Last summer, I went to report on Philip Roth’s estate auction in Litchfield, Connecticut. I expected that, at most, I might get some funny quotes from people eager to own a bit of literary history.
Murdock was the caretaker of Roth's property in Litchfield for 20 years. I quickly learned that the Roth I’d seen represented in public — wry, cerebral, elitist — was not the Roth that Murdock knew. His Roth was profane, lonely, deeply compassionate, always in for a rude joke, never dismissive. At first glance, they made an unlikely pair. Roth was a liberal Jew; Murdock is a conservative Christian; Roth spent his days writing in seclusion; Murdock, a stonemason, quit college because he couldn't stand spending all that time inside.
But over the years, they became close, so much so that when Roth began thinking about his death, he asked Murdock to carve his tombstone.
It became clear that Murdock had a story to tell. This is it.
It’s partly a story about what fame leaves behind. It’s partly a story about the varied American life reflected in Roth’s work. Mostly, it’s a story about a friendship. In this strange, isolated time, it’s a story I hope serves as a reminder of how surprising, and remarkable, human relationships can be.
When I texted Murdock to check some final facts, he sent me a photo from his hunting blind in the Berkshires, where he was patiently awaiting coyotes with his crossbow. I like to think of him there, on the gorgeous, wild land that brought him and Roth together.
You can find the story here or click on the button below for a specially designed printable version (warning: it's long!).
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