by Philip Roth


View All Available Formats & Editions
Choose Expedited Shipping at checkout for guaranteed delivery by Thursday, April 25

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780307277718
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date: 04/10/2007
Series: Vintage International Series
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 192
Sales rank: 269,874
Product dimensions: 5.20(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.50(d)

About the Author

In 1997 Philip Roth won the Pulitzer Prize for American Pastoral. In 1998 he received the National Medal of Arts at the White House and in 2002 the highest award of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the Gold Medal in Fiction. He twice won the National Book Award and the National Book Critics Circle Award. He won the PEN/Faulkner Award three times. In 2005 The Plot Against America received the Society of American Historians’ Prize for “the outstanding historical novel on an American theme for 2003–2004.” Roth received PEN’s two most prestigious awards: in 2006 the PEN/Nabokov Award and in 2007 the PEN/Bellow Award for achievement in American fiction. In 2011 he received the National Humanities Medal at the White House, and was later named the fourth recipient of the Man Booker International Prize. He died in 2018.



Date of Birth:

March 19, 1933

Place of Birth:

Newark, New Jersey


B.A. in English, Bucknell University, 1954; M.A. in English, University of Chicago, 1955

Read an Excerpt

Around The Grave in the rundown cemetery were a few of his former advertising colleagues from New York, who recalled his energy and originality and told his daughter, Nancy, what a pleasure it had been to work with him. There were also people who'd driven up from Starfish Beach, the residential retirement village at the Jersey Shore where he'd been living since Thanksgiving of 2001--the elderly to whom only recently he'd been giving art classes. And there were his two sons, Randy and Lonny, middle-aged men from his turbulent first marriage, very much their mother's children, who as a consequence knew little of him that was praiseworthy and much that was beastly and who were present out of duty and nothing more. His older brother, Howie, and his sister-in-law were there, having flown in from California the night before, and there was one of his three ex-wives, the middle one, Nancy's mother, Phoebe, a tall, very thin white-haired woman whose right arm hung limply at her side. When asked by Nancy if she wanted to say anything, Phoebe shyly shook her head but then went ahead to speak in a soft voice, her speech faintly slurred. "It's just so hard to believe. I keep thinking of him swimming the bay--that's all. I just keep seeing him swimming the bay." And then Nancy, who had made her father's funeral arrangements and placed the phone calls to those who'd showed up so that the mourners wouldn't consist of just her mother, herself, and his brother and sister-in-law. There was only one person whose presence hadn't to do with having been invited, a heavyset woman with a pleasant round face and dyed red hair who had simply appeared at the cemetery and introduced herself as Maureen, the private duty nurse who had looked after him following his heart surgery years back. Howie remembered her and went up to kiss her cheek.

Nancy told everyone, "I can begin by saying something to you about this cemetery, because I've discovered that my father's grandfather, my great-grandfather, is not only buried in the original few acres alongside my great-grandmother but was one of its founders in 1888. The association that first financed and erected the cemetery was composed of the burial societies of Jewish benevolent organizations and congregations scattered across Union and Essex counties. My great-grandfather owned and ran a boarding house in Elizabeth that catered especially to newly arrived immigrants, and he was concerned with their well-being as more than a mere landlord. That's why he was among the original members who purchased the open field that was here and who themselves graded and landscaped it, and why he served as the first cemetery chairman. He was relatively young then but in his full vigor, and it's his name alone that is signed to the document specifying that the cemetery was for 'burying deceased members in accordance with Jewish law and ritual.' As is all too obvious, the maintenance of individual plots and of the fencing and the gates is no longer what it should be. Things have rotted and toppled over, the gates are rusted, the locks are gone, there's been vandalism. By now the place has become the butt end of the airport and what you're hearing from a few miles away is the steady din of the New Jersey Turnpike. Of course I thought first of the truly beautiful places where my father might be buried, the places where he and my mother used to swim together when they were young, and the places where he loved to swim at the shore. Yet despite the fact that looking around at the deterioration here breaks my heart--as it probably does yours, and perhaps even makes you wonder why we're assembled on grounds so badly scarred by time--I wanted him to lie close to those who loved him and from whom he descended. My father loved his parents and he should be near them. I didn't want him to be somewhere alone." She was silent for a moment to collect herself. A gentle-faced woman in her mid-thirties, plainly pretty as her mother had been, she looked all at once in no way authoritative or even brave but like a ten-year-old overwhelmed. Turning toward the coffin, she picked up a clod of dirt and, before dropping it onto the lid, said lightly, with the air still of a bewildered young girl, "Well, this is how it turns out. There's nothing more we can do, Dad." Then she remembered his own stoical maxim from decades back and began to cry. "There's no remaking reality," she told him. "Just take it as it comes. Hold your ground and take it as it comes."

