Uvi Poznansky's Blog, page 273
June 17, 2012
A Sentence, Unfinished
At this moment, a man is lying in his armchair, propped up on a large pillow. He has lived, or rather, has confined himself within these walls for decades, for a reason unknown. In this stagnant place all sounds are muffled, all images erased – but for one thing: his youth. There is a vibrant longing in him for the adventures of his early days. Was it not just yesterday when he left his home in Poland, never to see his parents again? Has he not escaped from the Nazi death camp in France, climbed across the Pyrenean Mountains, and found his way to Spain? He can still spot the snow-covered trail winding down, shining in the mist. It is fading out now, vanishing into a cloud, into fog. No, it is not fog anymore but a storm, a raging storm at sea. There he stands, aboard the deck of a small ship, straining to see the dreamy outline of a new shore: Israel. There is a certain glint, the vivid, restless glint of the wanderer, playing in his eyes. It is high noon, but the room is dark. The blinds are drawn. Only a thin plume of daylight reaches in somehow, and writes a bright dot against the shadows. If – like him – you waited long enough, you could actually see the dot bleeding slowly, steadily across the bare floor, rising up over the wall, becoming longer and longer still, until at long last it would fade out, like a sentence unfinished. Dark circles can be noticed around his eyes; which suddenly brings to mind a tired animal, one that has not felt sunshine for a long time. The eyelids fall shut and at once, the glint is gone. An invisible hand is writing on the wall. He knows it in his heart. He bears it in fear and silence.And then, trying to ignore the ticking, the loud, insistent ticking of the clock from the adjacent kitchen, you too would, perhaps, start sensing a presence. Voices would be coming from a different place, a place within. A faint footfall… A soft laughter... Who is there? He glances nervously at the entrance door. Is it locked? Can a stranger get in? Then – quite unexpectedly – the fear subsides and for the first time, gives way to something else. Something wells up in his throat. Why is the door locked? He feels a sudden urge to crawl down, get to that threshold, and cry. Mommy! Open the door! Let me in, mommy! Let me come home! But for now, he can still hold it in. He forces himself to turn away from that door. Somehow it feels lighter in the dark. The bareness of this space, which was once adorned with rich Persian rugs, colorful oil paintings and fine furnishings, is more bearable this way. So is the weight of loneliness.Opposite from him, playing out endlessly, unintelligibly and in quick succession on the TV screen, are strange images from unfamiliar places. Noise. He lets the images come. He lets them go. He has no will. He has no curiosity. But from time to time he stirs, despite the sharp, sudden pain in his wrist. He fumbles at the remote control, wondering why the sound is so distant, so mute. And yet – no matter how much he tries – he finds it impossible to fix that which is broken. The shelves behind him are laden with books, three of which he has written himself in years past. Signed: Blue Wolf. Here is the poet, a man notorious for his contradictions, a man of a great passion and an equally great skill to capture it, to put it in beautiful, eloquent words in any one of ten languages. Here is the storyteller whose listeners have left him. Locked in a world of no sound, in a world of no expression, here he is: a cage within cage. This is the place where even the wolf surrenders. The fight is over. No more howling. Here, at last, is my father.
For this story, which I chose to post today, on Father's Day, I thought it appropriate to display one of my father's own oil paintings. The story of how he painted it fascinates me: He painted the slope of a mountainside, and a moon high above, then archived the painting, never taking another look at it--until, several years later, he unearthed it and asked himself: What if... What if I paint this line here (Which became the nose)...
And with that question in mind, the painting became what it was meant to be: The Wandering Jew, with the moonlight quality softening the story of a refugee and a nomad.
June 16, 2012
New 5-Start Review from Melodie: "Painfully Captivating"
A new 5-star review of Apart From Love, this time by the beautifully musical name of Melodie K. Starkey (of Chicago, IL) appeared on Amazon last night. Melodie must have been moved by one of my posts on Facebook, because she headed off to get the book. Later, I knew she was nearing the end, because I noticed a comment she left on another one of my posts. I must say this kind of close reader-writer interaction would not have happened, had I gone the route of traditional publishing. By going the Indie way, I get to meet so many wonderful readers and engage in conversation with them.
