Gail Hareven

A profoundly amoral book. Also a very good one. Let me take the latter point first SPOILERS AHEAD: while the book is overlong (it could have been cut by at least ten per cent), it gives as accurate a portrayal of trauma and PTSD as I've read anywhere and I read that stuff professionally. The thinking, thinking, thinking about the thing that happened, even when you aren't thinking about it, is deftly portrayed, as is the evil of the perpetrator. There is never any attempt to minimize what he did or sympathize with him as a person. He is disgusting.

Hareven's narrator talks a lot about misdirection, how, in a metaphor she uses several times, people like to talk about dust bunnies under the radiator so no one notices the piles of dirty laundry under the bed. And in a way her book is a work of misdirection. "Silence hints at a secret. . . . Is there really a secret that I'm keeping quiet about? (355), she asks. I answer yes, though not in the way she might have intended. "Lies," a story about a woman's childhood memories, also discusses Hitler, Stalin and Pol Pot as it tries to understand what motivates sheer evil -- while taking place in Jerusalem circa 2008 and never mentioning Palestinians. While Hareven was writing this book, in 2006, Israel bombed the only power plant in the Gaza Strip, effectively cutting off power to nearly everyone who lived and worked there. 2006 was also the year Israel began the blockade of Gaza which continues to keep food, medical supplies, and technology from the area. I could barely read the final pages as I realized that Hareven was not going to make that connection. Everything she describes is awful, yes, but it's all dust bunnies. Her omission makes this study of evil and its effects a work of evil itself. Imagine a novel about evil set in 1940s Germany that never mentions Jews or Nazis. It's so abhorrent it's almost ridiculous. And that's what Hareven has given us here.

So, for the depiction of trauma and PTSD: 4 stars. For its profound amorality: 0 stars. Rating: 2 stars

Let me remind readers that being horrified by Israel's human rights abuses does not make one anti-Semitic. Jewishness is not synonymous with the actions of the state of Israel.… (altro)

Putting down this book I couldn't shake a sense that I had been deceived. In the same way Elinor feels her mind taken over by the cancerous evil of "The First Person, The Not-Man," I felt that I had been spun in circles and forced to give up my own moral code, almost without realizing. I forgave a murder, but not just that, I didn't question it -- I had been so convinced by the narrator's pounding reinforcement of Aaron's evil, and by my desire to see a quite likable character made well, that I, like her husband, found myself cheering on the killing of an old, realistically almost harmless man, and wanting it to be sped up, made even more final. Unlike the central event of The Stranger, this killing felt chillingly explicable -- as though, had I been there, I would have been complicit.

As this reaction shows, Gail Hereven has created a wonderfully detailed book meant to provoke questions about all sorts of thin lines -- between good and evil, choice and necessity, author and subject, reader and participant -- but it does so in a way that feels fresh and in no way "tricky." That Hereven was able to find a new take on this admittedly worn out subjects is a testament to her inventiveness and dedication. That said, while I felt the impact this book had on me personally was enormous (disclaimer: I happen to live in the exact part of Illinois in which the middle of the book takes place), I did leave feeling that certain ideas could have been reinforced, and that certain aspects of the style could have been tied better in with the plot. It felt as though a few ideas just made it, but I'm not sure if I got every bit of what Hereven was going for. Maybe my next reading -- which I will hopefully find time to begin soon -- will help make everything clear for me.… (altro)

(Reprinted from the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography [cclapcenter.com]. I am the original author of this essay, as well as the owner of CCLaP; it is not being reprinted illegally.)

In a universe where I'm now reading and reviewing several hundred novels every single year, it's always a portentous occasion when one of them slows me down to a crawl merely because I don't want to miss anything that's being said; and that's what's made me realize what a special thing I've had on my hands for the last month with Gail Hareven's Lies, First Person, originally published in her native Hebrew in 2008 but with an English version only coming out late last year, thanks to the tireless Open Letter Books which exists only to publish such complicated literature in translation.

At its heart, it's a domestic thriller with a killer hook: the feisty middle-aged heroine, who grew up Jewish in Israel, once had an uncle who was a respected academe, until he published an instantly controversial biography of Hitler in which he tried to "humanize" the dictator by writing it first-person, and who as part of his "journey to understanding evil" ended up raping and intellectually torturing the heroine's mentally challenged sister while she was a pre-teen, a fact that never came out publicly but that tore her family apart in differing ways for each person. Now it's thirty years later and this long-lost monster is back out on a high-profile "apology tour," renouncing the book that once made his career, and has asked our narrator if she'd be willing to meet with him when he's scheduled to lecture in Jerusalem in a few months. (That's about the minimum you need to know in order to understand the book's main thrust, although be aware that the story goes off in several other interesting directions besides just this.)

