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An alternative way to read it makes Henderson representative of anyone who no longer has to work for a living and who searches for something to give life meaning. This should resonate with any young dot com millionaire as much as with any healthy retired person. Either way, the book reads smoothly and moves along briskly. Read it long enough to get past your initial dislike of Henderson, and it will reward your efforts.
Henderson is an independently wealthy man in his 50's who is unhappily married to his second wife, and when he gets to the point where he can stand his meager existence no longer and the trivial aimlessness of it all, he hires a guide to take him to the remote, African sahara, to the most primitive tribe they can find. They first end up with the Arnewi tribe, where Henderson becomes obsessed with the tribe's superstitious obsession with the frogs in the cistern, which keeps them from watering their cattle, and so in his attempt to rid them of this malady he ends up blowing up the whole thing while fending off the advances of a large women who is considered a beauty due to her "bittahness." After destroying the cistern, Henderson and his guide escape and try again with the Wariri tribe where he impresses the natives with his unparalleled feats of strength (Festivus, anyone?), which then propels him unwittingly into the position of sungo (rain king) when rain immediately follows. There he befriends the king of the tribe, Dahfu, and the tale of Henderson carries us on a humorous journey where we come face to face with lions, tall amazonian women, and scheming uncles.
Henderson is an interesting counter figure to someone like, say, Roth's Swede Levov (American Pastoral), where both men have a privileged adulthood but yet both are incapable of settling down into it. Levov gets tragically ripped away while Henderson is comically tied to it even in the far reaches of Africa. Henderson's pretentiousness and bombastic response to everything (his attempt to kill his little house cat still makes me laugh) makes him the perfect target for Dahfu's psychological experiment, for even in his gregariousness, Henderson's goal is to existentially discover the importance of being an intricate, vital element of some grand venture, which Dahfu supplies.
One might fall into the temptation of reading this book as a generic critique of the dangers of "civilization" within a sort of Rousseauian framework, although the "savages" in Bellow's book are something less than entirely "noble." Nevertheless, I decline to read it this way, for I think the book speaks to psychology, to the inner man, to the aspirations and "life-force" in a discontented soul, rather than to politics or history or the delimitating ways in which cultural norms interact with those on other continents. Or, one could just sit back and have a grand old time laughing at Henderson, and the fact that he laughs at himself, even in his gargantuan seriousness, makes us love him all the more. He's like that grouchy, eccentric grandfather we can't help but love, even in his most obnoxious cantankerousness.
The bottom line, though, is that this book is terribly funny and clever, and Bellow has a way of avoiding the negative qualities of stream-of-consciousness prose while at the same time distilling from it its funnier aspects. This was the first Saul Bellow book that I had ever read, but immediately afterwards I put several more on my reading list.