The next to throw dirt onto the lid of the coffin was Howie, who'd been the object of his worship when they were children and in return had always treated him with gentleness and affection, patiently teaching him to ride a bike and to swim and to play all the sports in which Howie himself excelled. It still appeared as if he could run a football through the middle of the line, and he was seventy-seven years old. He'd never been hospitalized for anything and, though a sibling bred of the same stock, had remained triumphantly healthy all his life.

His voice was husky with emotion when he whispered to his wife, "My kid brother. It makes no sense." Then he too addressed everyone. "Let's see if I can do it. Now let's get to this guy. About my brother ..." He paused to compose his thoughts so that he could speak sensibly. His way of talking and the pleasant pitch of his voice were so like his brother's that Phoebe began to cry, and, quickly, Nancy took her by the arm. "His last few years," he said, gazing toward the grave, "he had health problems, and there was also loneliness--no less a problem. We spoke on the phone whenever we could, though near the end of his life he cut himself off from me for reasons that were never clear. From the time he was in high school he had an irresistible urge to paint, and after he retired from advertising, where he'd made a considerable success first as an art director and then when he was promoted to be a creative director--after a life in advertising he painted practically every day of every year that was left to him. We can say of him what has doubtless been said by their loved ones about nearly everyone who is buried here: he should have lived longer. He should have indeed." Here, after a moment's silence, the resigned look of gloom on his face gave way to a sorrowful smile. "When I started high school and had team practice in the afternoons, he took over the errands that I used to run for my father after school. He loved being only nine years old and carrying the diamonds in an envelope in his jacket pocket onto the bus to Newark, where the setter and the sizer and the polisher and the watch repairman our father used each sat in a cubbyhole of his own, tucked away on Frelinghuysen Avenue. Those trips gave that kid enormous pleasure. I think watching these artisans doing their lonely work in those tight little places gave him the idea for using his hands to make art. I think looking at the facets of the diamonds through my father's jewelry loupe is something else that fostered his desire to make art." A laugh suddenly got the upper hand with Howie, a little flurry of relief from his task, and he said, "I was the conventional brother. In me diamonds fostered a desire to make money." Then he resumed where he'd left off, looking through the large sunny window of their boyhood years. "Our father took a small ad in the Elizabeth Journal once a month. During the holiday season, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, he took the ad once a week. 'Trade in your old watch for a new one.' All these old watches that he accumulated--most of them beyond repair--were dumped in a drawer in the back of the store. My little brother could sit there for hours, spinning the hands and listening to the watches tick, if they still did, and studying what each face and what each case looked like. That's what made that boy tick. A hundred, two hundred trade-in watches, the entire drawerful probably worth no more than ten bucks, but to his budding artist's eye, that backroom watch drawer was a treasure chest. He used to take them and wear them--he always had a watch that was out of that drawer. One of the ones that worked. And the ones he tried to make work, whose looks he liked, he'd fiddle around with but to no avail--generally he'd only make them worse. Still, that was the beginning of his using his hands to perform meticulous tasks. My father always had two girls just out of high school, in their late teens or early twenties, helping him behind the counter in the store. Nice, sweet Elizabeth girls, well-mannered, clean-cut girls, always Christian, mainly Irish Catholic, whose fathers and brothers and uncles worked for Singer Sewing Machine or for the biscuit company or down at the port. He figured nice Christian girls would make the customers feel more at home. If asked to, the girls would try on the jewelry for the customers, model it for them, and if we were lucky, the women would wind up buying. As my father told us, when a pretty young woman wears a piece of jewelry, other women think that when they wear the piece of jewelry they'll look like that too. The guys off the docks at the port who came in looking for engagement rings and wedding rings for their