Love and the Incredibly Old Man: A Review

I picked up a copy of Lee Siegel's Love and the Incredibly Old Man after a lecturer whose presentation I was attending supplied that title in response to the question, "What are you reading now?" Her description of the book's plot intrigued me: an elderly man who claims to be Juan Ponce de Len and the discoverer of the true Fountain of Youth, contracts a novelist to tell the story of his life and his loves - his many, many, many loves. But is he really who he claims to be? That is the question the novelist must answer.

The preface starts off reasonably well, though the lengthy (almost four pages) italicized letter of introduction between de Len and the novelist, Mr. Siegel, is tough on the eyes, a problem which occurs frequently throughout the book.

The novelist and his subject meet to begin discussing the nature of the work to be written; de Len gives Siegel a tour of his Garden of Eden-Museum of Florida History, gives him some background information about himself, and shows him an empty, dirty pond he claims is the "Fountain of Life". At this point, there is just enough historical information provided, and enough of a question, both in the novelist character's mind as well as my own, as to whether this old man could truly be who he claims to be, that I want to read more. I myself feel being hooked.

Unfortunately, it's not a feeling that lasts. Rather than take that budding feeling of suspense and build on it, reeling me in throughout the course of the novel, Siegel squanders the opportunity to "set the hook" in several different ways, repeated in chapter after chapter.

For example, he has de Len's character provide Siegel (the novelist in the book and the real-life author bear the same name - perhaps intended to indicate the "true nature" of Siegel's account) with timelines of his life. These are, essentially, just lists of discrete events, some of which are historical facts, which are occasionally interesting, but others which are simply lists, such as the two pages of names of massacred members of an Indian tribe de Len calls the Zhotee-eloq. Siegel the author (both author and character) seems to understand quite well that these lists might pose a problem for readers ("I had suggested that he consider not including them, noting that some readers might not have the patience to get through a long list of what seemed to be nonsense syllables." 'That's their problem," Mr. de Len snapped with annoyance."), but includes them anyway, making them very much the reader's problem, as they completely derail the reader's interest.

The second problem is actually, at its foundation, a problem with lists as well. Throughout the history of his life that de Len shares with Siegel, he is adamant about making sure that the readers of his story understand that it is a story about love - lots and lots of love.

In spite of the Siegel character's (not-so) valiant attempts to discourage de Len from including so much love, the reader must still endure story after story of de Len's sexual conquests, in great, sometimes even absurd, detail: "Although the queen [Queen Isabel of Spain] was particularly driven to collect the semen of young men like myself, she also had the seed of those she deemed notably powerful. Proudly she showed me vials of the seminal fluid of Pope Sixtus IV and Boabdil, the ruler of Nasrid Rranada..."

Though de Len claims to have loved each one of the women "more than any other woman ever", the detailed repetition of each of his sexual exploits, followed by that same tired claim, does not, as Siegel perhaps intended, charmingly endear him to the reader; it just makes de Len look like a player, and by the tenth or twelfth episode, provokes more eye-rolling than wistful sighing. I kept waiting for some return to the original plot line that had lured me in, but there was no progression on that front - the book was quickly becoming nothing more than a series of sexual anecdotes.

It might have been easier to digest the lack of likability of the de Len character if there had been something likable about Siegel the character, but it is difficult to find many redeeming qualities in him, as he duplicitously takes his client's money in exchange for plagiarizing everything from Kafka to Margaret Mitchell. If he had come down on one side or another, the central question of the plot - Is he or isn't he Ponce de Len? - it would have engaged me much more, but the fact that the Siegel character appears utterly disinterested infected me with utter disinterest, as well.

As I found myself slogging through conquest after conquest, struggling to keep my eyes focused through lengthy passages inexplicably italicized, I kept holding out hope that the book would redeem itself in the end. De Len, throughout the book, is ill and failing fast. The reader knows that his end is near, and incorrectly assumes that, with his death, there may be some sort of resolution, even if it's simply a realization that the guy was just a sick, demented old man, and with his death, now we know it for sure. But there's not even that closure; De Len dies, Siegel never finishes the book, and never makes a decision on that ultimate question one way or the other.

I never got the sense, at any point in the book, that Siegel the author was unaware of his reader. In fact, he refers to the reader often and continuously, but I always felt as though Siegel didn't care about his reader. He would have Siegel the character raise some (rightful) concern about how something de Len wanted him to do in the book would not work, but the thing would always be done, anyway - reader be damned. It's hard to read a book like that, where you can feel from the start that the author is not only intentionally disrespecting his readers, but also making sure the reader knows it.

I started this book in the hopes of reading an intriguing story about the possibility that Ponce de Len had actually existed - at the very least, I expected an amusing, poignant portrait, perhaps, of an old man at the confused and lonely end of his life. There was neither: only a purgatory of sorts, something in between that never fully becomes realized.

Siegel references this himself, in the Coda of the book: "Sometimes, for inspiration, I'd try to allow myself the pleasure of believing the unbelievable story I had been told could be true...I realized, however, that even if I were to believe that, I would not dare write it, because no one would ever believe that I believed it." Siegel didn't give his readers the chance to believe anything, and I think that's why, ultimately, the book disappointed.