Zichrono L'Vracha

To those who actually look to my blog regularly, I humbly apologize. The following is a small eulogy for one of my favorite writers, and it's undergone heavy revision for more than a month.

~~~

J. D. Salinger was a ghost.

I could only approach him through his printed works. He shrouded himself and his ideas in an appealing urbane aesthetic. Salinger was elusive; the only glimpses you can catch of him were fleeting at best. He hid himself in the small nooks and crannies of his stories, the small moments, but the stories were almost entirely small moments.

Like most adolescents that befriend Salinger, I made his acquaintance in high school. My first pass through The Catcher and the Rye was enjoyable, but by no means a special experience. Then I read it again with the guide of an incredible English teacher, and Salinger won my adoration.

But it wasn't until my freshman year of college that I found in Salinger a soul mate. The first time I came home was Thanksgiving break and only because the whole college was closing up for the holiday. My sister drove me and my hefty laundry bag all the way down to Exit 3 of the New Jersey Turnpike. I gritted my teeth the whole way. My relationship with my parents was not at its best, and I didn't want to be at home. For a suburbanite, the escape from the situation was natural: I drove myself to Barnes & Noble.

I prowled through the fiction section and my eyes locked onto a slim white volume called Nine Stories. I grabbed it from the shelf and settled myself on one of the comfy chairs in the back of the store. Not even 4 pages into the first story, it became a perfect day for A Perfect Day for Bananafish. I read well into the night. I had the Beatles' Revolver on repeat on my isolation Pod, convinced Paul McCartney's "For No One" was about Eloise from Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut. The store announced for the last time that it was closing while I stood in line at the cashiers' counter. I walked out with not just Nine Stories, but Raise High the Roofbeam Carpenters & Seymour: An Introduction and Franny and Zooey too (I subsequently discovered that my mom had already bought these books years ago when she was in school).

At home, my multivariable calculus homework lay neglected on the ottoman. The Glass Children were in the living room, and they commanded my attention. Their broad intellectualism, quasi-spiritual crises, idealism, eastern philosophy, and diction made me nostalgic for a life I never had. I wanted to throw on a tweed jacket over an oxford buttondown, move to the Upper West Side ca. 1952, and discuss Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling in a dimly-lit jazz bar.

But it was deeper than that, because the Glass children were grasping for something deeper, something pure. They longed for a transcendence from the mundane. They were coping with the loss of their eldest brother, Seymour (who commited suicide at the end of one of Salinger's most brilliant and enigmatic short stories to be published in The New Yorker, A Perfect Day for Bananafish). Whatever voids I felt in my own existence, I assigned them to whatever was bothering the Glasses and Holden Caulfield.

As my college years rolled along, I turned to Salinger again and again for solace. In my senior year, I picked up Zooey hoping to relive the faux-nostalgia and perhaps even mine treasures I had missed on the previous readings. However, once I reached the extended dialogue between Zooey and his mother, Bessie, in the bathroom, I had to put the book down. I couldn't bear to witness the brilliant Zooey berating his mom with patronizing cruelty. With all his intelligence, it seemed that all he did was mock the people closest to him.

What happened? Did I somehow miss the blatant misanthropy on the first four passes through the story? All the elegance and smatterings of Eastern philosophy and Buddhism struck me as impractical and out of touch with reality. I thought I had an unbreakable intimacy with Salinger, and now I felt alienated by his writing. It felt like an ended relationship. In the beginning you can talk to the other about anything, and after it's over you can hardly find a thing to say.

Salinger was a ghost long before he passed away. Hidden away in rustic Cornish, New Hampshire, he spoke only occasionally to his world audience. Maybe he was just as alienated from us as I was from his writing. But to the outside world, it appeared he was dead. Little did we know he spent all those years of solitude writing to himself and no one else, a heart stirred to beating life.

