that his anti-Semitism was more a fianctionnof Armenian pride than of racenhatred, it is a hit more difficult to rationalizenSaroyan’s characterization of Hitlernas “a great zealot.” Indeed, this liberalnhumanist, whose typewriter was so innwriting. It may be that his incrediblenprolixity was an attempt to cheat deathnof its final victory. In The Time of YournLife, a learned longshoreman namednMcCarthy su^ests that would-be writersnneed “more magazines. Hundreds ofnllu’ liiHjk IH’COIIK.S J philn.vipliicil sljiiiiK’tU. :i!)i)iil l)irlli. alioiil liii.”nJticl Oppcniieiiiicrn’Ihv .V<*H’ York Times lUutk Kfriewnlove with people, was actually somewherento the right of Ezra Pound.nNor was Saroyan’s disingenuousnessnlimited to his racial views. Although hengrandly refused the Pulitzer Prize fornThe Time of Your Life (arguing thatn”commerce had no business patronizingnart”), he was not above claiming halfcreditnand half-royalties for RosemarynClooney’s hit song “Come-on-a-My-nHouse,” even though it had been almostnentirely written by his cousin RossnBagdasarian.nAram Saroyan’s book is not entirelynexpose, however; he attempts, in thenend, to redeem both himself and hisnfather with the obligatory deathbed reconciliationnscene. Accompanied by hisndaughter Cream (younger sister ofnStrawberry), Aram visits his cancerravagednfather in the hospital, where thenelder Saroyan bravely faces death withoutnthe aid of painkillers. As they weepnand embrace, William Saroyan paraphrasesnthe title of his most famous playnby telling his son: “It’s the most beautifulntime of my life … and death.” Howevernnoble this final gesture of love might havenbeen for the emotionally scarred Saroyan,nhis will made no provision for his family,nbut instead established and funded anfoundation to bear his name and housenhis papers. That he did not realize thatnthose papers might have commanded angood price from a private collector’snlibrary is evidence more of naivete thannof humility.nWilliam Saroyan’s ultimate significancenis not as a troubled and Dionysiannpersonality, but as an artist who wasnsingularly dedicated to the vocation ofn18inChronicles of Culturenthem. Thousands. Print everything theynwrite, so they’ll believe they’re immortal.”n(Saroyan’s own oflScial last words, whichnhe phoned to the Associated Press a weeknbefore his death were: “Everybody hasngot to die, but I have always believed annexception would be made in my case.nNow what?”) It is therefore fitting thatntwo years after Saroyan’s death James H.nTashjian should edit a new collection ofnhis work, consisting largely of piecesnnever before published in book form.nRetrieved from the files of three Armeniannperiodicals located in Boston, thesenstories, poems, and plays may not be—nas the jacket blurb claims—the “literarynfind of the decade”; but they will surelynhelp to confirm Saroyan’s reputation as angifted, if minor, writer.nWith the exception of The Time ofnYour Life (which, almost by default, remainsnone of the great comic plays ofnthe American theater), Saroyan’s metiernwas the short story and the personalnessay. His bag of tricks simply was notnsufficient to sustain a full-length novel.nSaroyan’s short pieces, however, werennot the sort of well-crafted world-in-awindownartifacts which are so popularnamong teachers of “creative writing.”nEssentially a raconteur with a broadnnnsense of the comic and an occasionallynlyrical feel for language, Saroyan was atnhis best when he stayed close to his rootsnand wrote of California’s immigrantnArmenian populatioa When he attemptednthe avant-garde, as in the stream-ofconsciousnessncollage in the first paragraphnof “The Daring Young Man on thenFlying Trapeze,” his work seems simplynforced and dated.nGiven his own subsequent experience,nit is more than a littie ironic that some ofnSaroyan’s most engaging fiction shouldndeal with old men facing death. In “ThenExplosion,” for example, an old tailornturns to farming in order to be close tonthe soil in his declining years. When hencontracts consumption, the old man killsna cow for a final communal meal, and—neven though it is winter and the treesnbare—decides to dynamite the hardpannin his orchard. Fearing that he might notnlive until spring, he longs for a bang not anwhimper.nSaroyan’s greatest failings were an inabilitynto control and nurture his modestntalents and a view of the world whichnstressed sentiment at the expense ofnmorality. Even when he is entertaining,nhe reminds one of what Queen Victoriansaid of a three-hour Good Friday servicen—that it was altogether too much of angood thing. And in helping to spawn anlater generation of fashionable sentimentalistsn(Salinger, Vonnegut, et al.),nhe has given us altogether too much of anbad thing. In The Time of Your Life, anbarroom metaphysician identified onlynas “The Arab” pronounces Saroyan’s bestnepitaph when he says of things in general:n”What. What not. No foundation. All thenway down the line.” Dn