I, Wabenzi

Overview

Some time ago Rafi Zabor sat down to write a brief narrative of the year 1986. That was the year he set out across two continents in a used Mercedes--"Wabenzi" is the Swahili word for a member of the Mercedes-owning class--to buy a grave stone for his friend Mahmoud Rauf and to outrun the shadow of his own parents' recent death.

But like a boat against the current, the writer was drawn back into the past: his father's escape from the Nazis, Rafi's own Brooklyn boyhood surrounded...

See more details below
Available through our Marketplace sellers.
Other sellers (Hardcover)
  • All (29) from $1.99   
  • New (7) from $2.61   
  • Used (22) from $1.99   
Close
Sort by
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Note: Marketplace items are not eligible for any BN.com coupons and promotions
$2.61
Seller since 2013

Feedback rating:

(86)

Condition:

New — never opened or used in original packaging.

Like New — packaging may have been opened. A "Like New" item is suitable to give as a gift.

Very Good — may have minor signs of wear on packaging but item works perfectly and has no damage.

Good — item is in good condition but packaging may have signs of shelf wear/aging or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Acceptable — item is in working order but may show signs of wear such as scratches or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Used — An item that has been opened and may show signs of wear. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Refurbished — A used item that has been renewed or updated and verified to be in proper working condition. Not necessarily completed by the original manufacturer.

New
Hardcover New 0865475830.

Ships from: San Mateo, CA

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • International
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$3.50
Seller since 2007

Feedback rating:

(44)

Condition: New
2005 Trade paperback New. No dust jacket as issued. Brand new and unread condition Advance Reader's Copy in softcover. Will be well protected for safe shipping. 472 p. Aporia, ... 1. Audience: General/trade. Read more Show Less

Ships from: San Jose, CA

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • International
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$4.00
Seller since 2005

Feedback rating:

(805)

Condition: New
2005 Hardcover New Tracking provided on most orders.

Ships from: Grand Rapids, MI

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • International
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$6.10
Seller since 2010

Feedback rating:

(61)

Condition: New
Gordonsville, Virginia, U.S.A. 2005 Hard Cover NEW in NEW jacket 2005 HARDCOVER EDITION. NEW, GIFT QUALITY.

Ships from: McMinnville, OR

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • International
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$15.00
Seller since 2007

Feedback rating:

(103)

Condition: New
2005 Hardcover First Edition; First Printing New in New dust jacket 0865475830. 1.5 x 9.1 x 6.2 Inches; 472 pages.

Ships from: Philadelphia, PA

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • International
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$32.24
Seller since 2014

Feedback rating:

(258)

Condition: New
Brand New Item.

Ships from: Chatham, NJ

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • International
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$45.00
Seller since 2014

Feedback rating:

(139)

Condition: New
Brand new.

Ships from: acton, MA

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Close
Sort by
I, Wabenzi: A Souvenir

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK Study
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook - First Edition)
$7.99
BN.com price
Sending request ...

Overview

Some time ago Rafi Zabor sat down to write a brief narrative of the year 1986. That was the year he set out across two continents in a used Mercedes--"Wabenzi" is the Swahili word for a member of the Mercedes-owning class--to buy a grave stone for his friend Mahmoud Rauf and to outrun the shadow of his own parents' recent death.

But like a boat against the current, the writer was drawn back into the past: his father's escape from the Nazis, Rafi's own Brooklyn boyhood surrounded by the fractious, Zabors and Zaborovskys, and the anguished--sometimes farcical--spiritual journey that led Zabor from Brooklyn to Turkey by way of Coltrane, the thirteenth-century mystic Muhyiddin Ibn ‘Arabi, the McGovern campaign, Gurdjieff, a shoe salesman named Gogol, and the cataclysmic months Zabor spent studying (and whirling) amid a band of Sufis in rural England. The result--the first of a projected four volumes--is one of the most original, capacious, and vivid narratives of the last few decades, a real-life Bildungsroman dealing with an expanded range of human experience, from matters of life and death to a piece of what lies beyond them.

Straight from the unchartered territory between Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and Tristram Shandy, I, Wabenzi lifts a corner of the known world as if it were the edge of a curtain, and begins to show a reality new to our literature gleaming on the other side.

Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

Liesl Schillinger
In I, Wabenzi, the first installment in a projected four-volume memoir, Rafi Zabor proves himself a master of this motif, presenting a freak show of decayed male specimens: from a mystic named Bulent ("a pear-shaped hillock of flesh, his neck long since vanished in a bellying gullet of underflap") to a drink-ravaged hipster named Tash (with "narrow shoulders, ribs showing under the skin of the back, the sagbelly sack shown in quarter-profile") to his Uncle Avram (whose "peasant face was usually pale and looked somehow dusted lightly with fine flour, like a bialy"). But beneath these caricatures lies a haunting tenderness, a spontaneous affection for what seems outwardly unlovable.
— The New York Times
KleinzahlerAugust
The most remarkable quality in Rafi Zabor's idiosyncratic memoir I, Wabenzi is his voice. It's propulsive, expansive and flexible enough to incorporate broad statements and telling details, often in the same sentence. The first-person voices of Saul Bellow's Augie March and Jack Kerouac's Sal Paradise come to mind. Zabor commands the swaggering, wisecracking street smarts of the former and the "spontaneous bop prosody" of the latter. Throw in a dash of Laurence Sterne and Lord Buckley, the 1950s hipster, and you're just about in the neighborhood.
— The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly
One third On the Road, one third Remembrance of Things Past, one third Sufi mysticism, this dense, heady memoir, the first in a projected four-volume set, tracks the years Zabor spent getting involved with a spiritual commune in the '70s and caring for his dying parents in the 1980s. The narrative is rich, allusive and only loosely chronological; it often skips among the events of several decades within a single chapter. But for fans of Zabor's PEN/Faulkner Award-winning novel, The Bear Comes Home, such intricacies will be part of the book's attraction. A jazz drummer and music critic, Zabor has a great feel for the rhythms and melodies of language, but it is his skill at portraiture that will really lure readers. His descriptions of his father, a Polish Jew who immigrated to Brooklyn in 1938 and stayed in an unhappy marriage in order to be close to his son, are particularly evocative. And his account of his mother's descent into angry senility would be despairing if it weren't so often leavened with humor. The book's few dull moments occur when the author appears alone, with no person upon whom to play his riffs and observations. Religion, or rather the self-conscious struggle to connect earthly experience with the divine, also colors a large part of the book, particularly toward the end. But if Zabor is a mystic, given to visions and dreams, his memoir is nevertheless grounded in the joys, sorrows and many little vanities of ordinary life. Agent, Kathleen Anderson. (Oct.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Zabor has seen lots of buzz building about his quirky little memoir, which manages to stuff in his father's escape from the Nazis, his travels to Turkey, his passion for John Coltrane and 13th-century mystic Muhyiddin Ibn 'Arabi, and the year he spent whirling with Sufis. Ostensibly, though, it's the story of how he set out in a battered Mercedes-Wabenzi is Swahili for the Mercedes-owning class-to buy his friend a tombstone. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A rambling, disjointed, sometimes amusing memoir about a car trip to Turkey and Israel that will apparently not conclude (or even truly commence) until the second volume of this planned four-volume work appears. Zabor's bizarre, well-received 1997 novel, The Bear Comes Home, paves the way for this dilatory tale. The idea for this book's title came to Zabor after someone told him that "Africans" call people who drive Mercedeses "Wabenzi," and since he plans to buy one, he concludes that he's a member of that august clan. Early on, he tells of the disturbing deaths of his parents, narratives that he interrupts with flashbacks to his youth and with truly magical stories about his powerful Polish uncle, whose prodigious strength dazzles the author (the elderly man once defeated, with ease, a young and ripped arm-wrestling champ). Zabor makes some shocking discoveries, most notably that his mother thought she had aborted him. He also explores some of his failures, including the time, as a young man, that he arranged for a girlfriend's abortion; the fetus was five months old. The author-slowly, slowly-leaves New York and heads to England, where he catches up with friends he's known since the 1970s. He interweaves these recent English escapades with memories from 30 years earlier, including the long, dull closing portion (well over 100 pages) that relates his experiences at a spiritual retreat. These pages sometimes read like an unintentional self-parody. Zabor's language vacillates between the effusive (some sentences exceed 200 words in length) and the minimalist, the sublime and the banal. A frenetic example of pinball prose that will frustrate many.
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780865475830
  • Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
  • Publication date: 10/1/2005
  • Series: Aporia Ser.
  • Pages: 482
  • Product dimensions: 1.19 (w) x 9.00 (h) x 6.00 (d)

Meet the Author

Rafi Zabor was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. He has worked and recorded as a jazz drummer and written about music for Musician, Playboy, and the Village Voice, and about dervishes in Istanbul for Harper's. His novel, The Bear Comes Home, won the PEN/Faulkner Award in 1998 and was voted one of the Los Angeles Times's Best Books of the Year. He still lives in Brooklyn, where he is finishing the second volume of I, Wabenzi.
Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

I, Wabenzi

A Souvenir
By RAFI ZABOR

FARRAR, STRAUS AND GIROUX

Copyright © 2005 Rafi Zabor
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-86547-583-0


Chapter One

I can't remember who first told me about the Wabenzi. For a long time I thought it might have been Yale Evelev, over the phone from the New Music Distribution Service, where he worked press relations for a few years before producing a series of world music albums for Nonesuch. Yale's family came to the States from Russia some decades back. To take on a more American coloration, Yale's father changed the family name from Evelov to Evelev and named his firstborn son after a great American university. (It takes a while to develop an ear in any language. My father for one never made his way completely into English.) In any case it wasn't Yale: when I asked him recently, he said he'd never heard of the Wabenzi. Maybe it was Kip Hanrahan-he'd had the New Music gig just before Yale. But was he the source of the Wabenzi? I'll have to ask him sometime. Let's for the sake of argument say it was Kip.

I forget how the subject came up, but there I was on the phone with ol' Kip, probably trying, in my capacity as jazz critic to the nation, to finagle a few dozen free records out of him, and I suppose he must have mentioned the Wabenzi; or maybe I went into the story of how, in my battered parental grey Chevy Malibu, I had only that week contested a Lower East Side parking place with some space-usurping yuppie kids from Connecticut in a new-looking royal blue two-seater 380SL, and how I won the point-each of our cars partway into the space, mine backed halfway in, theirs nosing in from behind to ace me out of the spot-by revving my engine and shouting at them in a voice so full of a barbarian and pure Brooklyn savagery that it shocked even me, "HOW'D YA LIKE A BIG DENT IN YOUR NICE NEW FUCKING MERCEDES!" Heavens, where had I found such an unexpected reserve of class consciousness in the generally nondiscriminatory precincts of myself? or was it only because I was late for a meet with a notoriously impatient friend? Those kids backed out of that space in such a hurry I wondered how I must have looked to them, some ragged-ass embodiment of urban yawp and slumland fury thrust out a car window all beard and teeth and garbage cans around me as if I had built and ruined the neighborhood by myself (when in fact for all my boho credentials I'd never once lived in it). