For this, picture the most barren labyrinth imaginable, full of mirrors, dead ends, doors to other doors to other doors, endless staircases, and no exits or entrances. There are no people but there are whispers of voices, small catches in the stretches of hallways and in a random corner here and there, but the only solid walking entity is you, so you assure yourself.
The glass of the mirrors cracks and shatters, the wood of the doors splinters and breaks apart, as well as the metal rusting and breaking down, and finally, the entire structure, whatever it could be classed, house of mirrors, asylum, abandoned this or that,collapses in flames, and it keeps happening, time and again, built up and gone, the instinct screaming at you to be terrified, that what's happening isn't right, is being muffled, drowned and silenced by your growing complacency, and the only slightly disconcerting idea that maybe you belong here.
The five star rating I've given this book isn't, is definitely NOT, a mark of this work's perfection. Firstly, to me, the pursuit of perfection in anything, let alone in art, and especially in literature, is a waste of time, talent, and the reader's time if they're wading through such a work. Okay, that aside, this book is a definite masterwork because of it's splintered and schizophrenic style, and is similarly undercut by that style making it an arduous journey that wrings you completely and leaves you destroyed, not beautifully, but awakened just a bit.
I can see why the blurb on the back of the book compared it to Heller's Catch 22, the two books definitely share the non linearity and lack of cohesion, but whereas Heller could balance the slight levity to great effect in the great horror and darkness of world war, Kaniuk here opts for a different route and casts his characters in total darkness...with the backdrop being the south of Israel in the Negev Desert with a blazingly bright sun that almost leaves no capacity or room for shadows. Nice irony there.
As far as brass tacks all I can say is that Kaniuk is a master storyteller. His use of the nonsensically poetic, and some of the passages in that style, are maddening and beautiful, hearkening back to high modernism and even the best of Woolf and Joyce. Along with that, holding its hand, is the humanity on display. All of the characters though not all explored equally or given enough time in the text, are so passionately constructed in their mental, emotional, and psychological frailties that to call them heartbreaking would be, putting it almost criminally lightly, a disservice.
So, this is a hell of a book, something that stands head and shoulders with the very darkest, and very best, explorations of humanity's dark side along with the potential, no matter how small or even barely visible, potential to reach and connect with another human being, during, after, or before a horrific atrocity, and possibly make ourselves well again, or 'better' whatever the hell that term might mean. Never before have I seen the permanently shattering effect of the holocaust explored so jaggedly, or in such a darkly wonderful way, and I honestly doubt that I ever will again.
Read this book but with a warning: it won't be beach reading, and the answers to the questions given are anything but simple, or even rational and logical, but if you feel like you're ready to begin to understand catastrophe and human suffering, and maybe you want to broaden your empathetic and sympathetic horizons, then you must let this book take you where it may.