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讝讛 砖诪讞讻讛
讘住讜祝 砖谞讜转 讛砖诪讜谞讬诐 诪讙讬注 讝讬讝讬 讘谉 讛注砖专 注诐 诪砖驻讞转讜 诇砖诇讬讞讜转 讘讘讜住讟讜谉. "讝讛 专拽 诇砖谞讛," 诪讘讟讬讞讬诐 诇讜, "讜讛讝诪谉 讬注讘讜专 讘诇讬 砖转专讙讬砖." 讗讘诇 讝讬讝讬, 讬诇讚 砖专讜讗讛 讜诪专讙讬砖 讛讻讜诇, 诪讘讬谉 砖砖谞讛 讗讞转 讬讻讜诇讛 诇讛讬诪砖讱 诇谞爪讞 讘砖讘讬诇 诪讬 砖讛砖驻讛 讝专讛 诇讜, 讜讞讘专讬讜 专讞讜拽讬诐, 讜诪砖驻讞转讜 讗讬谞讛 讻砖讛讬讬转讛.
讘注讜诇诐 讛讘讜讚讚 砖讗诇讬讜 谞拽诇注 诪转讗诪抓 讝讬讝讬 诇转转 驻砖专 诇讞讬讬讜 讛讞讚砖讬诐. 讗讜诇讬 诇讗 住转诐 讛讘讬讗讜 讗讜转讜 诇注讬专 讛拽专讛 讛讝讗转, 讜讻诇 讛专诪讝讬诐 砖谞拽专讬诐 讘讚专讻讜 诪谞住讬诐 诇讛讙讬讚 诇讜 诪砖讛讜. 讗讜诇讬 讛讜讗 讘讻诇诇 讛讙讬注 诇讻讗谉 讘砖诇讬讞讜转 住讜讚讬转 砖诇 讛诪讚讬谞讛, 讻诪讜 讛诪专讙诇 驻讜诇讗专讚, 讜讗讜诇讬 讘砖诇讬讞讜转 砖诇 讗诇讜讛讬诐. 讘诇讬转 讘专讬专讛 讗讜讝专 讝讬讝讬 讗讜诪抓 讜诪拽讬砖 注诇 讚诇转 讛砖讻谞讬诐, 砖诪讗讞讜专讬讛 诪住转转专讜转 讛转砖讜讘讜转 诇砖讗诇讜转讬讜. 讻砖讛讚诇转 讛讝讜, 讛谞讟专拽转 讘驻谞讬讜 砖讜讘 讜砖讜讘, 转讬驻转讞 诇讘住讜祝 - 砖转讬拽讛 砖诇 砖谞讬诐 转讜驻专. 讜住讬驻讜专 讗讞讚 讬砖谉 讜拽驻讜讗, 讬转注讜专专 诇讞讬讬诐.
住驻专讜 砖诇 讬讜转诐 讟讜诇讜讘, 讬诇讬讚 1978 讛诪转讙讜专专 讘讬专讜砖诇讬诐, 讛讜讗 专讜诪谉 讘讬讻讜专讬诐 专讘-注讜爪诪讛 讛驻讜注诐 注诇 驻讬 诪拽爪讘 砖拽砖讛 砖诇讗 诇讛转诪住专 诇讜. 讘讻讬砖专讜谉 住驻专讜转讬 讬讜爪讗 讚讜驻谉 讟讜讜讛 讟讜诇讜讘 注诇讬诇讛 诪驻注讬诪讛 注诇 诪砖驻讞讜转 砖砖讬谞讜讬 驻转讗讜诪讬 诪讗讬讬诐 诇住讚讜拽 讗转 砖诇诪讜转谉 讜注诇 讙注讙讜注讬诐 砖专拽 诪转注爪诪讬诐 讘讞诇讜祝 讛讝诪谉. 讝讛 砖诪讞讻讛 讛讜讗 讛专讘讛 讬讜转专 诪住讬驻讜专 讛转讘讙专讜转 讻讜讘砖.
砖驻转 讛专讜诪谉, 砖谞讘谞讬转 诪转讜讱 诪注讘专讬诐 讘讬谉 砖驻讜转 讜诪砖诇讘讬诐 - 讘讬谉 注讘专讬转 诇讗谞讙诇讬转, 讘讬谉 砖驻转 讛讞讜诇 诇砖驻转 讛拽讜讚砖 - 讛讜驻讻转 诇诪谞讙讬谞讛 驻谞讬诪讬转 诪讚讜讬拽转 讜讛专诪讜谞讬转, 讜讞讜讜讬讬转 讛讛讙讬专讛 诪转注爪讘转 诇诪专拽诐 诇砖讜谞讬 讬驻讛驻讛. 讝讬讝讬, 讙讬讘讜专 住驻专讜转讬 砖讜讘讛 诇讛, 讬诇讚 砖讛讜讗 讗讝专讞 砖诇 砖谞讬 注讜诇诪讜转, 讬讬讞专转 讘讝讬讻专讜谞诐 砖诇 拽讜专讗讬讜.
