What Remains: A Memoir of Fate, Friendship, and Love (Carole Radziwill)

My sister the pop-culture nut, the one who recommended Jeannie out of the Bottle to me, loves the Kennedys, especially John Jr. and Carolyn (Bessette), the quintessential prince and princess of the United States. So my sister said I had to, had to, read What Remains, which prominently features John and Carolyn. The author, Carole Radizwill, is a real-life princess, but there’s very little fairy tale in the pages of this somber memoir.  

Carole was raised in a thoroughly lower-middle-class family, but she married Anthony Radziwill, the son of Polish Prince Stanislaw Radziwill. Anthony’s mother is Lee Bouvier, who is Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis’ sister, and Anthony is therefore the cousin of John Jr. and Caroline.

Go ahead. Reread that until you get it. I know it’s a jumble. And if you’re anything like me, your head is also spinning with all the “Carol” derivatives. Let that be a lesson in giving your children trendy names. But just to make sure we have things straight, here’s the rundown:

Carole is the author, Anthony’s wife, and Carolyn’s best friend.

Carolyn is John’s wife.

Caroline is John’s sister.

But this book isn’t a gossipy, name-dropping thing. Instead, it’s a tragedy, a dark and dignified detailing of Anthony’s fight with cancer and John and Carolyn’s deaths, lightened just enough by anecdotes of sweet friendship.

Carole and Anthony's Wedding

My sister tells me that Carole is now on a Real Housewives television show, but since I don’t watch it, I only know her from this book’s narrative. She seems serious. Intense. Not especially sweet (as was Carolyn), nor jovial (as was John), nor optimistic (as was Anthony). She’s inclined to wax philosophical, and deeply, so that a few of her musings are nearly incomprehensible. But mostly her thoughts are poignant and beautifully expressed. From what I understand, Carole does not use a ghostwriter. Her style is elegant but not oppressively erudite. Although I never consulted my dictionary, I also never questioned her literary skill.

What Remains is a bleak chronicle of suffering and death, but not secondarily, it’s an intriguing glimpse into the moment-by-moment lives of the American aristocracy - their surprisingly average existence differentiated from the masses mainly by harder than average work and way better than average vacations. 

Carole Radziwill

The divide between the haves and have-nots is clear, but as someone who has crossed it, Carole understands and represents both sides without prejudice, even refreshingly without social commentary. She simply tells her experiences in both worlds. Through her starkly honest storytelling, Carole illuminates the commonalities of the human experience - love and joy, grief and pain - regardless of money or privilege.

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The Class (Erich Segal)

The Class is a bittersweet and engaging, if not profound, coming-of-age story of five Harvard students, class of 1958: Danny is an introverted piano phenom. Jason is a gregarious jock in denial of his Judaism. Andrew is a quintessential nice guy and gifted wordsmith. Ted, a comparatively underprivileged scholar, is passionately in love with his soulmate and his classical studies. And George, an intense Hungarian refugee, is on a mission to master American culture. The story begins in their freshman year and follows them through the mid-1980s to some expected - and some unexpected - outcomes.

Segal, a real-life member of the class of ’58, sprinkles the text with quaint Harvard lingo and liberally employs his own Ivy League lexicon.  (I tapped more words into my dictionary app than I’m comfortable admitting.)  His characters are adequately distinctive and appreciable on their own merits, and his narrative is lovely.  Segal is obviously a skilled writer.  Unfortunately, he has one annoying habit:  He uses sentence fragments for emphasis. Overuses them, really.  To the point where I got exasperated.  Like you probably are with these fragments.  Just plain tired of them.  Despite this, his storytelling is effective and intelligent.

Eliot House, Harvard University

The novel starts happily enough, with charming and promising young men navigating an iconic collegiate universe.  But the world gets darker as the pages turn.  Segal takes on such unpleasantries as anti-Semitism, family dysfunction, infidelity, divorce, estrangement, drug abuse, and suicide.  He also deals with the bleaker repercussions of extreme ambition.  But because he discusses these issues rather superficially, the story isn’t overly oppressive.

