Heir to the Glimmering World: A Novel

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Cynthia Ozick is an American master at the height of her powers in Heir to the Glimmering World, a grand romantic novel of desire, fame, fanaticism, and unimaginable reversals of fortune. Ozick takes us to the outskirts of the Bronx in the 1930s, as New York fills with Europe’s ousted dreamers, turned overnight into refugees.
Rose Meadows unknowingly enters this world when she answers an ambiguous want ad for an "assistant" to a Herr Mitwisser, the patriarch of a large, chaotic ...

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Heir to the Glimmering World

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Overview

Cynthia Ozick is an American master at the height of her powers in Heir to the Glimmering World, a grand romantic novel of desire, fame, fanaticism, and unimaginable reversals of fortune. Ozick takes us to the outskirts of the Bronx in the 1930s, as New York fills with Europe’s ousted dreamers, turned overnight into refugees.
Rose Meadows unknowingly enters this world when she answers an ambiguous want ad for an "assistant" to a Herr Mitwisser, the patriarch of a large, chaotic household. Rosie, orphaned at eighteen, has been living with her distant relative Bertram, who sparks her first erotic desires. But just as he begins to return her affection, his lover, a radical socialist named Ninel (Lenin spelled backward), turns her out.
And so Rosie takes refuge from love among refugees of world upheaval. Cast out from Berlin’s elite, the Mitwissers live at the whim of a mysterious benefactor, James A'Bair. Professor Mitwisser is a terrifying figure, obsessed with his arcane research. His distraught wife, Elsa, once a prominent physicist, is becoming unhinged. Their willful sixteen-year-old daughter runs the household: the exquisite, enigmatic Anneliese. Rosie's place here is uncertain, and she finds her fate hanging on the arrival of James. Inspired by the real Christopher Robin, James is the Bear Boy, the son of a famous children's author who recreated James as the fanciful subject of his books. Also a kind of refugee, James runs from his own fame, a boy adored by the world but grown into a bitter man. It is Anneliese’s fierce longing that draws James back to this troubled house, and it is Rosie who must help them all resist James’s reckless orbit.
Ozick lovingly evokes these perpetual outsiders thrown together by surprising chance. The hard times they inherit still hold glimmers of past hopes and future dreams. Heir to the Glimmering World is a generous delight.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
Perhaps the fullest treatment yet of the European intellectual's flight from Hitler's Germany...one of Ozick's most interesting [works].
Kirkus Reviews, Starred

"Audacious. . .[A] brilliant apostrophe to shattered worlds."—John Leonard The New York Times Book Review

"In language aglow with fierce wit and passionate intensity. . .[Ozick's book] has all the hallmarks of a permanent work of literature."—Merle Rubin The Wall Street Journal

"A novel as scintillating as this one makes the world infinitely new..."—James Marcus Newsday

