When I first started writing my novel Come Back for Me, I had no intention of composing a symbolic tale about the Jewish people and their fate in the modern world. I was simply writing the story of an individual Jew who struggles to find happiness after losing everything in the war. Yet now that I have finished the novel, several readers have commented that my novel truly captures the essence of the modern Jewish experience. Of course I am gratified that they view it that way. Perhaps I did unconsciously try to portray something essential about Jewish life in modern times. But I didn’t set out to do that. I just wrote what came naturally to me.
Although my book has yet to hit the marketplace (it’s about to be submitted to publishers by my wonderful agent!), I expect that once it is out in the world at large, readers and critics will offer a variety of interpretations about what the book conveys. Some of what they say might ring true to me. Other interpretations might seem off base. Yet, slowly my opinion will diminish in importance. Once the book is out in the world, it will take on a life of its own.
The question is: do writers understand their own work better than their readers? It reminds me of a humorous story I once heard about the Nobel prize-winning novelist S.Y. Agnon. After attending a lecture about his work given by the esteemed critic Baruch Kurzweil, Agnon apparently exclaimed, “Now I finally understand my own work.” Although Agnon was undoubtedly being ironic, there is a hint of seriousness in his statement. Sometimes authors do not grasp the hidden elements in their own work, perhaps because “art” is partly the result of unconscious forces that emerge in the creative process. It is possible that readers might interpret a work in ways that the writer might never have fathomed. And such interpretations certainly have some validity.
This leads back to my original question about intention. To what extent does a writer control what emerges? My answer would be: almost all of it. A writer might rely on the unconscious for the initial creative burst, but the finished product is based on a high degree of editing, refining, honing, and perfecting. What serious writer doesn’t know the intense labor that goes into each sentence of his work? Often, every word is tried and discarded multiple times. So when it comes to deciphering a writer’s work, a reader can assume that most of what is written is conscious and intentional. But there is still that small bit, that essence, which arises from some unknown place that may even take the writer by surprise. And when it comes to understanding that, surely anything is possible.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The Significance of Titles
Some people believe that words have mystical powers. There are others (mainly kabbalists) who think that even individual letters possess a mysterious force that when viewed in particular combinations, can reveal clues to the secrets of the universe. I was never one to take such things seriously until something happened that made me think twice about the power of words. But it was not just any words. It was the words of a title. My title. The title of my book.
I originally called my novel Tenacity. I liked the title for its simplicity and its suggestion of strength and stubborn resistance. But inside, I knew it was not the right title for my book. And I am sure that others knew it too, although they were probably too polite to say it out loud.
As soon as I dropped the title, it was as if the book had been reborn. Of course, I must admit that before I did so, I made major revisions to the novel itself. I added and changed and fixed and polished until I was confident it was as perfect as it could be. Yet something was askew. It still felt flawed. And then it hit me: the title. It was all wrong.
Almost miraculously (in a matter of minutes?), the new title came to me as if it had been waiting for me all along: Come Back for Me.
Yes. That was it. It felt so right. And I immediately knew that others felt it too. As soon as I’d mention it to them, there was a reaction. A good one. They would look up and smile, as if they could hear it gently humming in their ears: Come Back for Me.
Certainly titles cannot make a book speak to the human heart. The book must do that itself. But a title can beckon a reader. It can draw them near. And if not for that wondrous meeting, what is writing for?
I originally called my novel Tenacity. I liked the title for its simplicity and its suggestion of strength and stubborn resistance. But inside, I knew it was not the right title for my book. And I am sure that others knew it too, although they were probably too polite to say it out loud.
As soon as I dropped the title, it was as if the book had been reborn. Of course, I must admit that before I did so, I made major revisions to the novel itself. I added and changed and fixed and polished until I was confident it was as perfect as it could be. Yet something was askew. It still felt flawed. And then it hit me: the title. It was all wrong.
Almost miraculously (in a matter of minutes?), the new title came to me as if it had been waiting for me all along: Come Back for Me.
Yes. That was it. It felt so right. And I immediately knew that others felt it too. As soon as I’d mention it to them, there was a reaction. A good one. They would look up and smile, as if they could hear it gently humming in their ears: Come Back for Me.
Certainly titles cannot make a book speak to the human heart. The book must do that itself. But a title can beckon a reader. It can draw them near. And if not for that wondrous meeting, what is writing for?
Sunday, January 9, 2011
The Sneer
I used to think that a sneer was a facial expression -- turning up the nose -- implying contempt, disgust and derision. I have come to realize that a sneer also appears in written form: it can be a scornful turn of phrase, a tone of disparagement or even a single mocking word. But the thing that distinguishes a sneer from other forms of loathing is that it combines contempt with an air of superiority. The “sneerer” possesses so much confidence in his own cleverness that he assumes that all clever people must agree with him. No rational argument need be presented in order to justify the sneer. It stands on its own as a self-evident truth. And if you dare object—well, watch out. You’ll be viewed as a mindless boor who never learned to use his brain. Perhaps worst of all, you’ll be sneered at too.
So what is all this sneering about? It’s about many things—the suburbs, religion (other than primitive tribes), SUVs, shopping malls, June Cleaver, chivalry, polyester, red meat, discipline, carpeting, plastic bags, politicians, iceberg lettuce, florescent bulbs (to name only a few).
Now, as a Jew with a well-developed sneer detector, I’ve noticed that the sneer has increasingly crept into one particular venue: journalistic articles about Israel. For example, I was recently reading what started out as an informative piece about one of the first Israeli hit songs to gain an international audience, the song “Tzena Tzena”. The author ably traced the origin of the song and described how it grew in popularity, until it eventually reached the number 2 position on the American charts. But the article did not end with that factual observation. At the end of the article, there it was: a sneer—subtle yet condescending—about how the song idealized Israelis and helped propagate the (supposedly false) notion of their attractiveness. The author states, “With its romantic depiction of young women lusting after righteous male soldiers, the song fulfilled the expectations of Israel held by many American Jews in 1951”. Now I don’t mean to sound over-sensitive, but why is it that Israelis cannot be allowed to take pride in a successful song without having it pointed out that it promoted a romantic myth? And why are American Jews being blamed, as if they concocted the myth in order to make themselves feel good about themselves? Are Jews not allowed to take pride in anything?
Now it may be that the author did not intend it as a sneer at all, and was merely reflecting an earlier zeitgeist: that in those days, Israeli soldiers were considered righteous, and that woman lusted after them for that reason. But this assumes that we now know better. We (the clever of today) know that there is no glory in being a soldier and any woman who thinks so is foolish. If one wanted to argue this point, then surely it can be done through the presentation of persuasive facts. But with a sneer? To my mind, that’s cheating.
I have come to the conclusion that the sneer should come out in the open and declare its position candidly. If it has validity, then it should be forthright about it. And prove it with evidence. It is not enough to merely turn up your nose--whether it is in person, or on paper. A sneer after all, is merely a form of mockery. And mockery is only a slightly classier version of a snub.
So what is all this sneering about? It’s about many things—the suburbs, religion (other than primitive tribes), SUVs, shopping malls, June Cleaver, chivalry, polyester, red meat, discipline, carpeting, plastic bags, politicians, iceberg lettuce, florescent bulbs (to name only a few).
Now, as a Jew with a well-developed sneer detector, I’ve noticed that the sneer has increasingly crept into one particular venue: journalistic articles about Israel. For example, I was recently reading what started out as an informative piece about one of the first Israeli hit songs to gain an international audience, the song “Tzena Tzena”. The author ably traced the origin of the song and described how it grew in popularity, until it eventually reached the number 2 position on the American charts. But the article did not end with that factual observation. At the end of the article, there it was: a sneer—subtle yet condescending—about how the song idealized Israelis and helped propagate the (supposedly false) notion of their attractiveness. The author states, “With its romantic depiction of young women lusting after righteous male soldiers, the song fulfilled the expectations of Israel held by many American Jews in 1951”. Now I don’t mean to sound over-sensitive, but why is it that Israelis cannot be allowed to take pride in a successful song without having it pointed out that it promoted a romantic myth? And why are American Jews being blamed, as if they concocted the myth in order to make themselves feel good about themselves? Are Jews not allowed to take pride in anything?
Now it may be that the author did not intend it as a sneer at all, and was merely reflecting an earlier zeitgeist: that in those days, Israeli soldiers were considered righteous, and that woman lusted after them for that reason. But this assumes that we now know better. We (the clever of today) know that there is no glory in being a soldier and any woman who thinks so is foolish. If one wanted to argue this point, then surely it can be done through the presentation of persuasive facts. But with a sneer? To my mind, that’s cheating.
I have come to the conclusion that the sneer should come out in the open and declare its position candidly. If it has validity, then it should be forthright about it. And prove it with evidence. It is not enough to merely turn up your nose--whether it is in person, or on paper. A sneer after all, is merely a form of mockery. And mockery is only a slightly classier version of a snub.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Funny, you don't look Jewish
In the course on Israeli literature and culture that I teach at the University of Toronto, I frequently include a poem by Yehuda Amichai called, “Jews in the Land of Israel.” It is about the profound and often painful process of change accompanying the Jews’ transition from being a homeless people to an autonomous nation.
