Monday, June 28, 2010


"On Friday nights, Wanda had to serve, that was it: upon Shabbos eves rare in Hannah's happiness, her having plucked no fruited fault from the tree whose boughs, pruned daily, would overnight, over eves, branch into all species of tasks, errands, resentment. It was Hannah's elected responsibility to prepare the family dinner--duty, the Schedule, just doing her part, hauling her own pregnant weight--and then, how she'd sit in the shade of accomplishment, accepting compliments heaped into her cups, bowls, and plates, blushing the rose of an apple and eating all the courses from the challah on down to dessert even and drinking her wine, too, and Israel's as well, though not while with kinder while Wanda would serve."

Such are the elevated codes of conduct in Joshua Cohen's masterwork. It is decidedly uphill but three days inward, it has yielded bliss.

I need to defer to samizdat some this week as elders have raised voices over Dostoevsky.


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