Call It Sleepby Henry Roth, Alfred Kazin (Introduction), Hana Wirth-Nesher (Afterword)
"One of the few genuinely distinguished novels written by a twentieth-century American."---Irving Howe, The New York Times Book Review (front page)
When Henry Roth published his debut novel Call It Sleep in 1934, it was greeted with considerable critical acclaim, though, in those troubled times, lackluster sales. Only with its paperback publication/i>
"One of the few genuinely distinguished novels written by a twentieth-century American."---Irving Howe, The New York Times Book Review (front page)
When Henry Roth published his debut novel Call It Sleep in 1934, it was greeted with considerable critical acclaim, though, in those troubled times, lackluster sales. Only with its paperback publication thirty years later did this novel receive the recognition it deserves---and still enjoys. Having sold to date millions of copies worldwide, Call It Sleep is the magnificent story of David Schearl, the "dangerously imaginative" child coming of age in the slums of New York.
"Arguably the most distinguished work of fiction ever written about immigrant life...Surely the most lyrically authentic novel in American literature about a young boy's coming to consciousness "---Lis Harris, The New Yorker
"Roth has done for the East Side Jew what James T. Farrell is doing for the Chicago Irish in the Studs Lonigan trilogy.... When his characters are speaking pure Yiddish, Roth translates it into great beauty.... The final chapters in the book have been compared to the Nighttown episodes of Joyce's Ulysses; the comparison is apt."---John Chamberlain, The New York Times
"There has appeared in America no novel to rival the veracity of this childhood. It is as honest as Dreiser's Dawn, but far more sensitive and ably written. It is as brilliant as Joyce's Portrait of the Artist, but with a wider scope, a richer emotion, a deeper realism."---Alfred Hayes, author of All Thy Conquests
"For sheer virtuosity, Call It Sleep is hard to beat; no one has ever distilled such poetry and wit fromthe counterpoint between the maimed English and the subtle Yiddish of the immigrant. No one has reproduced so sensitively the terror of family life in the imagination of a child caught between two cultures."---Leslie A. Fiedler, author of The Life and Death of the Great American Novel
Henry Roth (1906--1995) was born in the Austro-Hungarian province of Galitzia. He probably landed on Ellis Island in 1909, and began his life in New York on the Lower East Side in the slums where Call It Sleep is set. He is the author as well of Shifting Landscapes, a collection of essays, and the Mercy of a Rude Stream tetralogy.
“One of the few genuinely distinguished novels written by a twentieth-century American.” Irving Howe, The New York Times Book Review
“Arguably the most distinguished work of fiction ever written about immigrant life...Surely the most lyrically authentic novel in American literature about a young boy's coming to consciousness.” Lis Harris, The New Yorker
“Roth has done for the East Side Jew what James T. Farrell is doing for the Chicago Irish in the Studs Lonigan trilogy.... When his characters are speaking pure Yiddish, Roth translates it into great beauty....The final chapters in the book have been compared to the Nighttown episodes of Joyce's Ulysses; the comparison is apt.” John Chamberlain, The New York Times
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CALL IT SLEEP
By HENRY ROTH
FARRAR, STRAUS AND GIROUXCopyright © 1991 Alfred Kazin
All right reserved.
Chapter OneSTANDING before the kitchen sink and regarding the bright brass faucets that gleamed so far away, each with a bead of water at its nose, slowly swelling, falling, David again became aware that this world had been created without thought of him. He was thirsty, but the iron hip of the sink rested on legs tall almost as his own body, and by no stretch of arm, no leap, could he ever reach the distant tap. Where did the water come from that lurked so secretly in the curve of the brass? Where did it go, gurgling in the drain? What a strange world must be hidden behind the walls of a house! But he was thirsty.
"Mama!" he called, his voice rising above the hiss of sweeping in the frontroom. "Mama, I want a drink."
The unseen broom stopped to listen. "I'll be there in a moment," his mother answered. A chair squealed on its castors; a window chuckled down; his mother's approaching tread.
