Around the grave in the rundown cemetery were a few of his former advertising colleagues from New York, who recalled his energy and originality and told his daughter, Nancy, what a pleasure it had been to work with him.
Like Citizen Kane, Philip Roth’s novel begins with the death—actually the funeral—of its protagonist before settling in to tell the long and complex narrative of the life that led to that burial rite. Unlike Orson Welles’ Charles Foster Kane, however, there are significant differentiations. Most strikingly, perhaps is that the protagonist is never named; he exists primarily as a pronoun.
He decorated the shop with a few silver-plated pieces to make it attractive—tea sets, trays, chafing dishes, candlesticks that he sold dirt cheap—and at Christmastime he always had a snow scene with Santa in the window, but the stroke of genius was to call the business not by his name but rather Everyman's Jewelry Store.
The idea of the protagonist being nameless is not merely a gimmick. Obviously, the title derives from the 15th century morality play of the same name. That idea of not naming the titular hero of his novel goes beyond that inspiration, however, to reveal a thematic resonance. Here in miniature is the story of the protagonist’s childhood/business career except for one very important detail which is missing in this particular quote: the Christmas scene decorations that go up every year are being put on display by his father, Jewish jeweler story owner.
To lure Elizabeth's big working-class population and to avoid alienating or frightening away the port city's tens of thousands of churchgoing Christians with his Jewish name, he extended credit freely—just made sure they paid at least thirty or forty percent down.
Jewelry and being Jewish are two significant components of the novel that inform the entirety of the protagonist’s life. Philip Roth made a name for himself with a series of books and stories that are among the most autobiographical of any American author. The significance of the town of Elizabeth and the necessity for a Jewish owner to invisibly assimilate among a population heavily weighted toward Christians is the key to this novel’s less strictly autobiographical nature. Roth did not grow up in Elizabeth, but he did grow up in the city of Newark just a few miles away. The unnamed protagonist was also born the same year as Roth: 1933. And both Roth and his fictional doppelganger experience a devastating loss of the good health they had long enjoyed as they age.
As he'd reassured himself while walking under the stars on the Vineyard with Phoebe, he would worry about oblivion when he was seventy-five.
This line occurs about a quarter of the way into the novel. It follows directly upon the “he” musing about having enjoyed a stretch of twenty-two unbroken years of good health and the sense of invincibility that comes with it.
It was time to worry about oblivion.
With about fifteen percent of the novel left to go, things have changed. Everyman is a story about aging. About living. About dying. But mostly about how easy it is to avoid facing the inevitable even though every man knows he winds up things with a funeral of some sort. The circular structure of the narrative begins its inexorable final slide toward where it all began.