Salinger's writing ignited me with a directionless passion and so, with what seemed to be no alternative, I chased after him. On a bright summer's day, I drove from New Brunswick to Princeton looking for him in the unpublished stories of Holden Caulfield that he entrusted to the Firestone Library. I remember that day sitting on the roof of the library on one of the trimmed but prickly green grass pastures, a nice cool breeze tossing my hair. I was far enough from the street that the fiddling crickets could be heard more clearly than the street traffic. The sun's rays warmed my skin and seemed to freeze time. I decided then to give up looking for Salinger. The lovely weather and locale convinced me to just be happy with the moment. And then like a good ghost he came to me and I've kept his words close since: Seymour once said that all we do our whole lives is go from one little piece of holy ground to the next. Is he never wrong?

Just go to bed, now. Quickly. Quickly and slowly.


Z''L.

Et in Arcadia ego

Last week I finished Tom Stoppard's Arcadia. My family and I saw one of his more recent plays a few years ago off-Broadway. And what I understood through the characters' thick accents and layered dialogue, I enjoyed immensely.

From my limited experience with his work, Stoppard seems enormously appealing for two predominant reasons. The first is his effortless touch with intellectual topics that he explores in razor cunning badinage. The second is his method of incorporating abstract forms of storytelling into his drama/comedies.

Take Arcadia. The whole play is set in one room juxtaposed by a 180 year time difference, 1993 and 1809. The characters both then and now casually discuss determinism, Fermat's Last theorem, chaos theory, thermodynamics, etc. Props from one time frame remain in the other. Two characters, played by the same actor, even ferries some of these props back and forth through the temporal divide.

I could have read Arcadia simply for his poetic treatment of maths and physics concepts, but Stoppard goes further. Rather than simply discussing the concept of chaos theory, he bends the idea into the structure of the play itself. The action begins in a unified starting point (the room) but quickly biphurcates into chaos. At the climax of the play the chaos converges as Stoppard piles the present and past on top of one another. Both characters in the past and the present share the stage. Their dialogues momentarily overlap in perfect synchronicity, before again diverging into the inevitable far-flung entropy. Kudos to anyone who can weave poetry out of my college physics experiments.


The title Arcadia is taken from the Greek word for a pastoral utopia. It's the name of the gardens visible from the window of the isolated room in which the plot unfolds. It's a word most commonly seen in the latin phrase Et in Arcadio ego, a statement by Death meant as a memento mori. It tinges the upbeat comedy with the biting edge of tragedy. For Stoppard, it seems that life is worth living for the sacred moments of order which span the engulfing gaps of chaos-filled life.

There's a lot to talk about with Arcadia. The dialogue, themes, characters, structure, and ideas all shine brightly. So much so, that it's not worth it to relay a plot synopsis but rather share some of the fruits I found most poignant. At the risk of depreciating the currency of the word, the play is simply brilliant. Stoppard is a master of his craft, and awe is really the only proper response for Arcadia.

Read it.
~~

In other news, our Yeshiva is winding down on its four-day weekend after 2 months of intense learning. Since I completed Aliyah in mid-November I have put off many of the next steps in the process. So I decided to use this mini-vacation to complete many of these tasks. This morning I ran back and forth over Jerusalem so I could complete many of these tasks. I'm glad to say it was a productive morning and I now have a bank account, a Teudah Oleh, a specific health insurance plan (I was already covered but it would be a big mess if something happened to me without a card), the initiation of my aliyah payments.

I also started part one of Robert Caro's four-part biography of Lyndon Johnson on the recommendation of a friend from my ulpan this summer. The whole series thus far spans over 2000 pages. I'm only 90 pages into this first 800-page tome, but I can see why it is considered a classic.

His research on Johnson, from his family history down to the topography of his ancestral lands in Hill Country Texasis impeccable. Only by such exacting and intimate research could he get away with tearing down the myths and essentially assassinating Johnson's character. What makes the book so compelling, beyond the biography, is Caro's use of LBJ to meditate on greater themes of humanity and American history. Johnson's singular pursuit for power and the rise of South-western influence on 20th-century politics are not just historical events but deeper reflections of the human soul.

As he stated in an interview with Kurt Vonnegut: "I was never interested in writing biography just to show the life of a great man," saying he wanted instead "to use biography as a means of illuminating the times and the great forces that shape the times—particularly political power."