girlfriends would sometimes have the temerity to take the salesgirl's hand in order to examine the stone up close. My brother liked to be around the girls too, and that was long before he could even begin to understand what it was he was enjoying so much. He would help the girls empty the window and the showcases at the end of the day. He'd do anything at all to help them. They'd empty the windows and cases of everything but the cheapest stuff, and just before closing time this little kid would open the big safe in the backroom with the combination my father had entrusted to him. I'd done all these jobs before him, including getting as close as I could to the girls, especially to two blond sisters named Harriet and May. Over the years there was Harriet, May, Annmarie, Jean, there was Myra, Mary, Patty, there was Kathleen and Corine, and every one of them took a shine to that kid. Corine, the great beauty, would sit at the workbench in the backroom in early November and she and my kid brother would address the catalogues the store printed up and sent to all the customers for the holiday buying season, when my father was open six nights a week and everybody worked like a dog. If you gave my brother a box of envelopes, he could count them faster than anybody because his fingers were so dexterous and because he counted the envelopes by fives. I'd look in and, sure enough, that's what he'd be doing--showing off with the envelopes for Corine. How that boy loved doing everything that went along with being the jeweler's reliable son! That was our father's favorite accolade--'reliable.' Over the years our father sold wedding rings to Elizabeth's Irish and Germans and Slovaks and Italians and Poles, most of them young working-class stiffs. Half the time, after he'd made the sale, we'd be invited, the whole family, to the wedding. People liked him--he had a sense of humor and he kept his prices low and he extended credit to everyone, so we'd go--first to the church, then on to the noisy festivities. There was the Depression, there was the war, but there were also the weddings, there were our salesgirls, there were the trips to Newark on the bus with hundreds of dollars' worth of diamonds stashed away in envelopes in the pockets of our mackinaws. On the outside of each envelope were the instructions for the setter or the sizer written by our father. There was the five-foot-high Mosley safe slotted for all the jewelry trays that we carefully put away every night and removed every morning ... and all of this constituted the core of my brother's life as a good little boy." Howie's eyes rested on the coffin again. "And now what?" he asked. "I think this had better be all there is. Going on and on, remembering still more ... but why not remember? What's another gallon of tears between family and friends? When our father died my brother asked me if I minded if he took our father's watch. It was a Hamilton, made in Lancaster, P-A, and according to the expert, the boss, the best watch this country ever produced. Whenever he sold one, our father never failed to assure the customer that he'd made no mistake. 'See, I wear one myself. A very, very highly respected watch, the Hamilton. To my mind,' he'd say, 'the premier American-made watch, bar none.' Seventy-nine fifty, if I remember correctly. Everything for sale in those days had to end in fifty. Hamilton had a great reputation. It was a classy watch, my dad did love his, and when my brother said he'd like to own it, I couldn't have been happier. He could have taken the jeweler's loupe and our father's diamond carrying case. That was the worn old leather case that he would always carry with him in his coat pocket whenever he went to do business outside the store: with the tweezers in it, and the tiny screwdrivers and the little ring of sizers that gauge the size of a round stone and the folded white papers for holding the loose diamonds. The beautiful, cherished little things he worked with, which he held in his hands and next to his heart, yet we decided to bury the loupe and the case and all its contents in his grave. He always kept the loupe in one pocket and his cigarettes in the other, so we stuck the loupe inside his shroud. I remember my brother saying, 'By all rights we should put it in his eye.' That's what grief can do to you. That's how thrown we were. We didn't know what else to do. Rightly or wrongly, there didn't seem to us anything but that to do. Because they were not just his--they were him ... To finish up about the Hamilton, my father's old Hamilton with the crown that you would turn to wind it every morning and that you would pull out on its stem to turn to move the hands ... except while he was in swimming, my brother wore it day and night.


Copyright © 2007 by Philip Roth

Reading Group Guide

PEN/Faulkner Award Winner

“Our most accomplished novelist. . . . [With Everyman] personal tenderness has reached a new intensity.”
The New Yorker

The introduction, discussion questions, suggestions for further reading, and author biography that follow are designed to enhance your group’s discussion of Pulitzer Prize–winning author Philip Roth’s extraordinary new novel, Everyman.

1. What is the relevance of the title to the story that is told in the novel?

2. What do you learn about the man being buried from the opening scene at the cemetery? What would the book be like if this scene came—as it might if the story were told chronologically—at the end rather than at the beginning?

3. Describe precisely his predicament with his sons, Lonny and Randy.

4. Describe precisely his relationship with his daughter, Nancy. What is the nature of their predicament?

5. Why does he refuse the consolations of religion despite his sharing in the universal terror of death?

6. What is his relationship with the dead? a. With his dead parents. b. With Millicent Kramer. c. With those of his family who are long dead.

7. Why does he take up painting, and why does he abandon it? Why does he begin teaching painting classes to his fellow retirees, and why does he stop teaching?

8. Exactly what transpires between the young jogger and the hero? Trace the shifting development of their encounter line by line.

9. While visiting his parents’ graves, the protagonist imagines his father telling him: “Look back and atone for what you can atone for, and make the best of what you have left” [p. 171]. Why does he imagine his father giving this order? Why doesn’t he imagine his mother giving it? Why does he imagine his mother saying “Good. You lived” [p. 171]. What does she mean? How do you explain the difference between what is voiced by the father and what is voiced by the mother?

10. Some readers have said that they wept when they finished reading the book. Did you weep? If so, why? If not, how do you understand the response of those who did?

11. Examine the final paragraph of the book sentence by sentence. Discuss the motifs that are gathered together in these final sentences and the importance of each to the novel.

12. How does the twenty-first-century novel Everyman significantly diverge in content, form, and intent from the fifteenth-century English morality play Everyman? In what important ways has Roth modernized and secularized that medieval text?