Standing in the doorway on the top step (two steps led up into the frontroom) his mother smilingly surveyed him. She looked as tall as a tower. The old grey dress she wore rose straight from strong bare ankle to waist, curved round the deep bosom and over the wide shoulders, and set her full throat in a frame of frayed lace. Her smooth, sloping face was flushed nowwith her work, but faintly so, diffused, the color of a hand beneath wax. She had mild, full lips, brown hair. A vague, fugitive darkness blurred the hollow above her cheekbone, giving to her face and to her large brown eyes, set in their white ovals, a reserved and almost mournful air.
"I want a drink, mama," he repeated.
"I know," she answered, coming down the stairs. "I heard you." And casting a quick, sidelong glance at him, she went over to the sink and turned the tap. The water spouted noisily down. She stood there a moment, stuffing obscurely, one finger parting the turbulent jet, waiting for the water to cool. Then filling a glass, she handed it down to him.
"When am I going to be big enough?" he asked resentfully as he took the glass in both hands.
"There will come a time," she answered, smiling. She rarely smiled broadly; instead the thin furrow along her upper lip would deepen. "Have little fear."
With eyes still fixed on his mother, he drank the water in breathless, uneven gulps, then returned the glass to her, surprised to see its contents scarcely diminished.
"Why can't I talk with my mouth in the water?"
"No one would hear you. Have you had your fill?"
He nodded, murmuring contentedly.
"And is that all?" she asked. Her voice held a faint challenge.
"Yes," he said hesitantly, meanwhile scanning her face for some clue.
"I thought so," she drew her head back in droll disappointment.
"It is summer," she pointed to the window, "the weather grows warm. Whom will you refresh with the icy lips the water lent you?"
"Oh!" he lifted his smiling face.
"You remember nothing," she reproached him, and with a throaty chuckle, lifted him in her arms.
Sinking his fingers in her hair, David kissed her brow. The faint familiar warmth and odor of her skin and hair.
"There!" she laughed, nuzzling his cheek, "but you've waited too long; the sweet chill has dulled. Lips for me," she reminded him, "must always be cool as the water that wet them." She put him down.
"Sometime I'm going to eat some ice," he said warningly, "then you'll Like it."
She laughed. And then soberly, "Aren't you ever going down into the street? The morning grows old."
"You'd better go. Just for a little while. I'm going to sweep here, you know."
"I want my calendar first," he pouted, invoking his privilege against the evil hour.
"Get it then. But you've got to go down afterwards."
He dragged a chair over beneath the calendar on the wall, clambered up, plucked off the outworn leaf, and fingered the remaining ones to see how far off the next red day was. Red days were Sundays, days his father was home. It always gave David a little qualm of dread to watch them draw near.
"Now you have your leaf," his mother reminded him. "Come." She stretched out her arms.
He held back. "Show me where my birthday is."
"Woe is me!" She exclaimed with an impatient chuckle. "I've shown it to you every day for weeks now."
"Show me again."
She rumpled the pad, lifted a thin plaque of leaves. "July-" she murmured, "July 12th ... There!" She found it. "July 12th, 1911. You'll be six then."
David regarded the strange figures gravely. "Lots of pages still," he informed her.
"And a black day too."
"On the calendar," she laughed, "only on the calendar. Now do come down!"
Grasping her arm, he jumped down from the chair. "I must hide it now." He explained.
"So you must. I see I'll never finish my work today."
Too absorbed in his own affairs to pay much heed to hers, he went over to the pantry beneath the cupboard, opened the door and drew out a shoe-box, his treasure chest.
"See how many I've got already?" he pointed proudly to the fat sheaf of rumpled leaves inside the box.
"Wonderful!" She glanced at the box in perfunctory admiration. "You peel off the year as one might a cabbage. Are you ready for your journey?"
"Yes." He put away the box without a trace of alacrity.
"Where is your sailor blouse?" she murmured looking about. "With the white strings in it? What have I-?" She found it. "There is still a little wind."
David held up his arms for her to slip the blouse over his head.
"Now, my own," she said, kissing his reemerging face. "Go down and play." She led him toward the door and opened it. "Not too far. And remember if I don't call you, wait until the whistle blows."