"A wise, quietly magical book."—James Sallis.
The Washington Post

James Sallis
Valéry said that a work of art should always teach us that we have not seen what we see. That is a part of what young Rose Meadows comes to know as she emerges from the Mitwissers' life into her own. Living as we all do among unwise folk, nonetheless she also has lived for a time, and lived vividly, in a wise, quietly magical book. As have we readers.
— The Washington Post
John Leonard
In her typically audacious new novel, Heir to the Glimmering World, Cynthia Ozick braids at least three and probably four ghostly glimmers and ''phantom eels'' of thought into a single luminous lariat -- or maybe a hangman's noose. Anything goes when she's making things up. While the Second Commandment on graven images presides over her fiercely prescriptive essays (four idol-smashing volumes of them since ''Art & Ardor'' in 1983), Ozick's fiction is shamanistic, almost wanton (five completely different novels, three dazzling collections of stories plus a Shawl since 1966). However much she always insists on ''a certain corona of moral purpose'' for fiction that wants to be better than journalism, she can't help dancing in the air like Feingold in Levitation, like Chagall with the cows, or Flannery O'Connor.
— The New York Times
The New Yorker
In 1933, the Mitwissers, a family of German Jews, arrive in America after a narrow and eccentric escape from Berlin. (Forced to hide for a week before they could flee, they circled the city in a rented limousine, wearing their finest clothes and assuming a regal air at hotels where they slipped in to use the bathroom.) After landing somewhat haphazardly in New York, they place an ad for help in a local paper. The only applicant for the job is an eighteen-year-old orphan, Rose Meadows, who narrates the story, and who observes the Mitwissers with the dry neutrality of an invisible servant. Her duties are vaguely defined—part nanny, part secretary—and her salary comes intermittently, the family’s sole source of income being the whimsy of a troubled benefactor. Ozick portrays this ramshackle household to dazzling effect, as it adjusts to its many states of exile—from a sense of security, from cherished ideas, and from the consolations of each other.
Publishers Weekly
Ozick's previous novel, The Puttermesser Papers, revolved around one quirky hero; this time around, Ozick incubates several. Characters, not plot, drive this Depression-era tale, and Ozick eviscerates each one through her narrator, Rose Meadows, a resolute 18-year-old orphan. Virtually abandoned, Rose wanders into a job with the Mitwisser family, German refugees in New York City. Filling gaping holes in their household, she becomes a research assistant to the father, a professor stubbornly engaged in German and Hebrew arcana; a nurse to his oft-deranged, sequestered wife; and nanny to their five children. As she penetrates the fog surrounding their history, Rose limns their roiling inner lives with exasperated perception. Mrs. Mitwisser especially chafes against the family's precarious, degrading status as "parasites," erratically supported by the unbalanced millionaire son and heir of an author of popular children's books who is fascinated by Mr. Mitwisser's research. With her trademark lyrical prose, gentle humor and vivid imagery, Ozick paints a textured portrait of outsiders rendered powerless, retreating into tightly coiled existences of scholarly rapture, guarded brazenness and even calculated lunacy all as a means of refuting the bleakness of a harsh, chaotic world. Erudite exposition is packed into the book, so that character study and discourse occasionally grind the plot to a halt. Edifying and evocative, if often daunting, this is a concentrated slice of eccentric life. Agent, Melanie Jackson. (Sept. 1) Forecast: This is Ozick's first book for Houghton Mifflin, and the publisher is backing it with a seven-city author tour. Despite its rigors, it may be an easier sell than The Puttermesser Papers; the family drama makes it more accessible. Foreign rights sold in Brazil, France, Italy, Norway and Spain. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Though known mainly for short stories distinguished by graceful language, Ozick here demonstrates her facility as a novelist, successfully mixing themes of faith, identity, and art into a crazy salad of a plot set in New York City during the Great Depression. When shy 18-year-old orphan Rose Meadows becomes secretary-factotum to Professor Rudolf Mitwisser, she finds herself in unstable surroundings. Obsessed with his researches into a radical Jewish sect, Mitwisser can't cope with the problems that he and his large, unruly family are facing as recent arrivals to the United States after fleeing the Nazis. The seven dysfunctional refugees, accustomed to luxury in Berlin, are now dependent on their sponsor, young millionaire James A'bair. Though generous, A'bair is neurotic and unreliable, having been emotionally unsettled by his childhood fame as the "Bear Boy" in his father's series of best-selling children's books. When James learns that Rose has inherited a first edition of the original story, complications abound, and Rose must face down family chaos to become her own woman. This witty book will appeal to admirers of the fanciful tales in Ozick's Puttermesser Papers and to readers seeking well-written novels with intellectual depth. Recommended for most collections. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 5/15/04.]-Starr E. Smith, Fairfax Cty. P.L., VA Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780618470495
  • Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
  • Publication date: 9/1/2004
  • Pages: 320
  • Product dimensions: 6.20 (w) x 9.10 (h) x 1.10 (d)

Meet the Author

Cynthia Ozick

CYNTHIA OZICK is the author of numerous acclaimed works of fiction and nonfiction. She is a recipient of the National Book Critics Circle Award and was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize and the Man Booker International Prize. Her stories have won four O. Henry first prizes.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

In 1935, when I was just eighteen, I entered the household of Rudolf Mitwisser, the scholar of Karaism. “The scholar of Karaism”—at that time I had no idea what that meant, or why it should be “the” instead of “a,” or who Rudolf Mitwisser was. I understood only that he was the father of what seemed to be numerous children, and that he had come from Germany two years before. I knew these things from an advertisement in the Albany Star:

Professor, arrived 1933 Berlin, children 3–14, requires assistant, relocate NYC. Respond Mitwisser, 22 Westerley.