This would be fascinating enough, but then Hareven writes the actual novel in what I like to call a "Judaic style of literature," based on how I saw CCLaP author Kevin Haworth write his essay collection for us a few years ago, Famous Drownings in Literary History; not quite a straight narrative, not quite memoir, partly self-aware and partly getting lost in the story, with humor and drama flip-flopping on a page-by-page basis. That's what makes the book such a linguistic delight, apart from the very sober but fascinating plot being unwound (and it's a very rewarding plot, make no mistake, one that would make for a fine adaptation into an indie film); it's not told in a straightforward style at all, but rather a wry, metafictional, self-knowing one, a style that relies on symbolism and metaphor, fable-telling and postmodernist revisionist fable-telling, and no wonder that it took a really special publisher like Open Letter to get the subtle translation from Hebrew right. (For those who don't know, Open Letter is much like the Criterion Collection from the film world -- dedicated nerdy professionals who are obsessively devoted to technical quality within the arts, in this case with doing artistically faithful translations of books that are notoriously difficult to translate.)

A book with something for everyone, it will be a real treat for those who like their literature dense, European-flavored, and culturally significant; but it's a hell of a beach-style page-turner too, and you're never quite sure what the exciting ending of this story is going to be until you actually get to it. It comes strongly recommended today for one and all, and will undoubtedly be making our best-of lists at the end of the year.

Out of 10: 9.7… (altro)

I have a love-hate affair with Overdrive. I love that I can borrow and return books without having to leave my bed. It’s got a pretty good selection – you should see my ‘wish list’ (where I’ve added books to read). But it also sucks – I can’t highlight passages, I can only bookmark pages. I know it’s a borrowed e-book but I would love to be able to highlight sections of the book to come back to later when I’m writing my review. But no…. just bookmarks, no highlighting, no note-taking.

So here I am stuck with many ‘bookmarks’ on the Overdrive e-book I’m blogging about, The Confessions of Noa Weber.

One of which was on page 10. And which I later realised was bookmarked for this passage:

“To confess to the finish… to confess till it finishes me off… to talk about him, to talk about myself, to talk so I won’t have to bear it any more. To talk until I can’t stand myself any longer. To talk, to talk, to talk myself to death – this is apparently why I’m standing here before you today.”

And that is essentially what The Confessions of Noa Weber is about. Noa Weber is 47 years old, a writer of crime novels (her protagonist is a very busty woman called Nira Woolf) in Israel. Her daughter is turning 29. And she has, for 30 years or so, been obsessively in love with Alek, whom she first met at a party as a teen and married to avoid being drafted.

It is an unrequited love:

“I loved him. And Alek wasn’t in love with me. And in spite of my youth, I did not give way to the temptation to interpret various gestures of his as possible manifestations of love. I did not count my steps to the refrain of ‘he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not…’. And even when I read between the lines – lovers will always read between the lines, they are never satisfied with the manifest content – I did not deceive myself by discovering signs of a feeling he did not possess. I loved him, and precisely for that reasons, I knew that he didn’t love me.”

This book could easily have sunken into some kind of weird deranged blog-style rant. Isn’t that what one immediately thinks of when it comes to obsessions? And this is some obsession. But Noa isn’t some pathetic lovelorn woman. Sure, as a young pregnant girl she was:

“What happened to me during the birth was that I began to think about pain as a kind of sacrifice I was making for Alek, as if I had surrendered to pain for his sake.”

But the Noa Weber writing this ‘confession’ is more mature and self-aware, she is unfaltering in her need to confess. And she is also really dead on when it comes to her thoughts about love, young love, not-so-young love, unconditional love. It becomes quite philosophical, thoughtful.

However, I kept glancing at the bottom right corner of the Overdrive app, which tells me just how many pages are left. Because this isn’t the easiest book to read. It does get kind of annoying at times, so often I wanted to tell her, enough with Alek already. He’s not in love with you. He’s got other women, he’s even got other children by those women. But you know what? There’s no need. Because she knows all that already. She does. She is, after all, confessing all this to the reader. So I am guilty of skimming, a little on this page, a little on that. Because she gets a bit repetitive. So maybe I might have missed out on a few crucial emo bits, but sometimes skimming makes for a better book reading, because I can get on with it and move to another book.

So that’s my confession. I am a skimmer when the need arises. And in parts of this book, it did. But there is some part of me that understands Noa Weber and her unrequited love, I guess somewhere (perhaps buried deep inside) most of us, we would understand how she feels:

“There will never be a summer for us. Never in any summer will I walk with him along foreign streets, with their desperate squalor and their desperate splendor that I seem to know from some previous incarnation. And never will I experience again the consciousness of infinite expanses where everything seems pointless but love itself. Love will never expand me. The one right body will never come to me.”… (altro)