He went out into the hallway. Behind him, like an eyelid shutting, the soft closing of the door winked out the light. He assayed the stairs, lapsing below him into darkness, and grasping one by one each slender upright to the banister, went down. David never found himself alone on these stairs, but he wished there were no carpet covering them. How could you hear the sound of your own feet in the dark if a carpet muffled every step you took? And if you couldn't hear the sound of your own feet and couldn't see anything either, how could you be sure you were actually there and not dreaming? A few steps from the bottom landing, he paused and stared rigidly at the cellar door. It bulged with darkness. Would it hold? ... It held! He jumped from the last steps and raced through the narrow hallway to the light of the street. Flying through the doorway was like butting a wave. A dazzling breaker of sunlight burst over his head, swamped him in reeling blur of brilliance, and then receded ... A row of frame houses half in thin shade, a pitted gutter, a yawning ashcan, flotsam on the shore, his street.
Blinking and almost shaken, he waited on the low stoop a moment, until his whiffing vision steadied. Then for the first time, he noticed that seated on the curbstone near the house was a boy, whom an instant later, he recognized. It was Yussie who had just moved into David's house and who lived on the floor above. Yussie had a very red, fat face. His big sister walked with a limp and wore strange iron slats on one of her legs. What was he doing, David wondered, what did he have in his hands? Stepping down from the stoop, he drew near, and totally disregarded, stood beside him.
Yussie had stripped off the outer shell of an alarm-clock. Exposed, the brassy, geometric vitals ticked when prodded, whirred and jingled falteringly.
"It still c'n go," Yussie gravely enlightened him. David sat down. Fascinated, he stared at the shining cogs that moved without moving their hearts of light. "So wet makes id?" he asked. In the street David spoke English.
"Kentcha see? Id's coz id's a machine."
"It wakes op mine fodder in de mawning."
"It wakes op mine fodder too."
"It tells yuh w'en yuh sh'd eat an' w'en yuh have tub go tuh sleep. It shows yuh w'en, but I tooked it off."
"I god a calenduh opstai's." David informed him.
"Puh! Who ain' god a calenduh?"
"I save mine. I godda big book outa dem, wit numbuhs on id."
"Who can't do dat?"
"But mine fodder made it," David drove home the one unique point about it all.
"Wot's your fodder?"
"Mine fodder is a printer."
"Mine fodder woiks inna joolery shop. In Brooklyn. Didja ever live in Brooklyn?"
"No." David shook his head.
"We usetuh-right near my fodder's joolery shop on Rainey Avenyuh. W'ea does your fodder woik?"
David tried to think. "I don't know." He finally confessed, hoping that Yussie would not pursue the subject further.
He didn't. Instead "I don' like Brownsville," he said. "I like Brooklyn bedder."
David felt relieved.
"We usetuh find cigahs innuh gudduh," Yussie continued. "An we usetuh t'row 'era on de ladies, and we usetuh run. Who you like bedder, ladies or gents?"
"I like mine fodder bedder," said Yussie. "My mudder always holluhs on me." He pried a nail between two wheels. A bright yellow gear suddenly snapped off and fell to the gutter at his feet. He picked it up, blew the dust off, and rose. "Yuh want?"
"Yea," David reached for it.
Yussie was about to drop it into his outstretched palm, but on second thought, drew back. "No. Id's liddle like a penny. Maybe I c'n pud id inna sled machine 'n' gid gum. Hea, yuh c'n take dis one." He fished a larger gear out of his pocket, gave it to David. "Id's a quarter. Yuh wanna come?"
David hesitated. "I godduh waid hea till dub wissle blows."
"By de rectory. All togedder."
"So den I c'n go opstai's."
"Cuz dey blow on twelve a'clock an' den dey blow on five a'clock. Den I c'n go op."
Yussie eyed him curiously. "I'm gonna gid gum," he said, shrugging off his perplexity. "In duh slod machine." And he ambled off in the direction of the candy store on the corner.
Holding the little wheel in his hand, David wondered again why it was that every boy on the street knew where his father worked except himself. His father had so many jobs. No sooner did you learn where he was working than he was working somewhere else. And why was he always saying, "They look at me crookedly, with mockery in their eyes! How much can a man endure? May the fire of God consume them!" A terrifying picture rose in David's mind-the memory of how once at the supper table his mother had dared to say that perhaps the men weren't really looking at him crookedly, perhaps he was only imagining it. His father had snarled then. And with one sudden sweep of his arm had sent food and dishes crashing to the floor. And other pictures came in its train, pictures of the door being kicked open and his father coming in looking pale and savage and sitting down like old men sit down, one trembling hand behind him groping for the chair. He wouldn't speak. His jaws, and even his joints, seemed to have become fused together by a withering rage. David often dreamed of his father's footsteps booming on the stairs, of the glistening doorknob turning, and of himself clutching at knives he couldn't lift from the table.