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See All Customer Reviews

Everyman 3.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 66 reviews.
indygo88 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I rarely give up on a book. Even when I'm only somewhat interested, I always push through to the end. But about halfway through disc 2 of this one, I decided it just wasn't for me. I didn't dislike the writing style itself, but the subject matter, or maybe the way in which it was presented, just wasn't appealing to me. I haven't read anything else of Roth's, but this reminded me somewhat of Ian McEwan, who is another author that people seem to love but whom I have a lot of trouble sticking with (I guess I'm thinking most specifically of "Saturday"). I'm slowly coming to the conclusion that if I can't truly appreciate a novel, it's not vital that I finish it. And thus, I won't.
realbigcat on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is the first book I have read by Philip Roth. I read a review and liked the basic theme of the story. This nameless man relives his life from his funeral back. His life is full of regrets, bad health, envy, failed marriages and broken family relationships. It's kind of a dark and sad book in the fact that life goes fast and not the way we hope for or planned. Ultimately it's how we choose to live and play the cards we are dealt. I very much enjoyed this book. It's a quick read but well worth it.
squeakjones on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Slim in pages but expansive in scope, Philip Roth's Everyman is a meditation on life viewed from it's endpoint. You can still see glimpses of the younger, vintage Roth (it wouldn't be a Roth novel with at least one sexual escapade intimately detailed), but the main thrust of the novel is one of sadness and contemplation, as the nameless protagonist review the life he led as his few remaining friends and relatives preside over his burial.If it sounds rather depressing that's because it is, but Roth is brilliant enough of a writer to tell the story in such a way that you're compelled to keep reading straight through. I started this last night with a cup of coffee and finished it this morning reading to my son while he ate some cheerios and I had another cup. There's no real plot to speak of: just a series of reminisces about past glories and failures, and regret at the things we've done and haven't done.Everyman is one of Roth's more accessible books, although I don't think it's so representative of his work that I would use it as a starting place.
Sandydog1 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A poignant and lonely story. Ivan Ilyavich is a philandering, New Jersy Ad Man.
joeteo1 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A simple description of the book is that it is a depressing story about growing old and facing the end of one's life. Facing the litany of medical problems. Facing the regrets of our personal relationships and the painful process of looking back and examining one's life with the understanding that this is nearly it. What could have been done better? What is the best use of the little time that is left to make amends? I found the novel difficult to read for several reasons. The main reason being that protagonist is a fundamentally flawed man- as are many of Roth's characters- and hard to sympathize with despite the title of the book. He is filled with a great deal of pain and regret as he nears the end of his life but I could not help but feel it was deserved.
lek103 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This was my first Roth book, and while it was well written, my GOD was it depressing. I'll definitely read more of his books, but I felt like I needed to read a self-help book to recover from this one. :)
NoLongerAtEase on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Philip Roth is going to die and he's not happy about it. He's also not particularly fond of qualifying for an AARP membership nor of the physical degradations and loss of virility that accompany such an honor.
hemlokgang on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Although the perspective is definitely Western, Philip Roth hits the nail on the head with this book about aging and facing death. It evoked so much discomfort that I rushed through it. Hmmm............
wispywillow on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A rather depressing but very engaging look at a man as he grows old. Really made me feel my own mortality as I read, even though I'm only 29!
lizhawk on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A tidy, tightly written little book that sums up the ordinary-ness of a life well-lived beginning in the cemetary as his body is interred. Despite three marriages, sons who despise him for leaving their mother, and a daughter who adores him, despite his many successess and failures, his life is just fine.
wrmjr66 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
While not a great novel--its only slightly longer than a novella--it's a good read by an artist very comfortable with his craft. The tone rarely hits a false note, and the main character is more endearing that some of Roth's other protagonists.
rcorfield on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is a slim volume and a quick read. A book about mortality (that's "death" to you and me). A book about the time when the "remote future" has become the present. Philip Roth's description of a day at the beach in the man's (he is never named) youth is perfect; a moment revisited in the last couple of pages when he arrives at his inevitable conclusion.Favourite line of the book: "Then he resumed where he'd left off, looking through the large sunny window of their boyhood years."Not too maudlin. Get's you thinking though. Worth a read, though maybe only if your "remote future" is not particularly near ...
novelcommentary on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is a quick read, less than 200 pages told without chapters. The main character is about the same age as the author and I would imagine that some of the encounters with mortality were drawn from some autobigraphical knowledge. That being said, it was amazing how I was drawn to read about this man's 7 operations, his 3 wives, his two distant sons and his one loving daughter. In a book that begins at the grave, we read one long flashback about this man who grew up in North Jersey, the youngest son of a Jewish Jeweler. It is an examination of a life, one that gives the reader pause, that warns- his is not a path to admire.