odds and ends

Life is spread pretty thin these days, but I've never enjoyed myself more. In college, I would force myself to get up in the mornings because I felt guilty if I slept past 8:30. These days when I wake up at 6, and I can't wait to get going (after I shrug off the sleep).

It takes some getting used to, and to help me help myself take care of everything that I want to do during the week I've made myself a schedule which I hold to pretty consistently. Easier than typing it all up, I just took some pictures (for those who can't read Hebrew, I'm sorry. And for those who can't read my handwriting, I'm also sorry).


During Sukkot I thought it would be a great idea to make a bonsai tree out of an Etrog (citron). So I bought one in Meah Shaarim and have been watering the seeds diligently. I've been rewarded with three sprouts.

I've also started training to become a Sofer (a writer of Jewish scrolls like the mezuzah, tefillin, and the Sefer Torah). It's fun to learn, and a good way to relax and still be productive. I like the idea of channeling artistic passions into the focused calligraphy of Judaism. The other idea is to really make Judaism a part of me, and make myself part of its ongoing tradition.

After Hannukah we must burn all the wicks used in the oil menorahs (we're not allowed to simply throw away something that was for a mitzvah).


Here's of a sketch of my latest art project:


And for those who knew me when, a proof that some things don't change.

Take care.
Kol tuv.

Closing of the American Mind (the book review)

Last night I finally closed the book on The Closing of the American Mind. It's not a particularly long book (383 pages) but Allan Bloom packs enough philosophy within its cover's to inundate the Caspian Sea. For those not familiar with the short and skinny: He was one of the foremost western philosophers of the latter 20th-century, translated Plato's Republic, and wrote numerous commentaries and interpretations on classic works of Western thought. His decades-long experience in teaching higher education and unparalleled understanding of philosophy make him an undeniable force in any consideration of America's philosophical and moral climate.

Closing begins with a preface from Bloom's colleague and close friend from the U of C, Saul Bellow. Bellow essentially spells out in layman's terms the take-away themes from the book for those unable to penetrate Bloom's more esoteric harangues. Honestly, I deem it worth skipping, but perhaps there is some entertainment value in watching Bellow reflect praise intended for Bloom onto himself.

In his Introduction (titled: Our Virtue), Bloom wastes no time stating America's fundamental problems. In his classes he would routinely ask students what they would do if they were a British magistrate watching an Indian village funeral procession. Would they interfere when they saw the widow forced onto the funeral pyre, or would they restrain themselves, not wanting to impinge on their culture? Are the values and beliefs of these Indian villagers any less valid as yours?

He reflects the virtue of openness through the prism of books music, relationships, race, sex, self-centeredness, and equality. With a voice both philosophical and droll, Bloom explores each topic in turn with unerring exactness. He disparages the schools which try to purify the constitution of its "highly flawed, racist, and class-interested" founding fathers.

The middle of Closing drifts into the deeper philosophical foundations of our current predicament, generously ladling from the soups of Rousseau, Nietzsche, Plato, Tocqueville, and with some healthy doses of Hegel, Weber, Freud, and Heideggar. I have not made a serious study of any of these philosophers, and found myself often plodding through these denser sections. After the heady philosophy section, Bloom opines on the dysfunctional state of the university, and his first-hand experience at Cornell. Certain black students threatened the faculty with guns for the unfair, racists standards they had imposed. For him, both students and professors fall into Marx's overused dictum: history always repeats itself; the first time as tragedy, the second as farce.

What I found most jarring about Closing was the accuracy with which he described my understanding of reality, history, politics, and rights. I was always confident in America's inherent moral superiority, derived from our all-seeing openness to different cultures. I never considered that being open to anything had closed my mind to everything. And I really think that is Bloom's sine qua non. Americans suffer a fallacy of openness. We are indoctrinated in moral relativity from grade school, and are intellectually emasculated in our supposed lives. Closing made a splash when it was originally published in 1987, and 22 years later it has become even more socially relevant. I recommend this book to anyone who is honestly interested in challenging their personal philosophy.

