Leaving the cab, he thought how his mother would moisten her handkerchief at her mouth and rub his face clean. He had no business to recall this, he knew, and turned toward Grand Central in his straw hat. He was of the mature generation now, and life was  his to do something with, if he could. But he had not forgotten the odor of his mother’s saliva on the handkerchief that summer morning in the squat hollow Canadian station, the black iron and the sublime brass. All children have cheeks and all mothers spittle to wipe them tenderly. These things either matter or they do not matter. It depends on the universe, what it is. These acute memories are probably symptoms of disorder. To him, perpetual thought of death was a sin. Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.

From “Herzog,” by Saul Bellow

How often do we think of our mother’s tenderness when we were children?  How often do we conjure these images when we endure stress?  There was a time when our parents took care of us and assumed all responsibilities for our actions. But one day we grew up and every burden fell upon our shoulders. I can attest to the healing power of a mother’s saliva; my mother’s could get rid of an earache or a stomach ache in a matter of seconds.

It is brilliant the way Saul Bellow sets Herzog’s mood and lets us perceive his worries and how the reminiscences of his childhood not only soothes his mind but also makes life’s cruelty stand out before our very eyes—“Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.”