讘注讜诇诐 讛讘讜讚讚 砖讗诇讬讜 谞拽诇注 诪转讗诪抓 讝讬讝讬 诇转转 驻砖专 诇讞讬讬讜 讛讞讚砖讬诐. 讗讜诇讬 诇讗 住转诐 讛讘讬讗讜 讗讜转讜 诇注讬专 讛拽专讛 讛讝讗转, 讜讻诇 讛专诪讝讬诐 砖谞拽专讬诐 讘讚专讻讜 诪谞住讬诐 诇讛讙讬讚 诇讜 诪砖讛讜. 讗讜诇讬 讛讜讗 讘讻诇诇 讛讙讬注 诇讻讗谉 讘砖诇讬讞讜转 住讜讚讬转 砖诇 讛诪讚讬谞讛, 讻诪讜 讛诪专讙诇 驻讜诇讗专讚, 讜讗讜诇讬 讘砖诇讬讞讜转 砖诇 讗诇讜讛讬诐. 讘诇讬转 讘专讬专讛 讗讜讝专 讝讬讝讬 讗讜诪抓 讜诪拽讬砖 注诇 讚诇转 讛砖讻谞讬诐, 砖诪讗讞讜专讬讛 诪住转转专讜转 讛转砖讜讘讜转 诇砖讗诇讜转讬讜. 讻砖讛讚诇转 讛讝讜, 讛谞讟专拽转 讘驻谞讬讜 砖讜讘 讜砖讜讘, 转讬驻转讞 诇讘住讜祝 - 砖转讬拽讛 砖诇 砖谞讬诐 转讜驻专. 讜住讬驻讜专 讗讞讚 讬砖谉 讜拽驻讜讗, 讬转注讜专专 诇讞讬讬诐.
住驻专讜 砖诇 讬讜转诐 讟讜诇讜讘, 讬诇讬讚 1978 讛诪转讙讜专专 讘讬专讜砖诇讬诐, 讛讜讗 专讜诪谉 讘讬讻讜专讬诐 专讘-注讜爪诪讛 讛驻讜注诐 注诇 驻讬 诪拽爪讘 砖拽砖讛 砖诇讗 诇讛转诪住专 诇讜. 讘讻讬砖专讜谉 住驻专讜转讬 讬讜爪讗 讚讜驻谉 讟讜讜讛 讟讜诇讜讘 注诇讬诇讛 诪驻注讬诪讛 注诇 诪砖驻讞讜转 砖砖讬谞讜讬 驻转讗讜诪讬 诪讗讬讬诐 诇住讚讜拽 讗转 砖诇诪讜转谉 讜注诇 讙注讙讜注讬诐 砖专拽 诪转注爪诪讬诐 讘讞诇讜祝 讛讝诪谉. 讝讛 砖诪讞讻讛 讛讜讗 讛专讘讛 讬讜转专 诪住讬驻讜专 讛转讘讙专讜转 讻讜讘砖.
砖驻转 讛专讜诪谉, 砖谞讘谞讬转 诪转讜讱 诪注讘专讬诐 讘讬谉 砖驻讜转 讜诪砖诇讘讬诐 - 讘讬谉 注讘专讬转 诇讗谞讙诇讬转, 讘讬谉 砖驻转 讛讞讜诇 诇砖驻转 讛拽讜讚砖 - 讛讜驻讻转 诇诪谞讙讬谞讛 驻谞讬诪讬转 诪讚讜讬拽转 讜讛专诪讜谞讬转, 讜讞讜讜讬讬转 讛讛讙讬专讛 诪转注爪讘转 诇诪专拽诐 诇砖讜谞讬 讬驻讛驻讛. 讝讬讝讬, 讙讬讘讜专 住驻专讜转讬 砖讜讘讛 诇讛, 讬诇讚 砖讛讜讗 讗讝专讞 砖诇 砖谞讬 注讜诇诪讜转, 讬讬讞专转 讘讝讬讻专讜谞诐 砖诇 拽讜专讗讬讜.
248 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2009
4 people want to read
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June 21, 2009
Thinking Questions for Post-Modern Novelists:
Note: We deliberately refrained from using the word 鈥済uidelines鈥� because that would constitute an arbitrary imposition of our reality on that of the author.