The faces of Simcha Pt. 2

As the sun closed on the last day of the festival, Succot, some friends convinced me to walk to Meah Shaarim for an annual concert given by none other than Yaakov Hillel, one of the generation's leading Kabbalists. He is the Dean of Yeshivat Chevrat Ahavat Shalom in Meah Shaarim/Geula, and apparently also a rock star.

I was originally hesitant to leave the opportunity of a quiet evening with my book (Closing of the American Mind by Allan Bloom). My friend, and chevrusa (trans.: study partnert), Vladimir Fefer spent the better part of a half hour convincing me why it was a necessity that I go.

Vlad had gone last year and it was one of the best decisions he made for the year. Using his quasi-mystical incantations and lyrics, Yaakov Hillel transfixed the crowd into one harmonious mind. Vlad informed me, when one person dropped his glasses, instantaneously a five- foot vacuum dilated around him. Like the Borg, with a shared mind oriented to the collective. Once he located his spectacles the vacuum closed around him.

The prospect of a cumulative 2 hour walk didn't sit well with me, but Vlad's extended plea ultimately stifled my more troglodytic tendencies. We set off around one o'clock ante meridiem after the last member of our outfit returned to the Yeshiva. To pass the time, Vlad and I mentally reviewed our Gemara along the way.

As we approached Meah Shaarim close to 2 in the morning, hundreds of people from toddlers to elderly were out walking. And as we approached the epicenter of the concert, hundreds of ultra-orthodox men stood chatting on the outside of the shul with a pungent aroma of cigarettes weaving in the cool night air. Sunflower seed shells scattered in small piles on the road (smoking and eating sunflower seeds are the new Israeli national pass times).

We shoved our way into the (Hexagonal Closest) packed Shul. The field of vision was entirely filled by the black and white Charedim (lit.: tremblers (before G-d), fig.:ultra-orthadox Jews). Any traces of colored clothing had already dissipated upon entering Meah Shaarim. Moving soon became impossible, at least motion of our own volition. Once in the central hall, we became subject to the waves of humans swaying back and forth. Our buddy system quickly deteriorated as we dissolved in the crowd like sugar into tea.

At the far front of the hall was a stage with Yaakov Hillel and a sizable posse of thirty chassidim. A few had microphones, and positioned off-stage right was a backing band. Most were singing from small esoteric siddurim (lit.: orderings, fig.:prayer/song books). I was not familiar with a single song, a rarity for Jewish musical outings.

I don't know how many concert reviews I'm going to do since I'm packed away in a Yeshiva all day. The music was other-wordly, and certainly worth the trip. But the concert was a once-in-a-lifetime experience for an entirely different reason. The crowds were so overwhelming (90 degree heat with, 4 layers of clothing (undershirt, tzitzit, shirt, and jacket) is a formula for massive amounts of perspiration). After a half hour of trying to nullify my ego in the jumping and swaying of the greater crowd conscience, I had enough.

I signaled to my buddy, Vlad, that I was heading out, and began the arduous push outward. My other friend, Danny Solganik was on the same page as me and also chose the moment to duck out, and we began the long walk back to Har Nof together.

The faces of Simcha pt. 1

To properly describe the last four weeks would be an exercise in futility. The Jewish nation passed through the month of Tishrei which contains some of the heaviest hitting holidays: Rosh HaShana, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, and Simchat Torah. The pious Jew undergoes a whirlwind of emotional states as s/he declares G-d king, begs atonement, seeks the eternal and rejoices in the yearly completion of G-d's Torah.

Most Yeshivas take a temporary and necessary pause to properly absorb these holidays. In my time off I was privileged to see and participate in several extraordinary exhibitions of Jewish simcha (happiness).

In previous generations, consumate writers would likely harken to the challenge of describing their experiences and feelings relying solely on their writ. Living in the age of digital cameras I can and do lay most of this burden upon the many videos I took while providing simple explanatory captions. Having just finished On Writing Well by William Zinsser, I am a little dissapointed with myself. It's a perfect opportunity to hone my abilities and dodge the pitfalls and platitudes which hound bad writing. But with the start of zman (lit.: time, fig.:session) breathing down my back, I think I will just share some of the less shaky videos.