Like Ragtime, The Class incorporates real historical figures and events.  Henry Kissinger and Richard Nixon are significant players, as is Israel’s military hero, Yoni Netanyahu.  The book covers a fair amount of the era’s American political drama and branches into some Hungarian and Israeli affairs as well.  In fact, Jason’s heart-wrenching storyline is strongly pro-Israel and even stirred up a little latent Zionism in my true red-white-and-blue spirit.

Erich Segal

Overall, The Class is a worthwhile read even though Segal handles the rich subject matter too cursorily.  I would have prefered a more intense discussion, but it was still a respectable diversion.

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Benjamin Franklin: An American Life

When I engaged in a debate with the person who recommended the Steve Jobs biography to me, he suggested that a person can’t be a great leader without being an asshole.  I argued that great leaders can be inherently kind people, and I cited Benjamin Franklin as an example.  Fortuitously, Walter Isaacson, the author of Steve Jobs, had also written Benjamin Franklin: An American Life.  My debate partner and I agreed that this book would be a good basis upon which to continue the discussion.  

Isaacson’s evidence suggests that I was right.  Well, mostly right.  Franklin was well liked, especially among women.  He was fantastically smart and enviably clever.  He was charming, witty, unassuming, optimistic.  He hated conflict but exercised cunning.  All of these qualities, along with his keen wordcraft, made him a naturally great diplomat.  

However, I must concede some points:  Franklin struggled to sustain friendships with men, and he was surprisingly distant from - even cold toward - his wife and children.

Walter Isaacson

Throughout the book’s 590 pages (including a cast of characters, extensive notes, and an index), Isaacson carefully constructs a comprehensive picture of Benjamin Franklin, from his ancestry through his death.  He delves into his family life, education, and religious perspective, his professional path and personal habits, his friendships and falling-outs, experiments and inventions, accomplishments and failures, and best of all, his writings.

Yes, what I loved most about this biography is Isaacson’s reliance on original sources, especially Franklin’s own compositions - newspaper publications, pamphlets, almanacs, etc.  Some are comical, some are beautiful, some are profound.  I was affected by them all, but my very favorites were the letters to his girlfriends.  They’re colloquial and enchanting, perfect specimens of his gift for wit and soft manipulation. (For more on Franklin's own writing, see my review on his autobiography.)

But as sweet as Franklin was to women at large, his marriage struck me as sad. He took Deborah’s hand out of moral obligation and was faithful to her, and he genuinely appreciated her practicality and frugality.  Still, their relationship was passionless.  He loved adventure and travel, and she stubbornly stuck her stick in the Philadelphia mud.  For the last ten years of their marriage, he lived in England for business and pleasure, and he established a surrogate family there with his landlady and her daughter.  He was overseas when Deborah suffered a stroke, and despite the doctor’s letters urging him to return, he stayed in England until after her death.  He was no better toward his children.  His relationships with his son and daughter ranged from politely detached to downright hostile.  So it seems that Franklin, like many of us, could get along with almost everyone but his own family.

Deborah Franklin

Then did I lose the debate?  Was Benjamin Franklin an asshole?  At times, I thought so, but mainly, I liked him.  And this book.  A lot.



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Fifty Shades of Grey (E L James)

Fifty Shades of Grey has given me little to analyze, no great plot to praise, no complex characters to critique.  The writing, while technically adequate, is stylistically deficient, and for readers with any experience in decent literature, the story is intolerably trite:  Smart but inexperienced girl (Anastasia Steele) meets handsome and cosmopolitan millionaire (Christian Grey).  Despite Anastasia’s deficit of social standing, Christian is smitten.  As the relationship develops, Ana discovers that Christian’s life has been less than perfect.  And it doesn’t go too far beyond that.

I’m sorry.  Is my snobbiness showing?  Let me temper it with some genuine praise:

As far as erotica goes, Fifty Shades of Grey is good.  Really!  While one must concede that the literary competition in that genre is meager, James does a fine job of keeping the sex hot but not lewd.  Her lexicon is tasteful, void of porn-style raunch and cutesy references for genitalia, but she doesn’t sound clinical either.