1. Why write a story with a beginning, middle, and end when you can write a story with 10,000 middles instead?
2. Why choose one viewpoint or switch viewpoints in a structured manner when you can randomly float out of one character鈥檚 head and into another鈥檚 and really confuse your reader about whose story this is?
3. Why organize the events in your story chronologically or logically when you can organize them thematically according to a structure that makes sense only to you?
4. Can there ever be too many coincidences? After all, reality is what we make it.
5. Since reality is what we make it, why tell the reader what鈥檚 really going on when you can keep them guessing instead about whether what they鈥檙e reading is the actual story or whether it鈥檚 just some character鈥檚 speculation/fantasy?
6. Why the heck would anyone want to read a book like this?
Okay, maybe I鈥檓 being a bit harsh in taking all my postmodernism wrath out on this one poor book, which doesn't entirely deserve all of this. And in fact, some of the things that got on my nerves about the book weren鈥檛 even its postmodern qualities necessarily.
But first I鈥檒l backtrack with a short summary.
Zizi (a really stupid nickname if you ask me; the kid鈥檚 actual name is Raz), a ten-year-old Israeli boy, is living in Boston for the year as his mother engages in some kind of postdoctoral law research at Harvard. With the obvious exception of Zizi鈥檚 self-involved mother, Shuli/Susie, who seems to wish she could just leave them all behind and pursue her academic dreams, none of them seems particularly happy to be there 鈥� not his long-suffering father, Yaaki, who continually tries to accommodate 鈥淪huzi鈥� (as he jokingly calls her in mockery of her pretenses) but can鈥檛 help being too much of a politically incorrect Israeli for her; not his little sister Shai, perpetually glued to the television in the absence of parents who might try to engage her or stimulate her; and certainly not Zizi himself, who cultivates an active fantasy life as a means of coping with his loneliness and his difficult adjustment.
In Zizi鈥檚 fantasy life, which comprises a great deal of the first half of the book, there鈥檚 actually a meaning and purpose to his being uprooted from all he knows and loves and having to adjust to freezing winters and 鈥渇ood that tastes like plastic鈥� (if you鈥檝e ever tasted spicy Israeli cuisine and the fresh produce here, I think you鈥檒l have to admit that Zizi has a point) as his parents become increasingly estranged from each other and detached from their children. Zizi鈥檚 fantasy involves his upstairs neighbor, Mr. Freund, who remains closeted in his house. Several ambiguous clues suggest, at least to Zizi鈥檚 mind, that Mr. Freund is actually an Israeli spy and that Zizi has a secret mission to assist him 鈥� to the point where Zizi actually knocks on this eccentric neighbor鈥檚 door and offers his services.
Of course, Mr. Freund鈥檚 real secret eventually unfolds (after he slams the door on Zizi鈥檚 garbled attempt to express his knowledge of Mr. Freund鈥檚 hidden activities) and turns out to be rather different, though no less dramatic in its own way. Unfortunately, this gradual revelation is preceded by an extremely slow and only marginally interesting build-up. And as the pieces of the mystery begin to come together, the narrative becomes increasingly post-modern and disjointed which, in case you haven鈥檛 guessed, is really not my thing.
This book did have some good points, and was readable despite its being in Hebrew which is already saying something. I felt Zizi鈥檚 pain at both his own difficulty adjusting socially and his parents鈥� marital tension and benign neglect of their children; yet with all this pain there was some comic relief. I also give Tolub credit for getting the mind of a ten-year-old down pretty well, at least in terms of imagining oneself as part of a melodrama of grand proportions as opposed to simply an everyday kid. If I remember correctly, that鈥檚 very much the age where you鈥檙e convinced that you were switched at birth with some royal figure or, as in Zizi鈥檚 case, that your mysterious neighbor is really a spy. I also think, though, that even at ten, there鈥檚 a part of you that knows when your fantasies are really just fantasies no matter how badly you want to believe them. I鈥檓 not sure why that didn鈥檛 happen for Zizi, who is otherwise depicted as quite bright. It鈥檚 one thing to convince yourself that your neighbor is really a spy. It鈥檚 another thing to knock on his door and actually offer your services to him as an assistant spy when the entire body of evidence for his secret career exists inside your head, and surely some part of you knows that even if you鈥檙e dying to believe otherwise.
Then, there were some other things that got on my nerves.
First of all, this book used that same old postmodern device which is starting to become a clich茅 鈥� a curious (and often bored and/or emotionally neglected) child uncovers what might be half-clues of some drama and totally misconstrues them, but eventually the pieces come together and what started out as a child trying to make mountains out of several random molehills proves to be a far-reaching, dramatic, and poignant story with a life of its own. Yeah, yeah. I read "Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close," I read "History of Love," didn鈥檛 love either of them and wasn鈥檛 interested in revisiting the theme.
And really, who wants to read about a ten-year-old anyway? Even though (or maybe because) Tolub did a better job than most of depicting a developmentally authentic ten-year-old, I鈥檇 still rather read a story written from an adult perspective (with a few notable exceptions like 鈥淭o Kill a Mockingbird鈥� or 鈥淐atcher in the Rye,鈥� but this book wasn鈥檛 one of them). Of course, there were those times when Tolub suddenly shifted briefly to the perspective of one of Zizi鈥檚 parents. Rather than enhancing the book for me, though, those moments detracted by confusing me and making me feel less emotionally involved with Zizi. I鈥檓 really not into multiple perspectives as a rule.
I also got annoyed with the constant Hebrew transliteration of English/English transliteration of Hebrew shifting. I understood what Tolub was trying to do by showing us how the main character was hearing the Americans鈥� English as well as their attempts to speak Hebrew, and it was actually pretty clever and creative (when he used English transliteration to depict Americans speaking in Hebrew, for example, you could actually hear the accent in your head), but after a while it was overdone and irritating.
What鈥檚 more, I don鈥檛 need a pageturner necessarily, but I do need a more balanced contemplation:action ratio than this book offered. I really don鈥檛 like it when authors feel they need to have us follow every detail of every single train of thought in their characters鈥� heads, no matter how trivial. I honestly don鈥檛 think that every single one of anyone鈥檚 thoughts are interesting, even my own (my lengthy goodreads reviews notwithstanding!), and if someone were writing Khaya: The Novel, I hope they would be far more selective about including only the streams of consciousness served plot/characterization purposes and omitting those which were just plain boring.
Finally, I totally didn鈥檛 get the ending. How the heck did that happen? I actually e-mailed my Hebrew book club members to request an explanation, since I鈥檒l be missing our meeting. Which, to tell the truth, does speak well for the book in spite of all my other complaints 鈥� the fact that I bothered to finish it even though I鈥檒l be missing the meeting in the end, and my actual interest in understanding the ending as opposed to simply slamming the book shut and wishing it good riddance. Hence the two stars.
Note: We deliberately refrained from using the word 鈥済uidelines鈥� because that would constitute an arbitrary imposition of our reality on that of the author.
1. Why write a story with a beginning, middle, and end when you can write a story with 10,000 middles instead?
2. Why choose one viewpoint or switch viewpoints in a structured manner when you can randomly float out of one character鈥檚 head and into another鈥檚 and really confuse your reader about whose story this is?
3. Why organize the events in your story chronologically or logically when you can organize them thematically according to a structure that makes sense only to you?
4. Can there ever be too many coincidences? After all, reality is what we make it.
5. Since reality is what we make it, why tell the reader what鈥檚 really going on when you can keep them guessing instead about whether what they鈥檙e reading is the actual story or whether it鈥檚 just some character鈥檚 speculation/fantasy?
6. Why the heck would anyone want to read a book like this?
Okay, maybe I鈥檓 being a bit harsh in taking all my postmodernism wrath out on this one poor book, which doesn't entirely deserve all of this. And in fact, some of the things that got on my nerves about the book weren鈥檛 even its postmodern qualities necessarily.
But first I鈥檒l backtrack with a short summary.
Zizi (a really stupid nickname if you ask me; the kid鈥檚 actual name is Raz), a ten-year-old Israeli boy, is living in Boston for the year as his mother engages in some kind of postdoctoral law research at Harvard. With the obvious exception of Zizi鈥檚 self-involved mother, Shuli/Susie, who seems to wish she could just leave them all behind and pursue her academic dreams, none of them seems particularly happy to be there 鈥� not his long-suffering father, Yaaki, who continually tries to accommodate 鈥淪huzi鈥� (as he jokingly calls her in mockery of her pretenses) but can鈥檛 help being too much of a politically incorrect Israeli for her; not his little sister Shai, perpetually glued to the television in the absence of parents who might try to engage her or stimulate her; and certainly not Zizi himself, who cultivates an active fantasy life as a means of coping with his loneliness and his difficult adjustment.