"Reading this novel is like gawking at a tragic crime scene; you know you are intruding into something way too personal, but you NEED to know all the details--who was hurt and how, who was the guilty party, and most importantly how do I avoid this?
To me, the biggest strength of Apart from Love is the author's ability to craft these three seriously damaged characters in a way that makes us react to each as individuals, caring what happens, shouting advice from the sidelines, and feeling anger, pity, frustration, sorrow in turn. For all their flaws, Ben and Anita are like children that you want to shelter and save, while Lenny's small redeeming dedication to his ex-wife doesn't begin to counterbalance his overall dispicable character.
Written with a depth of language bordering on poetic and with laser sharp accuracy for penetrating to the core of your emotions, Apart from Love is a story that will continue to haunt you long after the dangling ending."
Curious to read more about Melodie, I went to her reviewer page on Amazon, and found this endearing, tongue-in-cheek note:
"I will never forgive my mother for naming me this stupid name, plus misspelling it."
"Reading this novel is like gawking at a tragic crime scene; you know you are intruding into something way too personal, but you NEED to know all the details--who was hurt and how, who was the guilty party, and most importantly how do I avoid this?
To me, the biggest strength of Apart from Love is the author's ability to craft these three seriously damaged characters in a way that makes us react to each as individuals, caring what happens, shouting advice from the sidelines, and feeling anger, pity, frustration, sorrow in turn. For all their flaws, Ben and Anita are like children that you want to shelter and save, while Lenny's small redeeming dedication to his ex-wife doesn't begin to counterbalance his overall dispicable character.
Written with a depth of language bordering on poetic and with laser sharp accuracy for penetrating to the core of your emotions, Apart from Love is a story that will continue to haunt you long after the dangling ending."
Curious to read more about Melodie, I went to her reviewer page on Amazon, and found this endearing, tongue-in-cheek note:
"I will never forgive my mother for naming me this stupid name, plus misspelling it."
June 15, 2012
Blazing Points of View
New 5-star review of Apart From Love, this time by sallsol, titled 'Blazing Points of View', appeared last night on Amazon:
"Author Uvi Pozansky's juxtaposition of her characters'thought is fascinating. She shows their ongoing beliefs about themselves, their relationship to each other, and their relationship to the woman whose memory has been wiped away by Alzheimer's disease. Her characters maneuver their thoughts into the words which they think will bring them what they need or just want.
These unique characters are layered with complexity. In addition to the relationship between the three of them, they have been tragically influenced by the woman who has Alzheimer's disease. Her former husband, son, and rival react in disparate yet authentic, and for us the reader, edifying ways.
Pozansky's artistic talent gives us rich descriptions. When the uneducated Anita is watching Ben, her elderly husband's adult son, she thinks,"His entire body is like, burning up. And his eyes, they're fluttering around me until--like a moth heading, in a roundabout way, into a light source--they connect with mine. I can sense his hate some times, and at once pull back from him, `cause I spot how hard his jaw is set, and even, how murderous the spark right there, in that shadow under his lashes, which reminds me of some animal, getting pretty tense, like, getting ready for the kill."
I was right there, with each of them, from beginning to end."
"Author Uvi Pozansky's juxtaposition of her characters'thought is fascinating. She shows their ongoing beliefs about themselves, their relationship to each other, and their relationship to the woman whose memory has been wiped away by Alzheimer's disease. Her characters maneuver their thoughts into the words which they think will bring them what they need or just want.
These unique characters are layered with complexity. In addition to the relationship between the three of them, they have been tragically influenced by the woman who has Alzheimer's disease. Her former husband, son, and rival react in disparate yet authentic, and for us the reader, edifying ways.
Pozansky's artistic talent gives us rich descriptions. When the uneducated Anita is watching Ben, her elderly husband's adult son, she thinks,"His entire body is like, burning up. And his eyes, they're fluttering around me until--like a moth heading, in a roundabout way, into a light source--they connect with mine. I can sense his hate some times, and at once pull back from him, `cause I spot how hard his jaw is set, and even, how murderous the spark right there, in that shadow under his lashes, which reminds me of some animal, getting pretty tense, like, getting ready for the kill."