It read like a telegram; Professor Mitwisser, I would soon learn, was parsimonious. The ad did not mention Elsa, his wife. Possibly he had forgotten about her.

In my letter of reply I said that I would be willing to go to New York, though it was not clear from the notice in the Star what sort of assistance was needed. Since the ad had included the age of a very young child, was it a nanny that was desired?
I said I would be pleased to take on the job of nanny.

It was Elsa, not Mitwisser, who initiated the interview—though, as it turned out, she was not in charge of it. In that family she was in charge of little enough. I rode the bus to a corner populated by a cluster of small shabby stores—grocery, shoemaker’s, dry cleaner’s, and under a tattered awning a dim coffee shop vomiting out odors of some foul stuff frying.

The windows of all these establishments were impenetrably dirty. Across the street a deserted gas station had long ago gone out of business: several large dogs scrabbled over the oil-blackened pavement and lifted their hind legs against the rusting pumps.

The address in the ad drew me along narrow old sidewalks fronting narrow old houses in what I had come to think of as the Albany style: part Hudson Gothic, part Dutch settler. But mainly old. There were bowshaped stained-glass insets over all the doors.
The lamps in the rooms behind them, glowing violet and amber through the lead-bordered segments of colored panes, shut me out. I thought of underground creatures kept from the light. It was November, getting on to an early dusk.

Frau Mitwisser led me into a tiny parlor so dark that it took some time before her face, small and timid as a vole’s, glimmered into focus.

“Forgive me,” she began, “Rudi wishes not the waste of electricity. We have not so much money. We cannot pay much. Food and a bed and not so many dollars.” She stopped; her eyelids looked swollen. “The tutor for my sons, it was you see . . .
charity. Also the beds, the linens—”

She was all apology: the slope of her shoulders, her fidgety hands twittering around her mouth, or reaching into the air for a phantom rope to haul her out of sight.
Helplessly but somehow also slyly, she was reversing our mutual obligation—she appealing for my sympathy, I with the power to withhold it. It was hard to take in those pursed umlauts sprinkled through her vowels, and the throaty burr of her voice was lanced by pricks so sharp that I pulled back a little. She saw this and instantly begged my pardon.

“Forgive me,” she said again. “It gives much difficulty with my accent.
At my age to change the language is not so simple. You will see with my husband the very great difference. In his youth for four years he studies at Cambridge University in England, he becomes like an Englishman.
You will see. But I . . . I do not have the—wie nennt man das?—the idiom.”

Her last word was shattered by an enormous thud above our heads.
I looked up: was the ceiling about to fall in on us? A second thud. A third.

“The big ones,” Frau Mitwisser said.
“They make a game, to jump from the top of the . . .
Kleiderschrank, how you call this? I tell them every day no, but anyhow they jump.”

This gave me a chance to restore us to business. “And the littler ones?” I asked. “Do you need help with them?”

In the dimness I glimpsed her bewilderment; it was as if she was begging for eclipse.

“No, no, we go to New York so Rudi is close to the big library. Here is for him so little. The committee, it is so very kind that they give us this house, and also they make possible the work at the College, but now it is enough, Rudi must go to New York.”

A gargantuan crash overhead: a drizzle of plaster dust landed on my sleeve.

“Forgive me,” Frau Mitwisser said.
“Better I go upstairs now, nicht wahr?”

She hurried out and left me alone in the dark. I buttoned up my coat; the interview, it seemed, was over. I had understood almost nothing.
If they didn’t want a nanny here, what did they want? And if they had had a tutor, what had become of the tutor? Had they paid too little to keep him? On an angry impulse I switched on a lamp; the pale bulb cast a stingy yellow stain on a threadbare rug. From the condition of the sofa and an armchair, muuch abuseeeed, I gathered that “the big ones” were accustomed to assaulting the furniture downstairs as well as upstairs—or else what I was seeing was thrift-shop impoverishment. A woolen shawl covered a battered little side-table, and propped on it, in a flower- embossed heavy silver frame that contradicted all its surroundings, was a photograph—hand-tinted, gravely posed, redolent of some incomprehensible foreignness—of a dark-haired young woman in a high collar seated next to a very large plant. The plant’s leaves were spear-shaped, serrated, and painted what must once have been a natural enough green, faded to the color of mud. The plant grew out of a great stone urn, on which the face and wings of a cherub were carved in relief.