Some of these changes in Jewish life might not always be obvious. One line from the poem that I always like to bring to the attention of my students is: “our children are beautiful.” I ask them if this statement surprises them. The students generally stare at me with a look of perplexity: why would I ask such a thing? They take it for granted that Israelis think of their children as beautiful, and that it would be a natural thing for an Israeli poet to include this in one of his poems. I then go on to explain that (from my perspective) this is one of the most radical statements in the poem.
I point out that it was not so long ago that Jews did not think of themselves as beautiful at all. To “look Jewish” was something to be ashamed of, and in fact it was considered a compliment if someone told you that you don’t look Jewish.
After this, I would look around the classroom and watch as the floodgates would begin to open. The Jewish students would start to admit that yes, they still sometimes feel that way today. In their minds, “Jewishness” is still not associated with beauty. Tales of personal humiliation would often emerge. Sometimes their stories would be funny; often they were sheathed in self-deprecating irony. This would lead to a discussion of Jewish stereotypes, and the ways that Jews have internalized these negative conceptions about themselves without even being aware of it.
I would then ask the students to re-examine the phrase “our children are beautiful” (actually stated twice by Amichai in the poem). Suddenly, a look of recognition would appear on their faces. They would grasp that it is no small thing that the Jews can finally call themselves “beautiful.” In fact, it is one of the major differences between Jewish life in Israel and the Diaspora. This is an achievement that most people hardly think about and may even consider trite. But for the Jews and their sense of internal dignity, it is one of the swiftest and most revolutionary changes to have come about in modern times.
Jews in the Land of Israel
by Yehuda Amichai
We forget where we came from. Our Jewish
names from the Exile give us away,
bring back the memory of flower and fruit, medieval cities,
metals, knights who turned to stone, roses,
spices whose scent drifted away, precious stones, lots of red,
handicrafts long gone from the world
(the hands are gone too).
Circumcision does it to us,
as in the Bible story of Shechem and the sons of Jacob,
so that we go on hurting all our lives.
What are we doing, coming back here with this pain?
Our longings were drained together with the swamps,
the desert blooms for us, and our children are beautiful.
Even the wrecks of ships that sunk on the way
reached this shore,
even winds did. Not all the sails.
What are we doing
in this dark land with its
yellow shadows that pierce the eyes?
(Every now and then someone says, even after forty
or fifty years: "The sun is killing me.")
What are we doing with these souls of mist, with these names,
with our eyes of forests, with our beautiful children,
with our quick blood?
Spilled blood is not the roots of trees
but it's the closest thing to roots
we have.
Some of these changes in Jewish life might not always be obvious. One line from the poem that I always like to bring to the attention of my students is: “our children are beautiful.” I ask them if this statement surprises them. The students generally stare at me with a look of perplexity: why would I ask such a thing? They take it for granted that Israelis think of their children as beautiful, and that it would be a natural thing for an Israeli poet to include this in one of his poems. I then go on to explain that (from my perspective) this is one of the most radical statements in the poem.
I point out that it was not so long ago that Jews did not think of themselves as beautiful at all. To “look Jewish” was something to be ashamed of, and in fact it was considered a compliment if someone told you that you don’t look Jewish.
After this, I would look around the classroom and watch as the floodgates would begin to open. The Jewish students would start to admit that yes, they still sometimes feel that way today. In their minds, “Jewishness” is still not associated with beauty. Tales of personal humiliation would often emerge. Sometimes their stories would be funny; often they were sheathed in self-deprecating irony. This would lead to a discussion of Jewish stereotypes, and the ways that Jews have internalized these negative conceptions about themselves without even being aware of it.
I would then ask the students to re-examine the phrase “our children are beautiful” (actually stated twice by Amichai in the poem). Suddenly, a look of recognition would appear on their faces. They would grasp that it is no small thing that the Jews can finally call themselves “beautiful.” In fact, it is one of the major differences between Jewish life in Israel and the Diaspora. This is an achievement that most people hardly think about and may even consider trite. But for the Jews and their sense of internal dignity, it is one of the swiftest and most revolutionary changes to have come about in modern times.
Jews in the Land of Israel
by Yehuda Amichai
We forget where we came from. Our Jewish
names from the Exile give us away,
bring back the memory of flower and fruit, medieval cities,
metals, knights who turned to stone, roses,
spices whose scent drifted away, precious stones, lots of red,
handicrafts long gone from the world
(the hands are gone too).
Circumcision does it to us,
as in the Bible story of Shechem and the sons of Jacob,
so that we go on hurting all our lives.
What are we doing, coming back here with this pain?
Our longings were drained together with the swamps,
the desert blooms for us, and our children are beautiful.
Even the wrecks of ships that sunk on the way
reached this shore,
even winds did. Not all the sails.
What are we doing
in this dark land with its
yellow shadows that pierce the eyes?
