Cruz’s breasts carry weight
‘Elegy” softens the jagged edges and intensities of Philip Roth’s 2001 novel “The Dying Animal” and in the process becomes an inert mood-piece and a waste of prodigious talent. “The Dying Animal” may be the most unlikeable of all Roth’s novels, in its monologuist’s combination of overwhelming egotism and self-pity, but its refusal to compromise, to be “nice,” is exhilarating. It is an invigorating blast of defiance in the face of our current moral prudery. “Elegy” subtracts all the risk — the sexual ugliness, the discomfiting pathos, the black humor — from “The Dying Animal,” and only a...
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