I just read Alter's The David Story (a translation of 1 and 2 Samuel, with the first two chapters of 1 Kings) for the nth time, and must say something about it.
Given the profusion of English translations of the Hebrew scriptures, why would anyone purchase a separate translation of just two books? But you really should.
As a translator, Alter's distinctive concern is with the poetic qualities of biblical Hebrew. As a commentator, Alter's distinctive concern is with the unity of the text. These are related. Though richly informed by the kind of criticism that treats the text as an amalgam of disparate sources, Alter presses as far as possible the assumption that the editors/redactors of the text acted purposively, artfully, and that the resulting text is not a pastiche but a well-integrated whole. It's like the working assumption of scientists that the world is causally integrated and explicable, even elegant, and it's similarly fruitful.
Alter regards the David story as the greatest work of literature in the Hebrew Bible, and he's convinced me.
Like other narrative works from the Hebrew canon, the David story is terse, full of emotionally significant silences. Trying to comfort his beloved, barren wife, Hannah, Elkanah says to her, "am I not better to you than ten sons?" Isn't my love enough? It's tender and touching and stupid, and Hannah doesn't respond, because what can she say to such earnest, aching cluelessness? Similarly, later in the chapter, the author doesn't have Hannah gush her reluctance to relinquish the child God has given her. She merely asks Elkanah to let her and Samuel stay home from the yearly sacrifice. Not yet, not yet! One more year! And in the following chapter, we get this: "And a little cloak would his mother make him and bring up to him year after year...."
This reticence of biblical narrative, as Alter calls it, is paradoxically powerful as a tool of characterization. Like a great draughtsman who can suggest a face or figure with a single line, the authors of the Hebrew Bible often make a character's first scene, or first recorded words, an image of their whole temperament and arc. And the David story is rich in complex characters. Consider Michal. The first thing we are told about her is that she loves David (the only woman in the Hebrew Bible said to love a man). But David, consummate politician with one eye always on the main chance (his first words: "What will be done for the man who strikes down yonder Philistine?"), is a painful man to love. Michal defies her father to help David escape, then is given away to another man after David flees. Brutally reappropriated by David when he returns, she bursts out in jealous sarcasm after watching her husband, the golden boy of Israel, gyrate in the streets before the ark. Of course she does. David has been gone for years, long enough for Michal to make a new life with Paltiel. It wasn't what she wanted, but it had its own beauty. When she is taken from Paltiel by the strongman Abner, we are told, Paltiel follows her down the road, weeping. Meanwhile, David has been adventuring in the wilderness, gathering a harem as he goes. The last thing the narrator tells us about Michal is that she "had no child until her dying day." The text is deliberately ambiguous. Should we see this as a divine judgment? Or, more likely, as a result of David refusing to share her bed?
Each time I have read Alter's translation, I have felt more deeply for Michal's father, Saul. He too is jealous--violently jealous--of David. But before that: he is the man who never wanted to be king, but was raised out of obscurity by Samuel. At his coronation, he hides in a coat closet. Saul's first words are directed to a servant helping him look for his dad's lost donkeys: "Come, let us turn back." Touchingly wanting to be told what to do, where to go, first to last: what do you think, shouldn't we just leave? But Saul's destiny is not his to direct. The man who anoints him hoped to establish a family dynasty of his own and never misses an opportunity to undermine or berate the man who displaced him and his sons. Samuel even berates him from the grave, on the eve of Saul's death. A colleague in biblical studies tells me that the name Saul is many times more popular among Jews than the name David. They feel the tragedy of the story of their first king.
And David himself, though a Machiavellian schemer, is vulnerably human too. He loses the nameless infant he and Bathsheba conceived, remarking bleakly, "I am going to him and he will not come back to me"; he sees his older children turn on one another and then on him; he is the picture of his ancestor Jacob as his family falls apart (Alter notes that Tamar's story is full of echoes of Joseph's; the word used for her royal garment, which she tears in grief after Amnon rapes her, is the same word used for the coat Jacob gives Joseph); David's steely enforcer Joab has to shake him out of his grief for Absalom, who had been hunting his father down to kill him. In his final scenes, David lies impotently next to the beautiful Abishag, brought to keep him from shivering miserably under his covers. What kind of people preserve this portrait of their national hero?
A people, I suppose, who are under no illusions about the crooked timber of humanity, who don't worship and placate the scheming gods of the Iliad (think of Apollo taunting Achilles while Achilles grinds his teeth) but serve the Holy One of Israel. You don't need to believe in that God, though, to find this story perhaps the most honest, searching study of human frailty preserved from the ancient world.
Bringing this back to Alter: most of the observations I make above, I got from him. If you want to see more in the text, to see its greatness, he is an excellent, excellent guide.