From a strange and creepy obituary of Philip Roth in the New York Times.
Mr. Roth was the last of the great white males: the triumvirate of writers — Saul Bellow and John Updike were the others — who towered over American letters in the second half of the 20th century. Outliving both and borne aloft by an extraordinary second wind, Mr. Roth wrote more novels than either of them.
I'm not a fan of Roth's writing. As far as I'm concerned, he had one good short story. And not much else. But that's a subjective opinion. Likewise, I don't think that Updike produced much of worth. Bellow's great contribution is Mr. Sammler's Planet.
(Also, it goes without saying, quantity of novels is not quality.)
But maybe Roth deserves to be remember on his own terms, rather than as a "white male" whose death is appropriated to make yet another point about the end of white people. The left is so invested in this narrative that Roth's death becomes another platform for the theater of white privilege, black fragility and the inevitable uprising.