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Sept. 30, 2005
Journeys of the Jewish soul
Two new works of fiction explore our inner workings and desires.
KATHARINE HAMER EDITOR
Edeet Ravel burst onto the Canadian literary scene two years ago
with her first novel, Ten Thousand Lovers, which was nominated
for a Governor General's Award. This was followed by Look for
Me. With A Wall of Light (Random House, 2005), she completes
her so-called "Tel-Aviv Trilogy."
Each of these books, set in Israel, is about a journey of sorts:
hunting for a missing husband or an unknown father, or what it means
to be living as a Jew in Israel. Ravel's characters are both idealistic
and naïve; finding their way in the world in a microcosmic
parallel to the way their still-young country is finding its way
in the world.
"I am Sonya Vronsky, professor of mathematics at Tel-Aviv University,"
explains one of the novel's narrators on the opening page, "and
this is the story of a day in late August. On this remarkable day,
I kissed a student, pursued a lover, found my father and left my
brother."
This one paragraph sets up the narrative path for the remainder
of the book, relayed alternately in the voices of Sonya, her nephew
Noah, and her mother Anna (other than Sonya's, each part of the
story is set in the recent or distant past). It is this technique
that allows Sonya's own tale to be fanned out over the course of
200-odd pages without readers ever feeling bored. Ravel is a master
of conserving detail and uses it in an almost painterly fashion,
while leaving us with the sense of a mystery unravelling teasingly
before us.
Fans of classic texts will undoubtedly note wryly that this family
shares the surname of Anna Karenina's count – which is fitting,
since A Wall of Light is filled with frustrated desire and
sometimes hopeless romantic scenarios. Ravel's Vronskys are always
determined in their apparently insensible decision-making. What
makes them appealing is Ravel's skill for portraying a sense of
universality. All of us, in our way and at least at some point in
our lives, have followed our hearts, to good or ill effect.
A fictional throwback
In Ellis Island and Other Stories (Harcourt, 2005), Mark
Helprin goes beyond borrowing character names from the classics:
for a collection published only two months ago, Ellis Island
is oddly redolent of fiction from the early part of the 20th century,
if not before.
In this assembly, which won the National Jewish Book Award and was
nominated for the prestigious PEN/Faulkner Award in the United States,
the most looming influence would appear to be Franz Kafka. Helprin's
characters are generally in solitary situations by choice and, therefore,
overly affected by a kind of paranoia.
Take, for example, this scene from the title story, in which a newcomer
to America fears the worst during his immigration assessment: "When
I reached the point at which those unfortunates who had not passed
were shunted into the depths of the island for further examination
or to await an outward-bound steamer, my fear was nearly uncontrollable.
But instead of walking to the right and down the stairs, to freedom,
I stood at attention before the final judge, closed my eyes and
screamed, 'I'm an anarchist!'
"I would not have been surprised had I been shot right there,
but I was amazed when, motioning me into the dimensionless interior,
the judge looked up and said, 'I know.'
" 'How do you know?' I asked, as my legs carried me away from
him, with many others who had been rejected, down a dim corridor.
" 'Because it's written on your back,' he shouted after me."
The protagonists of other stories are equally curious and include
a bereaved man determined to ascend a Bavarian mountain, a family
marooned in Vermont at Christmas-time and a squadron of heat-fevered
Israeli soldiers. Although there is a gem-like quality to Helprin's
chosen words, the somewhat aloof characters are more likely to appeal
to a male audience.
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