[Zuckerman Unbound, avowedly a sequel to The Ghost Writer, is] in many ways a repetition which moves to a similar conclusion. It would seem that not only is Roth obsessed with the relationship of art to life, but particularly obsessed with the relationship between art (or the life he writes) and life (the life he actually experienced and remembered)—how much is transformation (art) and how much is mere transcription (betrayal)? I say "Roth" but, in line with this whole problem, he can side-step or back-step here. Zuckerman has written a best seller called Carnovsky. As it happens—as it happens—it is about a young Jewish boy growing up in Newark, his compulsive onanism, his sexual obsessions, etc. As it happens, this sensational and notorious novel was published in 1969 (like Portnoy's Complaint) and brings Zuckerman a degree of fame, fortune, and notoriety which prove to pose as many problems as his previous poverty—indeed these problems constitute or precipitate the incidents in the novel.

Now we may be tempted to think—well this is really Philip Roth writing up what happened to him (more life than art). But in the book when people think that Zuckerman is really Carnovsky of the novel, he is indignant and outraged. "They had mistaken impersonation for confession and were calling out to a character who lived in a book." So if someone says "Zuckerman" when accusing him of all sorts of things, he can say, no, that is Carnovsky: don't confuse life and art. And if I or anyone else says "Roth," he can say, no, that is Zuckerman: don't confuse life and art. Fair enough—up to a point. But changing a name is hardly "the madness of art" and sometimes one feels—I keep it indefinite, nothing is verifiable in this area—that one is rather closer to the madness of life. Or, perhaps, that the two are becoming indistinguishable. (pp. 3, 6)

In terms of family and relationships there is a cost to pay as the book shows. Indeed at the end, after effectively putting his family behind him, he takes a ride round Newark where he spent his youth. But everything has gone, has changed. The only Newark left of his childhood is that depicted in Carnovsky. There is some sense of relief and the book itself may be seen as acting as an act of exorcism. "Over. Over. Over. Over. Over. I've served my time." But there is a sense of isolation and desolation. When a passing black notices him starting down the street, he says, "'Who you supposed to be?' 'No one,' replied Zuckerman, and that was the end of that. You are no longer any man's son, and are no longer some good woman's husband, you are no longer your brother's brother. And you don't come from anywhere anymore, either." But—he'd written it anyway. And perhaps that is "the madness of art."

Philip Roth has written a worthy sequel to The Ghost Writer, which was his best novel for some time. This one is firm and hard—even at times excoriating; it moves well and is written economically—no fat on it. It is hard not to read it as some very personal statement or exploration, but of course I must not confuse Roth with Zuckerman. Or art with life. Which is where we came in. But I do hope that Philip Roth finds other areas of experience to write about in the future. (p. 6)