I’ll moralize for a moment about Christian and Ana’s dominant/submissive roles.  Frankly, the concept of the compulsorily submissive woman nauseates me, but Ana’s submission is - technically - voluntary. Still, she’s naive and deeply emotionally invested.  She clearly fears Christian at times and feels stifled in her self expression.  Psychologically, she’s quite entrapped.

Yes, the sex scenes are titillating and ... uh ... educational.  You’ll likely take away several useful ideas.  But, unfortunately, it gets repetitive.  Ana bites her lip and agitates Christian.  (A hundred times.)  She reaches for his chest and he refuses her.  (Over and over.  And over.)  She swoons when his pants hang on his hips.  (Almost every time she sees him.)  He revolts when she rolls her eyes.  (On practically every page.)  Her breath “hitches,” he touches her “sex,” she hears him tear “the foil wrapper,” and she gasps, “Oh, my!” (Ad nauseum.)

E L James

While Ana and Christian’s physical interactions are unquestionably erotic, they toe the line of battery at times.  Fifty Shades of Grey ends with the question of abuse unresolved, but James left me too apathetic to continue the series and see how - or if - there’s a healthy conclusion.  Eh... I’ll just wait and watch the movies. Maybe.

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Starvation Heights: A True Story of Murder and Malice in the Woods of the Pacific Northwest (Gregg Olsen)

In 1911, before medical school was required to obtain a license to practice medicine, the domineering and charismatic Dr. Linda Burfield Hazzard dubbed herself a “fasting specialist” and built a sanitarium in the wilderness of Olalla, Washington, where she treated patients via a regimen of severe food deprivation, aggressive “osteopathic” massage, and daily enemas.  Her influential book, Fasting for the Cure of Disease, enticed a diverse band of believers.  Some had exhausted all hope with traditional doctors.  Others were simply intrigued by the idea of fasting for better health.

Unfortunately, Dr. Hazzard’s treatments didn’t produce the expected results for several of her patients, especially those with fine jewelry and plump wallets.  Dr. Hazzard convinced them to entrust her with their valuables and bank accounts.  Then she starved them to death.

Dora Williamson after some recovery

In gluttonous detail, Starvation Heights tells the story of Dr. Hazzard’s most publicized victims, British heiresses Dora and Claire Williamson, and Dr. Hazzard’s subsequent trial.  The book also proffers Dr. Hazzard’s back story, including a yummy little polygamy scandal.

Starvation Heights is meticulously researched and impressively comprehensive.  Olsen throws around lots of names - doctors, sanitarium employees, patients and their relations, legal team members, government figures.  The cast of characters gets long, so if you’re like me, you may want to keep a running list for reference.  

Gregg Olsen

While Olsen’s storytelling feels a little stodgy, as if he picked up the too-florid and not-too-lucid historical tone of his original sources, I didn’t mind it much.  Starvation Heights is compelling in so many other ways.  It appealed to my love of the grotesque, my awe of asceticism, my fascination with charismatic leaders, and my hunger for schadenfreude.  It also toyed with my bipolar interest in/cynicism toward alternative medicine.  I was sometimes emotionally divided, empathizing with both perspectives, evaluating and reevaluating the benefits and drawbacks of non-traditional approaches to healthcare.  Aside from a terrific true-crime novel, Olsen has also delivered a great little plate of thought-fodder.

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Breakfast of Champions (Kurt Vonnegut)

I’d gotten a good sense of Kurt Vonnegut’s biting wit after reading Slaughterhouse Five, so I wasn’t expecting Breakfast of Champions to be pink and fluffy.  Still, I was startled by its ballsy cynicism and irreverence.  Whether or not I agreed with the sentiments, the book goaded me to make an uncomfortable climb and look at the neighborhood from a whole new tree limb.

