411
PARTISAN REVIEW
I honestly did not know what to answer him...
-And you make a living from this?
I give the typical Jewish answer: Beh!
-And your entire income comes from writing?
-Right now...
-Ah! Tell me. What do you get out of it?
-Not much.
-Also slow?
-Dead.. .
-Times are bad-my neighbor sighs.
For a few minutes there was silence; but my travelling
companion could not remain quiet for long.
-Tell me, I beg you, what good are these stories? I don't mean
yours, of course-he quickly corrects himself-God forbid!
A
Jew must earn a living. Even if he has to squeeze it out of the bare
walls.. .there's no question ...what doesn't a Jew do for a living?
Take my case, for example . I had no other choice but to go by
mail coach, and only God knows if I am not, at this very
moment, sitting on a ritually forbidden cloth mixture. But I
mean the readers. What do they get out of these stories? Is there
anything of value in them? What do you write in your books?
He doesn't wait for a reply but answers his own questions.
-It must be something for women, a crinoline.
-And you-I ask him-have you never read these kind of
books?
-To you I will admit the truth. I do happen to know some–
thing about them... this much.. .
He probably indicated the tip of his finger, the nail and a bit
of the flesh above it.. .it was dark.
-Did it capture your interest?
-Mine? God forbid! I read them for my wife's sake. This is
what happened: it was five or six years ago , six years, a year after
our wedding...we were still being supported by her family while
I studied at Yeshiva...and something happened to my wife; she
was not herself. Not that she was actually sick, God forbid . She
was up and about, but she was not in the best of health. Once,
when I asked her what was wrong.. .But-and he suddenly drew
back-why am I bothering you with these things?
-Not at all-I say to him-tell me, my friend ...
My travelling companion laughs.