In Zizi鈥檚 fantasy life, which comprises a great deal of the first half of the book, there鈥檚 actually a meaning and purpose to his being uprooted from all he knows and loves and having to adjust to freezing winters and 鈥渇ood that tastes like plastic鈥� (if you鈥檝e ever tasted spicy Israeli cuisine and the fresh produce here, I think you鈥檒l have to admit that Zizi has a point) as his parents become increasingly estranged from each other and detached from their children. Zizi鈥檚 fantasy involves his upstairs neighbor, Mr. Freund, who remains closeted in his house. Several ambiguous clues suggest, at least to Zizi鈥檚 mind, that Mr. Freund is actually an Israeli spy and that Zizi has a secret mission to assist him 鈥� to the point where Zizi actually knocks on this eccentric neighbor鈥檚 door and offers his services.
Of course, Mr. Freund鈥檚 real secret eventually unfolds (after he slams the door on Zizi鈥檚 garbled attempt to express his knowledge of Mr. Freund鈥檚 hidden activities) and turns out to be rather different, though no less dramatic in its own way. Unfortunately, this gradual revelation is preceded by an extremely slow and only marginally interesting build-up. And as the pieces of the mystery begin to come together, the narrative becomes increasingly post-modern and disjointed which, in case you haven鈥檛 guessed, is really not my thing.
This book did have some good points, and was readable despite its being in Hebrew which is already saying something. I felt Zizi鈥檚 pain at both his own difficulty adjusting socially and his parents鈥� marital tension and benign neglect of their children; yet with all this pain there was some comic relief. I also give Tolub credit for getting the mind of a ten-year-old down pretty well, at least in terms of imagining oneself as part of a melodrama of grand proportions as opposed to simply an everyday kid. If I remember correctly, that鈥檚 very much the age where you鈥檙e convinced that you were switched at birth with some royal figure or, as in Zizi鈥檚 case, that your mysterious neighbor is really a spy. I also think, though, that even at ten, there鈥檚 a part of you that knows when your fantasies are really just fantasies no matter how badly you want to believe them. I鈥檓 not sure why that didn鈥檛 happen for Zizi, who is otherwise depicted as quite bright. It鈥檚 one thing to convince yourself that your neighbor is really a spy. It鈥檚 another thing to knock on his door and actually offer your services to him as an assistant spy when the entire body of evidence for his secret career exists inside your head, and surely some part of you knows that even if you鈥檙e dying to believe otherwise.
Then, there were some other things that got on my nerves.
First of all, this book used that same old postmodern device which is starting to become a clich茅 鈥� a curious (and often bored and/or emotionally neglected) child uncovers what might be half-clues of some drama and totally misconstrues them, but eventually the pieces come together and what started out as a child trying to make mountains out of several random molehills proves to be a far-reaching, dramatic, and poignant story with a life of its own. Yeah, yeah. I read "Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close," I read "History of Love," didn鈥檛 love either of them and wasn鈥檛 interested in revisiting the theme.
And really, who wants to read about a ten-year-old anyway? Even though (or maybe because) Tolub did a better job than most of depicting a developmentally authentic ten-year-old, I鈥檇 still rather read a story written from an adult perspective (with a few notable exceptions like 鈥淭o Kill a Mockingbird鈥� or 鈥淐atcher in the Rye,鈥� but this book wasn鈥檛 one of them). Of course, there were those times when Tolub suddenly shifted briefly to the perspective of one of Zizi鈥檚 parents. Rather than enhancing the book for me, though, those moments detracted by confusing me and making me feel less emotionally involved with Zizi. I鈥檓 really not into multiple perspectives as a rule.
I also got annoyed with the constant Hebrew transliteration of English/English transliteration of Hebrew shifting. I understood what Tolub was trying to do by showing us how the main character was hearing the Americans鈥� English as well as their attempts to speak Hebrew, and it was actually pretty clever and creative (when he used English transliteration to depict Americans speaking in Hebrew, for example, you could actually hear the accent in your head), but after a while it was overdone and irritating.
What鈥檚 more, I don鈥檛 need a pageturner necessarily, but I do need a more balanced contemplation:action ratio than this book offered. I really don鈥檛 like it when authors feel they need to have us follow every detail of every single train of thought in their characters鈥� heads, no matter how trivial. I honestly don鈥檛 think that every single one of anyone鈥檚 thoughts are interesting, even my own (my lengthy goodreads reviews notwithstanding!), and if someone were writing Khaya: The Novel, I hope they would be far more selective about including only the streams of consciousness served plot/characterization purposes and omitting those which were just plain boring.
Finally, I totally didn鈥檛 get the ending. How the heck did that happen? I actually e-mailed my Hebrew book club members to request an explanation, since I鈥檒l be missing our meeting. Which, to tell the truth, does speak well for the book in spite of all my other complaints 鈥� the fact that I bothered to finish it even though I鈥檒l be missing the meeting in the end, and my actual interest in understanding the ending as opposed to simply slamming the book shut and wishing it good riddance. Hence the two stars.
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