume I can always stuff my ears with money.