A Tale of Love and Darkness by Amos Oz

By Amos Oz

Tragic, comedian, and completely sincere, this bestselling and seriously acclaimed new paintings through "one of Israel's such a lot proficient and prolific authors" (Helen Epstein, The ahead) is right now a kinfolk saga and a paranormal self-portrait of a author who witnessed the delivery of a kingdom and lived via its turbulent history.

It is the tale of a boy transforming into up within the war-torn Jerusalem of the 40's and fifties, in a small residence crowded with books in twelve languages and kin talking approximately as many. the tale of a teen whose existence has been replaced without end by way of his mother's suicide while he used to be twelve years previous. the tale of a guy who leaves the limitations of his kinfolk and its group of dreamers, students, and failed businessmen to hitch a kibbutz, swap his identify, marry, have kids. 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

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And even if there wasn't a curfew, who wanted to be out of doors in the dark at that time in Jerusalem? Everything was shut and shuttered, the cobblestone streets were deserted, every passing shadow in those narrow streets was trailed by three or four other shadows. Even when there was no power cut, we always lived in dim light because it was important to economize: my parents replaced the forty-watt bulbs with twenty-five-watt ones, not just for economy but on principle, because a bright light is wasteful, and waste is immoral.

England stood even higher on their scale than France. As for America, there they were not so sure: after all, it was a country where people shot at Indians, held up mail trains, chased gold, and hunted girls. Europe for them was a forbidden promised land, a yearned-for landscape of belfries and squares paved with ancient flagstones, of trams and bridges and church spires, remote villages, spa towns, forests, and snow-covered meadows. Words like "cottage," "meadow," or "goose girl" excited and seduced me all through my childhood.

My father could read sixteen or seventeen languages and could speak eleven (all with a Russian accent). My mother spoke four or five languages and read seven or eight. They conversed in Russian or Polish when they did not want me to understand. (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.

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