Breakfast of Champions is set in an average American town in 1972 and tells the story of the fateful meeting between Dwayne Hoover, a wealthy businessman with severe mental illness, and the as-yet-unknown science fiction author Kilgore Trout (who also figures significantly into Slaughterhouse Five).  Through these two very unconventional men and the supporting characters, Vonnegut explores several social issues (racism, sexism, pollution, etc.).  His primary theme, though, is the nature of deity and humanity, and our free will (or lack thereof).

One of Vonnegut's memorable illustrations

Early on, the narrator establishes himself as the actual pen-to-paper author of the book we’re reading, the omniscient creator of his people.  As he tells their stories, he names every single character, even the most incidental, and gives a brief history for each.  His narrative is scattered and disjointed, but strangely compelling, like a mad scientist describing his wacky experiments.  He simplifies complex notions down to sarcastic quips.  He draws on-the-fly illustrations that are simple, silly, and surprisingly provocative.  And as the plot ramps up, he does the strangest thing of all:  He writes himself into the plot, joining his people in their own world, interacting with them as their author, manipulating their actions.  This author-as-character shift feels experimental and awkward at first, but you eventually see that Vonnegut is brilliantly supporting his thesis.  The narrator is the Creator of the Universe, and he wields tremendous control over his people.  But he finds that he is not entirely omnipotent.  To some degree, he’s a simple observer of his own creation.

Kurt Vonnegut

Vonnegut’s handling of racism is - be warned - indelicate.  He blurts out his characters’ raw thoughts, and those people are no civil rights activists.  Also, tender-souled readers may find his anatomical and pornographic references distasteful at best, downright offensive at worst. But if your sense of humor tolerates a little raunch, you should like it.

The plot of Breakfast of Champions is simple, and without the narrative context, the book would be quite brief.  Its tone and ideas are its substance.  Don’t expect to snuggle in for a cozy read.  This book is real art literature, not pop fluff, and as great art is supposed to do, it provokes questions and stirs inner dialog, even at the cost of your comfort.

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My Russian Grandmother and Her American Vacuum Cleaner (Meir Shalev)

Before last month, I had read three books by Israeli authors.  The first was a Holocaust narrative, and the others were novels describing dysfunctional families. They were good, but they all were dark and somber, and I had to ask, “Don’t Israeli writers have a sense of humor?”  My very literary cousin Michal, unwilling to tolerate this shameful ignorance in the family, straightaway shipped me several more Israeli books - Books!!  Beautiful books!!! Among them was Meir Shalev’s My Russian Grandmother and Her American Vacuum Cleaner.  I laughed aloud at the title and knew I had to read it first.

This book is a whimsical memoir centered on the author’s Grandma Tonia, a tiny terror in ever-oscillating stages of affection and irritation with everyone around her. But her most defining characteristic is her radical cleanliness as she relentlessly battles the pervasive dirt from their farm.

Moshav Nahalal in the 1930s

Shalev beautifully constructs the plot of betrayal, pride, and revenge surrounding Grandma Tonia’s gigantic General Electric “sweeper.”  He builds wonder and suspense in every chapter and even fosters empathy for the machine itself.  As he tells that bigger tale, he also diverges into lots of other unrelated but substantive family lore, some of it real, some fantastical, enhancing our perspective on that zany and volatile clan.

Shalev is clearly a great writer and storyteller from a lineage of writers and storytellers, but there’s more to love than just the narrative.  There’s the historic Israeli setting - the moshav, the rival kibbutz, urban Jerusalem, trucks, trains, tractors, and farm animals.  There’s the patriotic and familial pride of the settlers, their innovative frugality, and best of all, Grandma Tonia’s prolific Hebrew-as-a-second-language malapropisms.

Meir Shalev (photo by Beny Shlevich)

From what I can tell, Shalev couldn’t have chosen a better translator.  Evan Fallenberg keeps the reading light and simple, nicely offsetting the inherent cultural abrasiveness. He also elegantly incorporates explanations for some crucial Hebrew expressions.

And now my previous assumption about Israeli literature is disproved.  It’s not all gloomy.  I know there’s at least this one downright delightful exception!  