I turned off the lamp and headed for the front door with its stained-glass inset, and was almost at the sidewalk (by now it was fully night) when I heard someone call, “Fräulein!
You there! Come back!”

The dark figure of a giant stood in the unlit doorway. Those alien syllables—“Fräulein,” yelled into the street like that—put me off. Already I disliked the foreignness of this house: Elsa Mitwisser’s difficult and resentful English, the elitist solemnity of the silver frame and its photo, the makeshift hand-me-down sitting room. These were refugees; everything about them was bound to be makeshift, provisional, resentful.
I would have gone home then and there, if there had been a home to go to, but it was clear that my cousin Bertram was no longer happy to have me. I was a sort of refugee myself.

(Some weeks later, when I dared to say this to Anneliese—“I sometimes feel like a refugee myself”—she shot me a look of purest contempt.) Like a dog that has been whistled for, I followed him back into the house.

“Now we have light,” he said, in a voice so authoritatively godlike that it might just as well have boomed “Let there be light” at the beginning of the world. He fingered the lamp. Once again the faint yellow stain appeared on the rug and seeped through the room. “To dispel the blackness, yes? Our circumstances have also been black. They are not so easeful. You have already seen my nervous Elsa. So that is why she leaves it to me to finish the talk.”

He was as far from resembling an Englishman as I could imagine.
In spite of the readier flow of language (a hundred times readier than his wife’s), he was German—densely, irrevocably German. My letter was in his hands: very large hands, with big flattened thumbs and coarse nails, strangely humped and striated—more a machinist’s hands than a scholar’s. In the niggardly light (twenty-five watts, I speculated) he seemed less gargantuan than the immense form in the doorway that had called me back from the street. But I was conscious of a force, of a man accustomed to dictating his conditions.

“My first requirement,” Mitwisser said, “is your freedom to leave this place.”

“I can do that,” I said. “I’d like to.”

“It is what I would like that is at issue. And what I would like is a certain engagement with—I will not say ideas. But you must be able to understand what I ask of you.”

“I’ve done most of a year of college.”

“Less than Gymnasium. What is this nonsense you write here about a nanny? How is this responsive?”

“Well, your ad mentioned children, so I thought—”

“You thought mistakenly. You should know that my work has to do precisely with opposition to the arrogance of received interpretation.
Received interpretation is often enough simply error. Why should I not speak everywhere of my children? There is no context or relation in which they do not have a part. That is why your obligations will on occasion include them—but your primary duty is to me. And you will try not to disturb my poor wife.”

It seemed, then, that I was hired—though I still did not know for what.

And it was not until a long time afterward that Anneliese confided that there had been (even in that period of crisis unemployment) no other applicants.

Copyright © 2004 by Cynthia Ozick.
Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company.

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Average Rating 2.5
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Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 5, 2005

    Ozicks Strikes Deep

    Novels serve the reader in more ways than one. They may entertain and divert. They may amuse or excite. This recent work by Cynthia Ozick delivers in all these ways, but, more important, it is also informative and challenging. Her characters do not appear in other books and they are not stereotypes. Instead, they represent in their own ways, a search, often apparently misdirected for a mission and a meaning. They struggle for self mastery against overwhelming forces. Their adventures and conflicts commend our attention and our sympathy. Not every reader will have the patience and the curiosity ro handle this book, but those who do so will be rewarded for their effort. Ozick is a keen critic of our culture and a truly beautiful mind.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 15, 2006

    Very depressing book and characters

    A thoroughly depressing book. The characters were not believable. The 'home life' was not a pleasant atmosphere in which to raise 4 children.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 9, 2014

    more from this reviewer

    Unusually read

    Was different from what I usually read but kept my attention.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 12, 2009

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 4, 2009

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