(Every now and then someone says, even after forty
or fifty years: "The sun is killing me.")
What are we doing with these souls of mist, with these names,
with our eyes of forests, with our beautiful children,
with our quick blood?
Spilled blood is not the roots of trees
but it's the closest thing to roots
we have.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Being "Between"
I call this blog “between tradition and modernity,” with a definite emphasis on the word “between”. As I see it, to be a Jew today is to be pulled in two directions—to the world of tradition where religion, language, and nationhood offer an all-embracing form of collective sustenance, versus the world of modernity which grants almost boundless freedom and tolerance to all individuals, including Jews. Both worlds have attractions and detractions, and it is nearly impossible to choose one over the other, if one wants to enjoy the benefits of modernity and remain Jewish. Indeed, it is this state of constantly being caught “between” that characterizes the modern Jewish experience.
I define Jewish literature along similar lines. If I were to add anything to the long-standing debate about “what is Jewish literature”, it is this: Jewish literature is the act of writing between tradition and modernity – between the ties that bind the writer to his Jewish heritage and the forces that (for better or for worse), offer to break those ties. In this sense, one can say that all modern Jewish literature is by nature “dialectical.” This is perhaps the reason why S.Y. Agnon (the Nobel prize-winning Hebrew author) is considered to be the quintessential modern Jewish writer. His heroes almost always find themselves vacillating between the worlds of tradition and modernity, unable to decide where they truly belong. Perhaps that is his point. Being a modern Jew is to live in the irresolvable tension “between” these two poles.
I define Jewish literature along similar lines. If I were to add anything to the long-standing debate about “what is Jewish literature”, it is this: Jewish literature is the act of writing between tradition and modernity – between the ties that bind the writer to his Jewish heritage and the forces that (for better or for worse), offer to break those ties. In this sense, one can say that all modern Jewish literature is by nature “dialectical.” This is perhaps the reason why S.Y. Agnon (the Nobel prize-winning Hebrew author) is considered to be the quintessential modern Jewish writer. His heroes almost always find themselves vacillating between the worlds of tradition and modernity, unable to decide where they truly belong. Perhaps that is his point. Being a modern Jew is to live in the irresolvable tension “between” these two poles.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
אופרה בהפתעה בדיזינגוף סנטר - A Surprise Opera in the heart of Tel Aviv
A surprise burst of song in a Tel Aviv food court. Trust Israeli ingenuity to think of novel ways of bringing opera to the masses! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNqosHRbWog
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Since this is my first post, I thought I would explain my choice of picture which seems to encapsulate the theme of this blog. In the photo, I am standing in front of a booth at the well-known book festival in Jerusalem called Shavua HaSefer (Book Week). This annual week-long celebration of books takes place in numerous locations all over Israel. Since I happened to be in Israel this June, I was finally able to attend this festival for the first time. I must say that more than anything, I was struck by the sheer vitality of the event.
Not only was I impressed by the enormous number of Israeli book publishers displaying their wares (and in a country as tiny as Israel, this alone deserves mention), but the different sorts of people buying books was what astounded me most. From men in Hasidic garb to women with shaved heads and tattoos (with most of the crowd falling somewhere in between) the people were certainly as colorful as the displays themselves. I found it fascinating to observe this full range of types ---religious, secular, Jew, Arab, old, young--- all coming to the same place for the singular purpose of finding that right book. And done with such fervor. I sometimes found that I could barely get close to some of the booths as the hunting was so intense.
I was also impressed by the large number of families with children attending
the festival. There were no rides or amusements for the children (other than a few free balloons at some of the booths) ---just heaps and heaps of books. As I roamed between the rows of books, I couldn’t help thinking that this may be one of the most telling features of life in Israel: despite all the anguish of the past, the people of the Book, like wide-eyed children, are still excited at the prospect of a book.
Not only was I impressed by the enormous number of Israeli book publishers displaying their wares (and in a country as tiny as Israel, this alone deserves mention), but the different sorts of people buying books was what astounded me most. From men in Hasidic garb to women with shaved heads and tattoos (with most of the crowd falling somewhere in between) the people were certainly as colorful as the displays themselves. I found it fascinating to observe this full range of types ---religious, secular, Jew, Arab, old, young--- all coming to the same place for the singular purpose of finding that right book. And done with such fervor. I sometimes found that I could barely get close to some of the booths as the hunting was so intense.
I was also impressed by the large number of families with children attending
the festival. There were no rides or amusements for the children (other than a few free balloons at some of the booths) ---just heaps and heaps of books. As I roamed between the rows of books, I couldn’t help thinking that this may be one of the most telling features of life in Israel: despite all the anguish of the past, the people of the Book, like wide-eyed children, are still excited at the prospect of a book.
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