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Ragtime (E. L. Doctorow)

Last year, I was impressed with Lipscomb University’s stage performance of Ragtime. It was a fabulous story - historical, fun, tragic.  At the time, I didn’t realize it was an adaptation from an E. L. Doctorow novel. So when my very well-read dad loaned me the book a few months ago, I knew it would be worthwhile, and I hoped it would be even better than the play.  My hopes were realized!  Doctorow not only tells a great tale, but he’s also a wonderful wordsmith.

Ragtime is set in New England in the decade or so leading up to World War I, the time and place of nascent tensions among classes, races, genders, and political groups. Doctorow interweaves true events involving historical figures (including Harry Houdini, Henry Ford, J. P. Morgan, Booker T. Washington, the explorer Robert Peary, architect Stanford White, lunatic millionaire Harry K. Thaw, anarchist Emma Goldman, and the model Evelyn Nesbit) with the fictional stories of a white, suburban upper-middle class family, an impoverished Jewish immigrant and his pretty little daughter, and the dynamic black pianist, Coalhouse Walker, along with his girlfriend, Sarah, and their infant son.  

Ragtime - Children's Musical Theater San Jose

Each of Doctorow’s characters, real and fictional, somehow touches and influences the others, fulfilling their collective destinies. With or without their realization or consent, they all advance the cause of civil rights through a series of escalating tensions and tragedies that eventually brings New York City to a frightened halt.

Doctorow’s prose is lucid and sparse, comprised mainly of short declarative sentences that are simultaneously matter-of-fact and poetic.  It’s kind of like Hemmingway, but with a lighter touch on the testosterone.  The tone is factual, not emotional, with a subtle morality.  There is no preaching.  The events say it all.

E. L. Doctorow

Interestingly, Doctorow never gives names to some of his central fictional characters, most notably, the members of the suburban family.  Instead, he calls them simply Mother, Father, the boy, and Mother’s Younger Brother.  If I were still a university student and had to write an analytical essay on Ragtime, I’d probably make this my thesis:  By leaving the characters unnamed, the author emphasizes that they are typical for the time, not wealthy or celebrities like the others; in this way, he demonstrates that the average, “nameless” people in society influence the workings of history just as much as the big-name crowd.

There’s an idea for you students.  No plagiarizing now!

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Jeannie Out of the Bottle (Barbara Eden with Wendy Leigh)

My oldest sister is a Jeannie fanatic. When we were kids, she sat entranced at the TV when I Dream of Jeannie was on, and now she cherishes her I Dream of Jeannie DVD set almost as much as her jewelry collection.  So when she saw Barbara Eden’s autobiography, she couldn’t resist. She bought it, devoured it, effused over it, brought it to my home and left it there, insisting that I read it.  Maybe because I was just born when I Dream of Jeannie’s original run ended, I was less fond of the show.  But I accepted the book, and last week when my reading rotation demanded a non-fiction, I smiled when I opened the front cover and saw that my sister had inscribed her own name, followed by ...who always dreamed of being Jeannie.  August 2011.

I wasn’t as smitten by the book as my sister was.  Even though Eden secured the services of a writer (Wendy Leigh), the text is sophomoric and littered with redundancies (which my Facebook subscribers know I love to hate).  Either Leigh is a bargain basement writer, or she deliberately kept the text mainly Eden’s work, and just organized it a bit and fixed the worst grammatical faux pas.

I also think that Eden embellishes the anecdotes for entertainment value.  I’m certain the story of the purring lion is less than gospel truth, since lions are physiologically incapable of purring.*  Unfortunately, that yarn occurs early in the book, so I was a smidgen skeptical for the duration.

Barbara Eden, Larry Hagman, and lion on set

With those caveats, I admit that Jeannie Out of the Bottle is fun to read.  I love rise-to-fame stories, how celebrities work and chance their way to success.  Barbara Eden’s saga is distinctly heavy on work and short on chance.  She details her vocal, dance, and acting training, her hopeless auditions, her humiliating failures, and her surprising successes.  From her teens and throughout her career, she accepted (almost) any job, and with inspiring enthusiasm.  She regales us with gossip - some flattering, some frightful - but her tact is admirable.  Even her tittle-tattle is ladylike.

If Eden’s telling of her life story is indeed accurate, then her morals were quite traditional, especially among the Hollywood crowd.  She was faithful in each of her marriages and routinely declined advances from even the most alluring male stars.  She didn’t like to curse, wouldn’t pose nude, and maintained a loving relationship with her mother.  She never developed a starlet attitude, and she suffered gracefully through her personal tragedies - the stillbirth of a baby she desperately wanted, an abusive second marriage, and her only son’s drug addiction and eventual death by overdose - accepting responsibility for her role in each of these events.

Barbara Eden, 2011

 Jeannie Out of the Bottle comes with an index of names and shows, and of course, several glossy pages of gorgeous photographs.  The pictures attest to Barbara Eden’s physical beauty, but you’ll have to read the text to see the beauty of her spirit.

 *Cheetahs are the only big cats that purr.  You really, really should search “purring cheetah” on YouTube.  Really.

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Animal Farm (George Orwell)

Animal Farm is a charming fairy tale describing the dark, adult realities of political revolution and corruption, of the advantaged few gaining the trust of, and then ultimately tyrannizing the less-blessed masses.  George Orwell wrote the story in 1943-44 to criticize Stalinism, but modern readers can (and probably will) apply the themes to current political goings-on or even to some corporate tactics.  

When the Manor Farm animals revolt against their human owner and assume responsibility for all farm operations, they take on anthropomorphic societal roles:  the loyal, unquestioning workhorse; the thoughtless, slogan-bleating sheep; the vain, comfort-craving carriage horse; the elusive, self-serving cat; the apathetic old donkey; the tale-baring raven; the snarling dogs, etc.  And of course the pigs (Who else?) emerge as the leaders and masterminds of the new social system.

Animal Farm illustration by Ralph Steadman

The animals are mostly good-hearted and willing workers, but not especially bright, which makes them vulnerable to manipulation. They forget history, recite songs and slogans rather than exercise thought and reason, and implicitly trust their ruler despite glaring reasons for suspicion.

My Christian high school didn’t teach this book, as many other schools did at the time, and I’m guessing this jab at religion is why:  Early in the rebellion, some particularly doltish beasts believe the lazy raven’s story of a carefree afterlife on Sugarcandy Mountain somewhere above the clouds.  With effort, the more discerning creatures convince the believers that Sugarcandy Mountain does not in fact exist, encouraging them instead to work hard for the present, communal good.  But over time, the corrupt leadership indirectly abets the spread of the Sugarcandy Mountain faith.

George Orwell

 Animal Farm is an extremely approachable summary of political maneuvers such as isolationism, desensitization, revisionism, scapegoating, subterfuge, fraternizing, and intimidation.  It’s a palatable little package for lightweights like me who won’t tackle a textbook on Soviet history.  In my never-to-be-humble opinion, this story should be read to children, then taught to teenagers, and enjoyed again by adults.  Pity I waited this long to read it.

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Steve Jobs (Walter Isaacson)

After reading Steve Jobs, I feel as if I know the man so well that I’m just gonna call him Steve.  I think he’d like that.  And since Steve was all about telling people what they want, I’ll tell you, you want me to call him Steve.

But I’ll call the author Isaacson because, while I admire his work (which also includes biographies of Albert Einstein, Henry Kissinger, and Ben Franklin), I just don’t know him as well.  That’s okay though.  His literary objective is to familiarize us with his subjects, not himself.

Steve, in fact, specifically solicited Isaacson to write this biography.  The choice makes sense.  Isaacson handles the job according to Steve’s basic design philosophies - the product should be simple but elegant, easily understood by the consumer despite its technical nature, with acute attention to detail.

I won’t carry on about Steve.  That’s Isaacson’s job, and he does it thoroughly, from Steve’s conception and adoption, his indulged childhood, his elementary school inquisitiveness and insolence, the high school mischief, college-age social rebellion, religious searching, troubled relationships, and business adventures and misadventures.  

Apple Store on Fifth Avenue in New York City

Isaacson manages to diplomatically present a divisive character, someone about whom lots of people had extremely unflattering things to say.  There’s no denying the negative.  It’s clear that Steve was an obnoxious spitfire.  The ubiquitous first-person accounts of his outbursts, crying fits, and astonishing rudeness will keep you reading a text that might otherwise have all the charm of a technical journal.

However, there’s also no denying Steve’s formidable business success.  Here’s what made him special:  While most of us schlubs tend to be predominantly right brained or left brained, Steve was both.  He loved design.  He loved technology.  And this resulted in products that worked great and looked great.  Steve also loved control, and the book explains how he ultimately produced a simple, friendly user experience by tightly restricting access to the internal hardware and Apple’s software.  By prioritizing quality over profit, and by narrowing Apple’s focus to just a handful of devices at a time, he created superior products that people were - and are - willing to pay for.

Walter Isaacson

 This chubby book (630 pages on paper, or 2,571 pages on my iPhone) is stuffed with goodies: end notes, an extensive index, an annotated list of characters (which is helpful since Isaacson drops hundreds of names), and most importantly, pictures!  The content is approximately 80% business and 20% personal, which seems like a fair representation of his life.  While I wish Steve’s familial relationships had been given more page space, I do love my Apple products, so I got through the business stuff with a fair degree of interest.  But Steve’s tempestuous personality is what carries the story along, and after reading this, I hope-hope-hope that Apple can also carry along without him.

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The Lover (A.B. Yehoshua)

Here’s the story:  In Haifa, Israel, during the Yom Kippur War (1973), a husband and wife, Adam and Asya, have grown emotionally distant from each other.  Adam, who owns a lucrative auto mechanic shop, has lost all sexual interest in his wife, an incisive history teacher.  When a quirky younger man, Gabriel, brings his dying grandmother’s classic blue Morris to Adam’s shop for repairs and then can’t pay the bill, Adam hires him as a research assistant for Asya, hoping (accurately) that the relationship between Gabriel and Asya will become sexual.

Gabriel then disappears after joining the military, and Adam begins a prolonged search for him with the help of a teenage employee, Na’im.  While the search continues, Na’im lives with Gabriel’s grandmother, Veducha, and falls in love with Adam’s maverick daughter, Dafi.

Haifa, Israel

The Lover is wrought with psychological tension.  Yehoshua humanizes the broader Arab-Israeli struggles by highlighting more intimate unsettling coexistences.  For example:

• Adam is not especially educated, but he’s wealthy and extravagant; Asya is a serious academic, but she’s embarrassingly frugal.
• Young, restless, Arab Na’im lives with and cares for old, immobile, Jewish Veducha.
• Secular Gabriel camouflages himself in the Orthodox community.

The mismatches lead to identity disorientation:  Straight-laced Asya has a powerful libido and wild dreams.  Veducha fancies Na’im a substitute grandson.  Na’im starts feeling Jewish.  Even the spunky blue Morris morphs into a black, belabored workhorse.  

Yehoshua

You may also begin to ask yourself, Is Gabriel necessarily “the lover”?  The other relationships in the story - the youthful romance of Na’im and Dafi, an illicit event between Adam and a teenager, and the guarded tenderness between Veducha and Na’im - raise questions on the variations of “love.”

 
My apologies if I missed crucial elements.  Like My Michael (which I reviewed in August 2011), The Lover is a Hebrew book, and I read an English translation.  My understanding, therefore, is necessarily less than complete.  While I’m not really qualified to comment on whether the translator (Philip Simpson) successfully captured the author’s original meaning and tone, I offer a small criticism, and this isn’t about Yehoshua specifically.  All (three) Israeli books that I’ve read have been penetrative and poignant, but not one of them has been even peripherally lighthearted.  They’re decidedly humorless, saturated in gloom.  So, I ask those of you who are more familiar with Israeli literature, is this the cultural standard?  Don’t any Israeli authors have a sense of humor?  Help!  Show me an Israeli book that’s smart and funny!

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