By Amos Oz
Tragic, comedian, and totally sincere, this bestselling and seriously acclaimed new paintings by way of "one of Israel's so much talented and prolific authors" (Helen Epstein, The ahead) is right now a family members saga and a mystical self-portrait of a author who witnessed the start of a kingdom and lived via its turbulent history.
It is the tale of a boy growing to be up within the war-torn Jerusalem of the 40's and fifties, in a small house crowded with books in twelve languages and relations conversing approximately as many. the tale of a young person whose lifestyles has been replaced eternally via his mother's suicide while he used to be twelve years previous. the tale of a guy who leaves the restrictions of his relatives and its neighborhood of dreamers, students, and failed businessmen to affix a kibbutz, switch his identify, marry, have youngsters. the tale of a author who turns into an energetic player within the political lifetime of his state.
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Extra info for A Tale of Love and Darkness
Telaviv. Sea. Light. Sand, scaffolding, kiosks on the avenues, a brand-new white Hebrew city, with simple lines, growing up among the citrus groves and the dunes. Not just a place that you buy a ticket for and travel to on an Egged bus, but a different continent altogether. For years we had a regular arrangement for a telephone link with the family in Tel Aviv. We used to phone them every three or four months, even though we didn't have a phone and neither did they. First we would write to Auntie Hayya and Uncle Tsvi to let them know that on, say, the nineteenth of the month—which was a Wednesday, and on Wednesdays Tsvi left his work at the Health Clinic at three—we would phone from our pharmacy to their pharmacy at five.
I had made one terrible mistake. When Father went off to work, I was free to do whatever I wanted with my corner of the bookcase, but I had a wholly childish view about how these things were done. So it was that I arranged my books in order of height. The tallest books were the ones that by now were beneath my dignity, children's books, in rhyme, with pictures, the books that had been read to me when I was a toddler. I did it because I wanted to fill the whole length of shelf that had been allotted to me.
If once or twice it happened that there was not enough money to buy food for Shabbat, my mother would look at Father, and Father would understand that the moment had come to make a sacrifice, and turn to the bookcase. He was an ethical man, and he knew that bread takes precedence over books and that the good of the child takes precedence over everything. I remember his hunched back as he walked through the doorway, on his way to Mr. Meyer's secondhand bookshop with two or three beloved tomes under his arm, looking as though it cut him to the quick.