Brooding, engrossed in his thoughts, engrossed in the rhythmic, accurate teeth of the yellow cog in his hand, the thin bright circles whirling restlessly without motion, David was unaware that a little group of girls had gathered in the gutter some distance away. But when they began to sing, he started and looked up. Their faces were sober, their hands locked in one another; circling slowly in a ring they chanted in a plaintive nasal chorus:
"Waltuh, Waltuh, Wiuhlflowuh, Growin' up so high; So we are all young ladies, An' we are ready to die."
Again and again, they repeated their burden. Their words obscure at first, emerged at last, gathered meaning. The song troubled David strangely. Walter Wildflower was a little boy. David knew him. He lived in Europe, far away, where David's mother said he was born. He had seen him standing on a hill, far away. Filled with a warm, nostalgic mournfulness, he shut his eyes. Fragments of forgotten rivers floated under the lids, dusty roads, fathomless curve of trees, a branch in a window under flawless light. A world somewhere, somewhere else.
"Waltuh, Waltuh, Wiuhlflowuh, Growin' up so high,"
His body relaxed, yielding to the rhythm of the song and to the golden June sunlight. He seemed to rise and fall on waves somewhere without him. Within him a voice spoke with no words but with the shift of slow flame....
"So we are all young ladies, An' we are ready to die."
From the limp, uncurling fingers, the cog rolled to the ground, rang like a coin, fell over on its side. The sudden sound moored him again, fixed him to the quiet, suburban street, the curbstone. The inarticulate flame that had pulsed within him, wavered and went out. He sighed, bent over and picked up the wheel.
When would the whistle blow he wondered. It took long to-day....
Chapter TwoAS FAR back as he could remember, this was the first time that he had ever gone anywhere alone with his father, and already he felt desolated, stirred with dismal forebodings, longing desperately for his mother. His father was so silent and so remote that he felt as though he were alone even at his side. What if his father should abandon him, leave him in some lonely street. The thought sent shudders of horror through his body. No! No! He couldn't do that!
At last they reached the trolley lines. The sight of people cheered him again, dispelling his fear for a while. They boarded a car, rode what seemed to him a long time and then got off in a crowded street under an elevated. Nervously gripping David's arm, his father guided him across the street. They stopped before the stretched iron wicket of a closed theatre. Colored billboards on either side of them, the odor of stale perfume behind. People hurrying, trains roaring. David gazed about him frightened. To the right of the theatre, in the window of an ice cream parlor, gaudy, colored popcorn danced and drifted, blown by a fan. He looked up apprehensively at his father. He was pale, grim. The fine veins in his nose stood out like a pink cobweb.
"Do you see that door?" He shook him into attention. "In the grey house. See? That man just came out of there."
"Now you go in there and go up the stairs and you'll see another door. Go right in. And to the first man you see inside, say this: I'm Albert Schearl's son. He wants you to give me the clothes in his locker and the money that's coming to him. Do you understand? When they've given it to you bring it down here. I'll be waiting for you. Now what will you say?" he demanded abruptly.
David began to repeat his instructions in Yiddish.
"Say it in English, you fool!"
He rendered them in English. And when he had satisfied his father that he knew them, he was sent in.
"And don't tell them I'm out here," he was warned as he left. "Remember you came alone!"
Full of misgivings, unnerved at the ordeal of facing strangers alone, strangers of whom his own father seemed apprehensive, he entered the hallway, climbed the stairs. One flight up, he pushed open the door and entered a small room, an office. From somewhere back of this office, machinery clanked and rattled. A bald-headed man smoking a cigar looked up as he came in.
"Well, my boy," he asked smiling, "what do you want?"
For a moment all of his instructions flew out of his head. "My-my fodder sent me hea." He faltered.
"Your father? Who's he?"