I was right there, with each of them, from beginning to end."
June 14, 2012
Poem by My Father: We Were Born in Darkness
We Were Born in Darkness Written by Zeev Kachel Translated from Hebrew by Uvi Poznansky
We were born in darkness, crying a fitLike grains of sand, countless stars came up, lit, We wanted to turn back to the warm womb Instead we were wrapped by chill and by gloom
Born in darkness, we labored so hardTo find our way in this universe We were greeted by its hug, the cruelty of its curseIts predators' jaws... We were forced to traverse.
Ma, why did you fool me, what was it for,When you sang me a lullaby, not a song of war?Oh why did you hide the ugly truth from meWe were born in darkness, our life--not to be?
The original text of this poem appears on the second page of Ropes, Separation, Tear (Hebrew Edition) which was published by me earlier this year in memory of my father. If you can read poetry in Hebrew, take a 'look inside' the book on Amazon. And please forgive the translation, which is the art of compromise between content, rhythm and rhyme.
June 13, 2012
New 5 Star Review: "A Fascinating Narrative"
A new 5-star review, this time by a reader named Sharon, was posted on Amazon last night. It calls Apart From Love, "A Fascinating Narrative":
"Uvi Poznansky is a Renaissance woman - poet, fiction writer, sculptress, architect, software engineer. Her first novel APART FROM LOVE reflects her many talents. It is full of unique visual imagery; some of the scenes read like exquisitely dressed stage sets. The cover art is also hers. Metaphors of art and music abound and support the novel's themes of passion, identity, and fractured family relationships.
Other reviewers have commented on the novel's plot; I won't reiterate those remarks. No "spoilers" from me! For this reader the most remarkable aspect of APART FROM LOVE is Poznansky's manipulation of the complicated narrative strategy in which three characters - Ben, his father Lenny, and Anita (Lenny's young second wife) - share the telling of the story. Ben and Anita are the primary narrators, and later we learn that Lenny is the "author" who secretly is piecing together their tape recorded narratives. He thinks of himself as a "keeper of secrets," yet it is the secrets of Ben and Anita that are revealed to him. Since the narratives are fractured and then, we suppose, "translated" by Lenny, the reader is left in a kind of suspense about what really happens. The lack of coherence created by the audiotapes - some of which have been written over multiple times - creates a fascinating, puzzle-like narrative in which the philosophical question of the nature of truth and reality is spun out for the reader. Each of the narrators has a distinctive voice; others have commented on the fact that Anita is uneducated and her language is unsophisticated and slightly crude. Personally, I found her refreshing - and perhaps the most honest of the three tellers of this ironic and painful "love" story.
The novel has some comic relief - again ironic - in the characters of Aunt Hadassa and her sisters who function like a Greek chorus, or Shakespearean "weird sisters," or the Fates, appearing generally at Anita's side at dramatic moments. The novel also has an appended chapter of "Editorial Notes" written by Lenny's lawyer, Mr. Bliss. These notes - an attempt to explain his editing of the scattered materials that make up the story - remind this reader of the attempts of Emily Bronte's narrator Lockwood to understand the passions of Heathcliff and Catherine in WUTHERING HEIGHTS. Psychologically, he is not up to the job, but even as we know this, we learn that in a way he stands for the reader, someone whose passions cannot hope to match those of the main actors in the drama. Uvi Poznansky has done this here as well. See for yourself; read APART FROM LOVE."
"Uvi Poznansky is a Renaissance woman - poet, fiction writer, sculptress, architect, software engineer. Her first novel APART FROM LOVE reflects her many talents. It is full of unique visual imagery; some of the scenes read like exquisitely dressed stage sets. The cover art is also hers. Metaphors of art and music abound and support the novel's themes of passion, identity, and fractured family relationships.
Other reviewers have commented on the novel's plot; I won't reiterate those remarks. No "spoilers" from me! For this reader the most remarkable aspect of APART FROM LOVE is Poznansky's manipulation of the complicated narrative strategy in which three characters - Ben, his father Lenny, and Anita (Lenny's young second wife) - share the telling of the story. Ben and Anita are the primary narrators, and later we learn that Lenny is the "author" who secretly is piecing together their tape recorded narratives. He thinks of himself as a "keeper of secrets," yet it is the secrets of Ben and Anita that are revealed to him. Since the narratives are fractured and then, we suppose, "translated" by Lenny, the reader is left in a kind of suspense about what really happens. The lack of coherence created by the audiotapes - some of which have been written over multiple times - creates a fascinating, puzzle-like narrative in which the philosophical question of the nature of truth and reality is spun out for the reader. Each of the narrators has a distinctive voice; others have commented on the fact that Anita is uneducated and her language is unsophisticated and slightly crude. Personally, I found her refreshing - and perhaps the most honest of the three tellers of this ironic and painful "love" story.
The novel has some comic relief - again ironic - in the characters of Aunt Hadassa and her sisters who function like a Greek chorus, or Shakespearean "weird sisters," or the Fates, appearing generally at Anita's side at dramatic moments. The novel also has an appended chapter of "Editorial Notes" written by Lenny's lawyer, Mr. Bliss. These notes - an attempt to explain his editing of the scattered materials that make up the story - remind this reader of the attempts of Emily Bronte's narrator Lockwood to understand the passions of Heathcliff and Catherine in WUTHERING HEIGHTS. Psychologically, he is not up to the job, but even as we know this, we learn that in a way he stands for the reader, someone whose passions cannot hope to match those of the main actors in the drama. Uvi Poznansky has done this here as well. See for yourself; read APART FROM LOVE."
June 12, 2012
Truth in Fiction?
The last 'chapter' in Apart From Love is called 'Editorial Notes' (as written be Mr. Bliss, Attorney.) Mr. Bliss is a minor character: He is briefly introduced earlier in the story, and you will note that his name is ironic, because each time he appears turns out to be a time of misery...
Mr. Bliss opens his discourse making an honest attempt not to sound like a lawyer, which fails at once:
"In writing this Introduction I shall make every effort to avoid making it read like a legal brief. As an attorney at law, I claim neither knowledge nor any kind of experience in the task of literary editing. However, the body of work that my longtime client, Mr. Leonard Kaminsky (hereby named The Author) left behind him, which was found, rather unfortunately, in a fragmented and highly unfinished state, made it necessary for me, for professional as well as personal reasons, to rise to the task.
I served the author for nearly thirty years. Smart and tightlipped, he gave me the impression of someone who is likely to conceal some secret affairs, someone with a healthy appetite for the ladies, an appetite matched only by his experience.
Which at the time, I considered enviable."
He then describes the 'back story' of the story, which I am not going to give away here... What is clear is the fact that he is hard at work, attempting to make sense of the events, and to arrange the various accounts of the other characters, so as to gain a fuller understanding of the story. Here, then, are his last words:
"Until the very last moment before submitting this text for publication, I plan on reading and rereading it, looking for gaps in chronology, logical misalignments between fragments, even outright errors, which might have escaped me. I am still tormented by my own doubts as to this editorial guesswork.
Therefore I would not put it past you, the reader, to sense some dissatisfaction, as I do, in the current state of this book. It was unfinished, and still is.
I wish I could be more confident of its veracity and completeness. I wish I could do more. This, I suppose, is the nature of the quest for truth—even if it is truth in fiction.
***
Listen to my interview this morning, hosted by Author Yolanda M Johnson-Bryant. The best thing: I didn't break a leg! Check it out here, at The Author's Hideaway.
Mr. Bliss opens his discourse making an honest attempt not to sound like a lawyer, which fails at once:
"In writing this Introduction I shall make every effort to avoid making it read like a legal brief. As an attorney at law, I claim neither knowledge nor any kind of experience in the task of literary editing. However, the body of work that my longtime client, Mr. Leonard Kaminsky (hereby named The Author) left behind him, which was found, rather unfortunately, in a fragmented and highly unfinished state, made it necessary for me, for professional as well as personal reasons, to rise to the task.
I served the author for nearly thirty years. Smart and tightlipped, he gave me the impression of someone who is likely to conceal some secret affairs, someone with a healthy appetite for the ladies, an appetite matched only by his experience.
Which at the time, I considered enviable."
He then describes the 'back story' of the story, which I am not going to give away here... What is clear is the fact that he is hard at work, attempting to make sense of the events, and to arrange the various accounts of the other characters, so as to gain a fuller understanding of the story. Here, then, are his last words:
"Until the very last moment before submitting this text for publication, I plan on reading and rereading it, looking for gaps in chronology, logical misalignments between fragments, even outright errors, which might have escaped me. I am still tormented by my own doubts as to this editorial guesswork.
Therefore I would not put it past you, the reader, to sense some dissatisfaction, as I do, in the current state of this book. It was unfinished, and still is.
I wish I could be more confident of its veracity and completeness. I wish I could do more. This, I suppose, is the nature of the quest for truth—even if it is truth in fiction.
***
Listen to my interview this morning, hosted by Author Yolanda M Johnson-Bryant. The best thing: I didn't break a leg! Check it out here, at The Author's Hideaway.
June 11, 2012
Apart From Love Found a Home in Palos Verdes Library District
So excited! Deb Ripley, the Adult Services Librarian in Palos Verdes Library District of Rolling Hills Estates, has just let me know that my new novel, Apart From Love, has recently been added to their collection! The book is now appearing in the "New Fiction" section.
If you live in or around Rolling Hills Estates, check it out!
If you live in or around Rolling Hills Estates, check it out!
June 10, 2012
Can We Inspire Each Other?
This is a story of collaboration between three artists: Albert Setton, Ettore Andreani, and yours truly, combining forces to create a single, cross-inspired project. In the beginning, we decided that each one of us will crawl back into his or her cave to create an initial sketch. What would it be about? We didn't know at first, but because we share an affinity to mythological themes, we agreed to have the sketch refer to one of the stories in Greek mythology. Also, we decided on the overall size of the paper; so by the time we met, we had three art pieces, each 30"x24".
Next we had to make a decision how to put the three pieces together. Would they be placed side-by-side, like an altar triptych? In what order? Should we cut and paste pieces of them together, to create a new whole? Or should they be arranged in a vertical column? Who's on top?
Stacking the pieces vertically seemed appropriate, because my piece--a figure floating in space like Dedalus who lost his wings getting too close to the sun--lends itself to be up there above the rest. It is a metaphor for my own fragility; indeed, the fragility of all of us who dream of soaring... The middle piece, painted by Ettore Andreani, describes the plight of Prometheus, doomed for eternal suffering for daring to give fire, which is divine, to mortals. Down below, Albert Setton's piece, depicting the Minotaur in his cave, which is perhaps the way he views himself. This piece lends itself to be underground.
Now we had to combine the three pieces--not only graphically (by eliminating superfluous detail and adjusting the overall composition) but also in terms of the overall narration. This we did using Ariadne's thread, which runs through all three panels, twisting and turning through them. We decided on the following narrative scheme:
Top panel:
Ariadne is seen dancing with the thread, which connects the three panels together.
Middle panel:
Here, the eagle itself is the blazing fire of the gods, the same fire the gods wish to deny us, mortals.
Bottom panel:
Here, the Minotaur is waiting for Theseus, his slayer, while holding the end of Ariadne's thread.
The Minotaur, a creature part man, part bull, lived at the center of the Labyrinth until it was killed by Theseus. On his arrival in Crete, Ariadne fell in love with Theseus and gave him a ball of thread, so he could find his way out of the Labyrinth. She is seen above, dancing with the thread, which connects the panels together. Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it to mortals. He was punished by being bound to a rock while a great eagle ate his liver, only to have it grow back to be eaten again the next day. Here, the eagle itself is the blazing fire of the gods.
I let the Minotaur hold the end of Ariadne's thread. He knows his fate. Perhaps he is waiting, with a philosophical look of acceptance, for his slayer to come in, following the trail of blood, and the remains of all his victims. Death is imminent...
But alas, in this entire three-panel painting, the slayer is missing. Instead all we see is Prometheus chained on the rock, and no one else is visible to bring an end to the endlessly waiting Minotaur.
Next we had to make a decision how to put the three pieces together. Would they be placed side-by-side, like an altar triptych? In what order? Should we cut and paste pieces of them together, to create a new whole? Or should they be arranged in a vertical column? Who's on top?
Stacking the pieces vertically seemed appropriate, because my piece--a figure floating in space like Dedalus who lost his wings getting too close to the sun--lends itself to be up there above the rest. It is a metaphor for my own fragility; indeed, the fragility of all of us who dream of soaring... The middle piece, painted by Ettore Andreani, describes the plight of Prometheus, doomed for eternal suffering for daring to give fire, which is divine, to mortals. Down below, Albert Setton's piece, depicting the Minotaur in his cave, which is perhaps the way he views himself. This piece lends itself to be underground.
Now we had to combine the three pieces--not only graphically (by eliminating superfluous detail and adjusting the overall composition) but also in terms of the overall narration. This we did using Ariadne's thread, which runs through all three panels, twisting and turning through them. We decided on the following narrative scheme:
Top panel:
Ariadne is seen dancing with the thread, which connects the three panels together.
Middle panel:
Here, the eagle itself is the blazing fire of the gods, the same fire the gods wish to deny us, mortals.
Bottom panel:
Here, the Minotaur is waiting for Theseus, his slayer, while holding the end of Ariadne's thread.
The Minotaur, a creature part man, part bull, lived at the center of the Labyrinth until it was killed by Theseus. On his arrival in Crete, Ariadne fell in love with Theseus and gave him a ball of thread, so he could find his way out of the Labyrinth. She is seen above, dancing with the thread, which connects the panels together. Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it to mortals. He was punished by being bound to a rock while a great eagle ate his liver, only to have it grow back to be eaten again the next day. Here, the eagle itself is the blazing fire of the gods.
I let the Minotaur hold the end of Ariadne's thread. He knows his fate. Perhaps he is waiting, with a philosophical look of acceptance, for his slayer to come in, following the trail of blood, and the remains of all his victims. Death is imminent...
But alas, in this entire three-panel painting, the slayer is missing. Instead all we see is Prometheus chained on the rock, and no one else is visible to bring an end to the endlessly waiting Minotaur.
June 9, 2012
Hints about Lenny's Character: Father and Writer
The character of Lenny, Ben's father in Apart From Love, is an obscure one. We see him through his son's eyes, and through the eyes of his mistress-turned-wife, Anita, who thinks him a 'keeper of secrets'. Both of them are intrigued by him, but do not fully understand his motives until the end. So without giving away any spoilers, here is an excerpt from a pivotal conversation between father and son, where Lenny starts talking about his aspirations as a writer:
“I so wish,” he says, “I could find the words. You know, I hoped to become a writer, when I was your age. I used to think I had it in me.”
To which I say, “It should come easy for you. You are so good with words.”
His smile is rather brief.
“No, not really,” he says. “Ask Anita. For the life of her, she cannot string together more than two syllables in a word—but if she could, she would tell you how devastating, even excruciatingly painful it is to read, or even just listen to my book.”
“Book? You’re writing a book now?”
“Yes; didn’t I mention it?”
“No, you did not,” I say indignantly. “Not to me, anyway.”
Which he tries to shrug off. “Anita cannot bear listening to it. She has a reluctant admiration, I think, for the fact that I keep at it with such patience, such dedication, even, keep crafting something which is so incredibly protracted, and in her mind, pointless. Somehow, I have managed to bore her to tears. Too fragmented. Too many words.”
“I guess you do not care to entertain her,” I taunt him.
“Exactly,” he says. “I do not aim to bring her to a quick climax, or to satisfy her with a happy end, either, because for me, the end—the end is rarely happy, and at this point, it is still obscure.”
If by now you have started to suspect that I am letting Lenny 'borrow' some of my musings about the art of writing, I would have to admit that there is something to it, perhaps more than just something... Some writers aim to entertain you, some to arouse, others to take you places. Here, in the words that Lenny stole from me, is his deepest intention, which in its core, is mine:
“What I wish to open up is not me, but my characters—all of whom are parts of who I am—giving her the opportunity to know them, to come live in their skin, to see, hear, touch everything they do. Just, be there, inside my head for a while, which I admit, may be rather uneasy at times. If—if she cared to listen, which I doubt, she would allow me to pull her inside—so deep, so close to the core, that it would be hard to escape, hard to wake up.”
“I so wish,” he says, “I could find the words. You know, I hoped to become a writer, when I was your age. I used to think I had it in me.”
To which I say, “It should come easy for you. You are so good with words.”
His smile is rather brief.
“No, not really,” he says. “Ask Anita. For the life of her, she cannot string together more than two syllables in a word—but if she could, she would tell you how devastating, even excruciatingly painful it is to read, or even just listen to my book.”
“Book? You’re writing a book now?”
“Yes; didn’t I mention it?”
“No, you did not,” I say indignantly. “Not to me, anyway.”
Which he tries to shrug off. “Anita cannot bear listening to it. She has a reluctant admiration, I think, for the fact that I keep at it with such patience, such dedication, even, keep crafting something which is so incredibly protracted, and in her mind, pointless. Somehow, I have managed to bore her to tears. Too fragmented. Too many words.”
“I guess you do not care to entertain her,” I taunt him.
“Exactly,” he says. “I do not aim to bring her to a quick climax, or to satisfy her with a happy end, either, because for me, the end—the end is rarely happy, and at this point, it is still obscure.”
If by now you have started to suspect that I am letting Lenny 'borrow' some of my musings about the art of writing, I would have to admit that there is something to it, perhaps more than just something... Some writers aim to entertain you, some to arouse, others to take you places. Here, in the words that Lenny stole from me, is his deepest intention, which in its core, is mine:
“What I wish to open up is not me, but my characters—all of whom are parts of who I am—giving her the opportunity to know them, to come live in their skin, to see, hear, touch everything they do. Just, be there, inside my head for a while, which I admit, may be rather uneasy at times. If—if she cared to listen, which I doubt, she would allow me to pull her inside—so deep, so close to the core, that it would be hard to escape, hard to wake up.”
June 7, 2012
5-Star Review of Apart From Love by Emily
A new 5-star review of Apart From Love, this time by a reader named Emily, appeared on Amazon:
"This is a beautifully written novel that centers around the dreadful effects of Alzheimer's on the family. Although the Alzheimer's victim is only visited a few times in the story, you can sense her presence throughout. Her ex husband Lenny is suffering terribly because he misses the beautiful, intellectual wife he used to know. Through a tragic turn of events he divorced his suffering wife and married one who was much younger, who was no match intellectually, but who possessed the same physical qualities that Lenny found so attractive. And when Ben, Lenny's son, returned after ten long years away, he immediately resented Lenny's new wife Anita. But as time wore on with Ben, Lenny and Anita confined to a small apartment, and with Lenny spending all of his time away from the family, Ben and Anita began to develop an attraction to one another. Such was the tragedy that ultimately resulted from a disease that threatens to tear families apart.
Uvi has a unique skill with words, much like a painter with a brush (which she does also!) Reading this was a pleasant surprise as I've not come across a debut author who can craft an engaging piece of literary fiction in a long time. Highly recommended."
"This is a beautifully written novel that centers around the dreadful effects of Alzheimer's on the family. Although the Alzheimer's victim is only visited a few times in the story, you can sense her presence throughout. Her ex husband Lenny is suffering terribly because he misses the beautiful, intellectual wife he used to know. Through a tragic turn of events he divorced his suffering wife and married one who was much younger, who was no match intellectually, but who possessed the same physical qualities that Lenny found so attractive. And when Ben, Lenny's son, returned after ten long years away, he immediately resented Lenny's new wife Anita. But as time wore on with Ben, Lenny and Anita confined to a small apartment, and with Lenny spending all of his time away from the family, Ben and Anita began to develop an attraction to one another. Such was the tragedy that ultimately resulted from a disease that threatens to tear families apart.
Uvi has a unique skill with words, much like a painter with a brush (which she does also!) Reading this was a pleasant surprise as I've not come across a debut author who can craft an engaging piece of literary fiction in a long time. Highly recommended."
