At his core, Saul Bellow was a teacher, but he was never much for disciples or devotees of his own work. “Bellow had himself well shielded from aspirants. Get in line: wives, children, students, writers, editors, lovers, biographers. I don’t mean this cruelly; it was part of Bellow’s genius. He reminded many people of their incompleteness, perhaps because he knew of his own. There was a rawness to him, almost like a wound, underneath the genteel polish and fiendish wit. His feathered fedora and striped shirts, his elegant manners and silken voice were enameled surfaces, under which he was, like his characters, at sea, the imposing intellect unable to ever lay down any reliable anchor – and not for want of trying, not for lack of greatness.”