M.Campanella on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Giving this book a rating was more difficult then I would like to imagine.It is the rather straight forward of a person trying, and failing, to come to terms with his own mortality. I can applaud the effort, as it is something all of us torture over at some point (hence, Everyman). But in terms of theme, the story is not contributing much to the genre.Credit can be given to to Roth for his writing. The short book was a page turner, and despite the chronology of the story being somewhat haphazard, I never felt lost in it.Good enough I guess.
KatherineGregg on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I enjoyed listening to Everyman on cd in the car however I tend to get distracted listening while driving. The downside of listening vs reading is that you miss out on the skillfulness of the writing of which Roth is a master. Everyman deals with a protagonist who is confronting his mortality as an old man plagued with ailing health. He looks back regretfully on a life that was formed by decisions that resulted in multiple marriages and alienation from family and friends. Everyman is a depressing slice of life.
anushh on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Great writing, albeit a bit boring. I guess to really appreciate this book one should be in the right mood, to be able to soak in every word and appreciate the philosophy and the art. It's a bit like Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf, even though I enjoyed Mrs. Dalloway a lot more.
jeniwren on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Picked this one up off my shelf after the First Tuesday bookclub recently discussed 'Portnoys Complaint'. This is Roth's most recent novel and even though it is fine writing it is possibly one of the most depressing I have read. The story begins with the unnamed main character's funeral and then goes back over his life as a young Jewish boy who helps out at his fathers jewellery business , his marriages, affairs and relationships with ex wives, children and family. There is particular focus on his various illnesses and numerous surgeries which he explores in regard to aging, death and mortality. Roth is getting on in years and there is no doubt he is thinking deeply about his declining years and end of life.
ggarchar on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Begins and ends at the gravesite of the main character. Memorable book, easy read."Old age isn't a battle; old age is a massacre." - p156
TanyaTomato on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I am not really into those books where you rattle around in someone's head, but Everyman had me hooked. It is very real, and almost scary. It certainly makes you think about what you are doing with your life and your mortality.
libraslibros on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
"Old age is not a battle, it's a massacre." And so it goes in this impressionable story about mortality. Philip Roth has left a scar on me with this one.
leesb on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Stunning clarity. Prose that is at times lyrical. A work of impressive grace and power. Very, very well done.
maggiereads on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
How can this book be so heavy? It lies innocently enough in my lap, weighing less than a pound, yet feels more like a cold brick or slab of marble. Philip Roth¿s Everyman has me perplexed.This little novella wishes to convey a single simple notion¿we live to die. Everyman¿s fate, or every man, woman, and child¿s fate, is to one day cease being. As Roth stated in an interview, ¿We all live to die.¿ This uncomfortable thought translates into a very uncomfortable read.I read this book over two weeks ago. Struggling with its soberness, I then read the medieval play from whence the title Everyman derives. Can you believe reading the play just made matters worse? I was left with more questions than answers.Here¿s my problem. The play ¿Everyman¿ and the book Everyman share only two things: the title and a main character facing death. In the play, our Everyman tries to bargain with Death for more time on earth. In the book, the nameless main character, or Everyman, shuns religion and faces death alone. He doesn¿t take comfort in pearly gates and angels.I can identify with the play whereas the book leaves me anxious. The main character is really a jerk, and I worry about his soul. He faces death so utterly alone. This is silly, but I want to hold his hand. I want to give him human comfort.Roth believes we all face death alone and his Everyman is utterly alone. At 71-years, Everyman has two ex-wives, three children, two of which do not speak to him, and a loving brother he has excommunicated because he is jealous of his health. He also displays a passion for younger women, who laugh at his advances.The opening of the book begins with Everyman¿s funeral. Here the reader meets all those associated with Everyman¿s life. Yes, it is a small gathering, but not without a few weepers. Then Roth reverses the storyline and we meet Everyman before his death.Roth tells Everyman¿s story, from the first operation as a boy to his last operation as an adult. The timeline is based on his health rather than the traditional coming-of-age. This might be why I didn¿t bond with the character.After much soul searching and researching, I admit I like the book. Author Roth scrutinizes mankind¿s acceptance of death and I am better for taking this journey. I¿ll leave you a quote from the play, ¿O Death, thou comest when I had thee least in mind.¿
bookinmind on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Roth's scenario of living and dying prompts the mature reader to reflect upon his own life and to become more aware of his mortality.
ragwaine on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This was a little boring for Roth but still pretty incredible. I'm not much of a contemporary fiction reader so anything that can keep my attention I give special props to. I feel like I connect with Roth on a number of levels but reading this the week of my 38th birthday may have not been a good idea. It's pretty doomy stuff.
hennis on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I put it away a few times, but usually when I was able to read more than 10 minutes it became more difficult to put it away. It was pretty slow, but nice.