Michael Davidow's Blog: The Henry Bell Project - Posts Tagged "martin-buber"
Old School
She tried to remember the different things he had described to her in the past few days. Upright kneeling. Motionless dance.
Kahn is actually quoting someone; he is quoting Menachem Mendel of Vorki, who had been asked about the essential practices of Judaism. In fact, Rabbi Mendel cites another one as well: “silent screaming.” But that did not suit my needs, so in true rabbinical fashion, I left it out. Mendel’s complete reply can be found in Martin Buber’s Tales of the Hasidim; a book which Kahn would have known well. (“He knew it by this. His master’s voice.” RCA’s slogan, and more.)
SPLIT THIRTY has many such references to religious texts. Ecclesiastes, of course, is everywhere; people either refer to it by name, or quote it pretty consciously (“And the sun goeth down on Pooch. Any day now,” warns Chan Peterson). Other references are also fairly obvious; when Paula weeps for her children, for instance, with “lamentation, on the Upper East Side.” She is playing Rachel, as described by Jeremiah. And some references are real, but hidden. Consider Kahn telling a model how she can “make a new name for herself” with a film shoot, and how that film shoot eventually takes place by the Hudson River; Jacob also made a new name for himself, by wrestling with an angel, by the banks of a different river.
My favorite textual incident, however, has nothing to do with plot at all, and only a little to do with character: it’s when Bell finds himself “standing by a city sycamore,” thinking through a conversation he has just had with Walton. There is no more to it, than that fact. But it was the prophet Amos, scourge of the northern kingdom, champion of justice, and protector of the downtrodden, who made his living as a “dresser of sycamore trees.”
Something Bell might have remembered, as he planned his next steps.
Kahn is actually quoting someone; he is quoting Menachem Mendel of Vorki, who had been asked about the essential practices of Judaism. In fact, Rabbi Mendel cites another one as well: “silent screaming.” But that did not suit my needs, so in true rabbinical fashion, I left it out. Mendel’s complete reply can be found in Martin Buber’s Tales of the Hasidim; a book which Kahn would have known well. (“He knew it by this. His master’s voice.” RCA’s slogan, and more.)
SPLIT THIRTY has many such references to religious texts. Ecclesiastes, of course, is everywhere; people either refer to it by name, or quote it pretty consciously (“And the sun goeth down on Pooch. Any day now,” warns Chan Peterson). Other references are also fairly obvious; when Paula weeps for her children, for instance, with “lamentation, on the Upper East Side.” She is playing Rachel, as described by Jeremiah. And some references are real, but hidden. Consider Kahn telling a model how she can “make a new name for herself” with a film shoot, and how that film shoot eventually takes place by the Hudson River; Jacob also made a new name for himself, by wrestling with an angel, by the banks of a different river.
My favorite textual incident, however, has nothing to do with plot at all, and only a little to do with character: it’s when Bell finds himself “standing by a city sycamore,” thinking through a conversation he has just had with Walton. There is no more to it, than that fact. But it was the prophet Amos, scourge of the northern kingdom, champion of justice, and protector of the downtrodden, who made his living as a “dresser of sycamore trees.”
Something Bell might have remembered, as he planned his next steps.
The Problem of Prayer
Paula and his sons had frequented this area, once; Stevie had made it his own as a boy. Had always turned west at this same marker, too. The zoo was nearby, and a pretzel stand, and that dirty pond, with its grimy swans. Bell had no idea, what lay beyond. To his own recollection, he had never kept walking.
Bertie Kahn had always sat here, too, whenever Selma had wanted to pray. Temple Emanu-El was right across the street.
Bertie might be found there later this week. The Jewish High Holidays are early this year. They start on Wednesday night.
SPLIT THIRTY is a god-soaked book. You might have to go back to On the Road or the stories of J.D. Salinger to find an ensemble cast with members so devoted to chasing the divine. That said, though, there isn’t much in the way of conventional religion to be found within its pages. Sal crosses himself whenever he passes a church, true, but he himself would call that superstition. Selma apparently went to services, but Selma is dead by the time this book opens. Not even Paula is interested in church.
How does that square with the story’s preoccupation, then? When its central question involves whether any of its characters ever succeeds in managing a single prayer?
I can tell two stories from memory to explain. Both come from Martin Buber’s Tales of the Chasidim; I simply can’t recall which rabbis they concern. And in retelling them, I’m sure I will change them. But that’s okay. It comes with the territory.
In the first, a young rabbi attends services with his new father-in-law. This wealthy man has been bragging about his son-in-law’s learning and piety. The whole congregation looks forward to seeing him preach. He takes the pulpit and stands in silence. A moment or two pass. Things turn awkward. Then he sits down again. His father-in-law is livid. “Why didn’t you pray for us?” he asks. “People expected more from you!” “I intended to pray,” the young man replies. “But I saw that pride had decided to pray with me. I could not pray myself without letting him pray, too. So I considered it best to keep my mouth shut.”
In the second, a great and learned rabbi stops at a small synagogue for evening prayers. He sits in the back so as not to disturb anyone. He finds that he can barely comprehend what is happening. He tries to pray, but it feels so wrong, he stops. He is so ashamed, he closes his book. He sits with his eyes closed. He barely manages to say “amen” at the end of the service. In a rush to leave after that happens, he is stopped by the local rabbi. “You must tell us your great secret,” says this man. “What secret is that?” “The secret of such powerful prayer. Your single word, amen, nearly toppled me over with its awful strength.”
To try to pray, and to fail, is prayer itself. Words to the wise, from Martin and his friends.
Bertie Kahn had always sat here, too, whenever Selma had wanted to pray. Temple Emanu-El was right across the street.
Bertie might be found there later this week. The Jewish High Holidays are early this year. They start on Wednesday night.
SPLIT THIRTY is a god-soaked book. You might have to go back to On the Road or the stories of J.D. Salinger to find an ensemble cast with members so devoted to chasing the divine. That said, though, there isn’t much in the way of conventional religion to be found within its pages. Sal crosses himself whenever he passes a church, true, but he himself would call that superstition. Selma apparently went to services, but Selma is dead by the time this book opens. Not even Paula is interested in church.
How does that square with the story’s preoccupation, then? When its central question involves whether any of its characters ever succeeds in managing a single prayer?
I can tell two stories from memory to explain. Both come from Martin Buber’s Tales of the Chasidim; I simply can’t recall which rabbis they concern. And in retelling them, I’m sure I will change them. But that’s okay. It comes with the territory.
In the first, a young rabbi attends services with his new father-in-law. This wealthy man has been bragging about his son-in-law’s learning and piety. The whole congregation looks forward to seeing him preach. He takes the pulpit and stands in silence. A moment or two pass. Things turn awkward. Then he sits down again. His father-in-law is livid. “Why didn’t you pray for us?” he asks. “People expected more from you!” “I intended to pray,” the young man replies. “But I saw that pride had decided to pray with me. I could not pray myself without letting him pray, too. So I considered it best to keep my mouth shut.”
In the second, a great and learned rabbi stops at a small synagogue for evening prayers. He sits in the back so as not to disturb anyone. He finds that he can barely comprehend what is happening. He tries to pray, but it feels so wrong, he stops. He is so ashamed, he closes his book. He sits with his eyes closed. He barely manages to say “amen” at the end of the service. In a rush to leave after that happens, he is stopped by the local rabbi. “You must tell us your great secret,” says this man. “What secret is that?” “The secret of such powerful prayer. Your single word, amen, nearly toppled me over with its awful strength.”
To try to pray, and to fail, is prayer itself. Words to the wise, from Martin and his friends.
