By Amos Oz
Winner of the nationwide Jewish booklet Award
"[An] creative paintings that circles round the upward thrust of a kingdom, the tragic future of a mom, a boy’s construction of a brand new self." — The New Yorker
A relatives saga and a mystical self-portrait of a author who witnessed the delivery of a country and lived via its turbulent heritage. A story of affection and Darkness is the tale of a boy who grows up in war-torn Jerusalem, in a small condo crowded with books in twelve languages and relations talking approximately as many. the tale of a young person whose lifestyles has been replaced eternally via his mother’s suicide. the tale of a guy who leaves the restrictions of his kinfolk and group to affix a kibbutz, switch his identify, marry, have little ones. the tale of a author who turns into an energetic player within the political lifetime of his nation.
"One of the main enthralling and deeply pleasant books that i've got learn in lots of years." — New Republic
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Extra resources for A Tale of Love and Darkness
Who could tell? There was this line winding along, so vulnerable, unguarded, baking in the sun, who could tell? I felt full of gratitude to the men who had put up this line, so brave-hearted, so dexterous, it's not easy to put up a line from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv. I knew from experience: once we ran a wire from my room to Eliyahu Friedmann's room, only two houses and a garden away, and what a business it was, with the trees in the way, the neighbors, the shed, the wall, the steps, the bushes. After waiting a while, Father decided that the Postmaster or Mr.
Which was most of the time. When my mother referred to a stallion in Hebrew in my hearing, my father rebuked her furiously in Russian: Shto s toboi?! —What's the matter with you? ) Out of cultural considerations they mostly read books in German or English, and presumably they dreamed in Yiddish. But the only language they taught me was Hebrew. Maybe they feared that a knowledge of languages would expose me too to the blandishments of Europe, that wonderful, murderous continent. On my parents' scale of values, the more Western something was, the more cultured it was considered.
In America, for instance, where people dig for gold, hold up mail trains, stampede herds of cattle across endless plains, and whoever kills the most Indians ends up getting the girl. That was the America we saw at the Edison Cinema: the pretty girl was the prize for the best shooter. What one did with such a prize I had not the faintest idea. If they had shown us in those films an America where the man who shot the most girls was rewarded with a good-looking Indian, I would simply have believed that that was the way it was.