In American Pastoral, gloves represent the Swede’s dedication to family tradition. They also represent a vision of America that by the novel’s present day has ceased to exist. Though once an impoverished immigrant family who struggled to get by, generations of Levovs work tirelessly in the leather industry until eventually, Lou Levov, the Swede’s father, owns a prosperous glove factory of his own. The Levov family business, Newark Maid, manufactures ladies’ gloves, high-end accessories worn by women of means in the earlier part of the 20th century. The Swede grows up with the expectation that he will one day inherit the factory, and so he spends his formative years learning everything there is to know about gloves—under the ever scrutinizing, ungenerous eye of his father. Eventually the Swede does take over Newark Maid, and he becomes as engrossed in and passionate about gloves as his father was before him, taking Merry to work on special occasions and delighting in her reciprocated pride in her family’s legacy. In its prime, then, the Levovs’ gloving business represents the fruits of good, honest labor, and it honors the generations of Levovs who toiled in dehumanizing, unrewarding conditions so that their descendants could one day thrive.
But as time marches onward, modern fashion trends, relaxed social norms, and a radically transformed social and economic landscape considerably shrink the market for ladies’ gloves and alter the conditions in which they’re produced. When Merry adopts extremist political views as a teenager, she comes to see the business as a source of shame rather than a marker of family pride, and she condemns her father for his complicity in the predatory capitalist economy. Following the Newark Riots of 1967, businesses like the Swede’s exit the city en masse, with many moving operations outside of the U.S., where the cost of labor is cheaper. Though the Swede tries to stay in Newark for as long as he can, eventually he, too, closes the original factory and moves production overseas. Though Lou Levov decries the radically transformed gloving industry and the sharp decline in quality he has observed across the business, his complaints read as the deluded and futile (if also tragic) ramblings of a grumpy, stubborn old man who is past his prime of life and who resents the rest of the world for moving ahead without him. And indeed, the world moves forward, cruelly indifferent to Lou’s unhappiness about where it’s headed. In this way, then, the Levov family’s glove business traces the radical economic, social, and cultural transformation America undergoes over the course of a century, and the inevitable conflicts that change brings with it.
Gloves Quotes in American Pastoral
“My father,” Jerry said, “was one impossible bastard. Overbearing. Omnipresent. I don’t know how people worked for him. When they moved to Central Avenue, the first thing he had the movers move was his desk, and the first place he put it was not in the glass-enclosed office but dead center in the middle of the factory floor, so he could keep his eye on everybody. […] The owner of the glove factory, but he would always sweep his own floors, especially around the cutters, where they cut the leather, because he wanted to see from the size of the scraps who was losing money for him.”
Not since Merry had disappeared had he felt anything like this loquacious. Right up to that morning, all he’d been wanting was to weep or to hide; but because there was Dawn to nurse and a business to tend to and his parents to prop up, because everybody else was paralyzed by disbelief and shattered to the core, neither inclination had as yet eroded the protective front he provided the family and presented to the world. But now words were sweeping him on, buoying him up, his father’s words released by the sight of this tiny girl studiously taking them down. She was nearly as small, he thought, as the kids from Merry’s third-grade class, who’d been bused the thirty-eight miles from their rural schoolhouse one day back in the late fifties so that Merry’s daddy could show them how he made gloves […].
“[…] Harry’s father cut it and his mom sewed it, and they went over to the circus and gave the gloves to the tall man, and the whole family got free seats, and a big story about Harry’s dad ran in the Newark News the next day.”
Harry corrected him. “The Star-Eagle.”
“Right, before it merged with the Ledger.”
“Wonderful,” the girl said, laughing. “Your father must have been very skilled.”
“Couldn’t speak a word of English,” Harry told her.
“He couldn’t? Well, that just goes to show, you don’t have to know English,” she said, “to cut a perfect pair of gloves for a man nine feet tall.”
Harry didn’t laugh but the Swede did, laughed and put his arm around her.
The unreality of being in the hands of this child! This loathsome kid with a head full of fantasies about “the working class”! This tiny being who took up not even as much space in the car as the Levov sheepdog, pretending that she was striding on the world stage! This utterly insignificant pebble! What was the whole sick enterprise other than angry, infantile egoism thinly disguised as identification with the oppressed?