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304 pages, Hardcover
First published January 26, 2016
From the closed refrigerator, also, came the sound of A, loud and clear, piercing, as the severed quartet fingers cried out from their concealment. "Aleph. We are Alive!" All of New York was sounding to the tone of A: The skyscrapers, the trumpets, the solemn shafts of sunlight piercing, as in the inside of a cathedral, the dark streets.
Home. A difficult concept in a new world. How to find oneself at home again? Far away, the blanketed cities of Europe huddled, the rust of blood on their stones. All that dark tragic history, that sense of cynicism and fatalism led to a point of view that would be known, in the more dignified sense, as "European Philosophy." All founded on certainty, and fear, and the inability to prevent death. Europe reeked of death. […] Here hopes rained like gold, promises burned the land to a crisp, and there was no history to be seen in the hastily thrown up houses of the United States of America.+ + + + + +
For the sake of fairness, let me offer an opposing view to what I have written above. I said of the Holocaust, "Yet it is a subject that must be spoken of, again and again." Must it? Why? So that we do not forget. For this reason, books like The Diary of Anne Frank or Elie Wiesel's Night—the simple narratives of the Holocaust—should continue to be taught in schools. But is there not also a danger that we do not turn this most terrible example of man's inhumanity into a cliché or, worse, a half-forgotten quarry of source material to be mined by clever authors for some delicious frisson?
In giving an enthusiastic five stars to Kathleen Spivack's novel, I was always aware that behind her playfulness there was the murder of an entire people, that behind her pornography lay true events even more obscene. But I felt this because I had already read the simple narratives; I already knew. But supposing I didn't? Can I say that anything in Spivack's book told me about them, or even made me see them in a new light? The White Hotel by DM Thomas, to which I compared her novel, for all the extraordinary weirdness with which it opened, did at the end let me approach the Holocaust through a back door, so to speak; you went through and suddenly there it was, in all its horror. There is no such back door in this novel, no way in which the real events in Europe might be accessed through the fictional ones in America. I responded to Spivack as a clever author—but should I have done? Is not the very idea obscene?
“Look at me,” Rasputin commanded. Rasputin parted the skirts of his robe. His mad eyes fixed on hers; he drew from his skirts his enormous member. It throbbed and weaved toward her, pointing toward her body as surely as a dowser’s stick. It quivered. “Look!” Anna tried to look away, down, up, anywhere but directly in front of her. “Look. Behold the Rod of God!” There was moisture on the end of it, a shiny, pearly drop hanging from its tip. The enormous branch of flesh moved toward her; it appeared to be drooling lasciviously. Despite herself, an answering river of liquid ran through her body, down her thighs, a shining river on which to travel inward.
Rasputin stared at her fixedly as his member grew and swelled. “Down on your knees,” he commanded. “Down on your knees before your God!” He grappled for her hump, held it, clawing, palpating. Roughly, he pushed her head against him. The oversized penis grew and found her mouth. “On your knees. Pray,” commanded Rasputin. “Pray, my little Countess.”