"I-I'm Albert Schearl's son," he blurted out. "He sent me I shuh ged his clo's f'om de locker an' his money you owing him."
"Oh, you're Albert Schearl's son," said the man, his expression changing. "And he wants his money, eh?" He nodded with the short vibrating motion of a bell. "You've got some father, my boy. You can tell him that for me. I didn't get a chance. He's crazy. Anybody who-What does he do at home?"
Excerpted from CALL IT SLEEP by HENRY ROTH Copyright © 1991 by Alfred Kazin. Excerpted by permission.
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Meet the Author
Henry Roth (1906-1995) was born in the Austro- Hungarian province of Galitzia. He probably landed on Ellis Island in 1909 and began his life in New York on the Lower East Side, in the slums where Call It Sleep is set. He is the author as well of Shifting Landscapes, a collection of essays, and the Mercy of a Rude Stream tetralogy.
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Henry Roth's Call It Sleep is a coming-of-age novel about a marginalized Jewish immigrant boy and his family in early 20th century New York City. In order to demonstrate the difficulties of assimilating into a new culture and language, Roth writes a very lyrical and poetic English prose when the characters speak Yiddish, but employs a very rough and phonetic writing style when the characters speak English. Sometimes the phonetic style can be tough to follow, which, quite frankly, is the point, and the constant weaving back and forth between David's reality and dream-like stream of consciousness can be tough to follow, as well. However, Roth utilizes a lot of symbolism and many other literary techniques, so it's a great novel for literary study, as well as just a good story to sit back and enjoy. It's a wonderful addition to an era of proletarian literature. Marxist critics and psychoanalysts will have a field day with many of the underlying themes.
I love this story. I recommend it to anyone who enjoys a good story on Jewish culture and history.
When Henry Roth¿s novel Call it Sleep was published in 1934 it was hailed by some critics and readers as a minor masterpiece. Indeed, this is one of the best novels about our immigrant experience. Mr. Roth¿s compassion for his characters, his intense narrative force, and his wonderful ear for dialectic speech and poetry is evident throughout Call it Sleep. A simple story of an immigrant Jewish family during the years 1911 to about 1913, it centers on a boy named David Schearl, who lives on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, his feuding parents, his street friends and some relatives. At times its scenes of domestic strife may get wearisome to the reader, but then Roth introduces the colorful Aunt Bertha, who has a different temperament than David¿s gentle mother, and the fireworks begin. She is a loud, course, stout and an outspoken woman who never hesitates to stand up to her sister¿s bitter, argumentative husband. Their hard life reaches a climax during an ugly family fight wherein David, fearing his father¿s rage, runs away. He soon finds himself hiding in a train yard, but comes close to being electrocuted. He survives his harrowing experience and is brought home to his worried parents. The beauty of Call it Sleep lies in Mr. Roth¿s power of description and his deep understanding of people. The images he conjures of his old Lower East Side neighborhood, its struggling people, busy streets and loud sounds, its smells and relentless drama all come alive. Some readers may find this somewhat lengthy novel confusing at times, with several passages difficult to understand, and its dialog undecipherable when Roth weaves speech, narration and poetry into a confusing jumble, but Call it Sleep is terrific reading. An excellent introduction by Alfred Kazin and an afterward by Hanna Wirth-Nesher, a language scholar, proclaim it a masterpiece of language and literature. Most readers will happily agree.
It was just another audio book to check out of the library and listen to while doing boring exercises. The oddysey of a Jewish immigrant boy in early 20th century New York City became an addiction that I did not want to continue but could not stop listening to. Towards the end, I wondered if author Roth had read Joseph Conrad's 'Heart of Darkness' (he even refers to a heart of darkness). The book became an addiction, one that I am glad to have experienced, but would not want to try again.
This is a deeply poetic, tormented work the story of a young child's coming of age in a broken Jewish immigrant family. The inventiveness of language a powerful Yiddish English is one of the great attractions of the book. Roth learned from Joyce the stream- of - consciousness and uses it masterfully . What is hard to take, and this is the essence of the story is the cruelty of the family relationships .But somehow through it all a painful beauty emerges. As is well known Roth wrote this book when young and did not write another for sixty years. But this is the kind of book, one book which justifies a lifetime of writing, the kind of work most writers can only dream to achieve.