72
PARTISAN R.EVIEW
essa ry or less real. Like th e prospect of a g rand affa ir, manhood can be both
a sleazy interlude or a tru e passion. That it partakes of both as it hammers
us into the shapes th at form us should be obvious. But it isn't. For an immi–
grant father, the quest was for that Cod whom he feared in the depths of
his heart even as he wandered across th e fi-ozen steppes, awa re of the
immense hori zon that lay beyond a prison house ca ll ed I\.ussia. For a
brothe r whose rage still resounds in Illy imag ination, th e need was that [
fin all y adm it to what he had been ca ll ed upon to pay so th at I would fin al–
ly total up th e debts and obligati o ns that were ri ghtfull y min e. And for me,
the truth was th e admiss ion that I alll mo re acc urate than I know when I
speak of disease as a sharing.
l3roth er and so n, I stand in the mind 's storm , as mu ch a stranger to
those I love as they are to Ill e. It's not enough to accept a brother's anger,
to understand his rage at havin g to stand in for me. It's no t enough to
sea rch for that immi g rant father, alo ne in a hostil e world, as he maneuvers
through th e blank immensi ti es of landscape, his faith frozen to hi s fear as
he prepares for hi s passage to an Ame ri ca that ex ists on ly in hi s mind. I sus–
pect that I will never know whether I am as good a man as Illy bro th er o r
as our father. I will never know if Ill y enduran ce matc hes o r is less th an
theirs. I only know that as I close in on m y life, still tryin g to balance it
out, it is th e need to stand as a mall that I have come to va lu e. Mo re and
Illore, th at has elll erged as th e thing itself, the portrait revea led , whe re I see
myself-brother, son, father, stranger.