~~~

Last Wednesday my good friend, Rabbi, Mashgiach Ruchani (fig. Spiritual guide) Reuven Billowitz called me over to Ezrat HaTorah, a chassidic neighborhood in Jerusalem. Reuven was in Israel for Sukkot and his brother-in-law funded the writing of a Sefer Torah for their community. He called to invite me to the Hachnosas Sefer Torah (fig. the completion of the Sefer Torah). I hopped in a cab and arrived just in time for the final letters of the Torah.

The Torah was completed in the Rebbe's home. There is a Mitzvah to write a Sefer Torah so the last few letters are divided amongst as many people as possible.



And when completed it is hoisted for all to see. Everyone in the room proclaims: V'zos ha-Torah asher Moshe lifnei Bnei Yisrael al pi Hashem b'yad Moshe (lit. This is the Torah that Moses placed before theChildren of Israel, according to G-d through Moses' hand).




The Sefer Torah is then taken outside and escorted by a large procession. Charedim both lead and follow the Torah dancing to the Shul that will be it's home. Children with torches walk in front lighting the way.



Once at the Shul the real dancing begins as the men encircle the many Sifrei Torah of the Shul and each other.


The Rebbe gives the new Sefer Torah a proper entrance.


The dancing can be exhausting for some. (Pictured: Reuven's youngest son Tzvi, 3 year competitor for cutest kid ever)

We finished with a fine banquet in honor of the occasion. I was very lucky to get such an intimate glance at one of the most important aspects of our continued tradition. The Torah has been preserved immaculately for thousands of years; every letter is cherished. The wisdom and meaning held within it would immediately vanish if we ever neglected its sanctity. Watching the birth of a Sefer Torah is not unlike the torches the children use to escort it to its new home. It provides light for the coming generation of Jews in a age of encroaching darkness.

Honestly, I was happiest to spend some time with my friend Reuven, a person who lives in constant fulfillment of the deepest and dearest principles and Laws that the Torah teaches.

~~~

In other news I finished the second of my pair of shoes which I started in late March.

The first shoe was taken from the original cover of the Catcher in the Rye. This second one was inspired by Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. I read a lot of his work throughout college. He's known for writing incredibly dense books which prevent challenges on many fronts for their diction, obscurity, structure and themes, not to mention discerning the basic plot.





For a long time I was uncertain of just what I wanted to do for the second shoe. But I'm pleased overall with the effort. I'm still developing sensitivity to the canvas medium and fine-tuning my skill with a sharpie, but the progress is palpable. I think I'll be ready to start professionally within a few months.

Note: I haven't edited this post since I need to go to sleep. If you read it in this unpolished state and find some distasteful errors, my humblest apologies.

Beginnings

For those unaware, the Jewish calendar is about to undergo a flurry of holidays. As the sun sets on Jerusalem tonight we will be welcoming Rosh HaShanah. For the last three weeks I've been learning different mishnas and gemaras on the different ideas, themes, connections, and halachas (Jewish laws) that make Rosh HaShanah one of the holiest days of the year.

Living in Jerusalem this last month, I've been privy to a unique electricity that charges through the stone streets. Shofar blasts emanate from unseen street corners. Jews everywhere commit themselves to Tshuva (~repentance), reconciling neglected debts and mending broken relationships. At sundown, the Jews coronate our G-d as Melech (King) over the world.

There's so many ideas to speak about for such an auspicious occasion, and Rosh HaShanah has literally a network of satellite ideas seemingly estranged from one another but actually deeply intertwined. Some meanings can be uncovered with a superficial analysis and others require deeper analysis.

I'll describe one here to give a taste. The only Mitzah (commandment) explicitly mentioned in the Torah for the day of Rosh HaShanah is to blow the Shofar. The most simple and obvious question to ask is “Why?”. Rosh HaShanah commemorates the day that G-d created man in his “six day” tour-de-force universe creation. The lashon (language) says that he made man from the earth (indeed the word Adam or אדם actually means dirt). The pasuk (verse) then goes on to say that he breathed life into man through his nostrils. The Mitzvah of blowing the shofar is the only mitzvah of the 613 in the Torah that involves breath. There is no commandment to breathe (my Rosh Yeshiva says that the unspoken commandment of the Torah is to not be stupid; so we don't need a mitzvah for derech eretz (common sense knowledge)). As I mentioned above, Rosh HaShanah is the holiday where we declare G-d, as ruler of every aspect of the universe. It's our sincerest desire that everyone in the world recognize the fundamental truth that G-d is responsible for everything, especially our existence. Our blowing of the shofar is a way for us to give back the breath G-d used to create us, and to transform it into a clarion call proclaiming his sovereignty. Pretty nifty.

There was also a wedding last week, which I was regretfully unable to attend due to my recently sprained ankle. Contributing to the simcha of a wedding is a big act of kindness in the orthodox Jewish world. It's our responsibility to help make it the greatest night of the bride and grooms lives'.

Lot's of people come up with small shtick to entertain the bride and groom. The chassan (groom) happened to be an ophthalmologist and my friend Danny wanted to do a juggling shtick. So he asked me to color some hard-boiled eggs as eyes.

Here's the result:

The united states

I've been back in the states for less than 48 hours now, but I've managed to accomplish a lot of my goals. Yesterday I rose around 5 o'clock and journeyed up to New Brunswick to visit my alma mater. The road work on Route 18 which had hampered pretty much every driver who traversed its winding macadam has finally found completion.

For as long as I can remember, from my first visits to Rutgers in high school to visit my sister and friends the construction had followed that road around like a bad habit. But now Route 18 is great. Really great, actually.

But Route 18 aside, I managed to visit and talk to many of my close friends in New Brunswick before heading up to the City.

~~~

I also finished my mom's second shoe during my transatlantic flight. I worked fairly intensely to finish it on time. I'm really pleased with how they both came out and how remarkably close they are to my original vision. Here are the pictures of the pair: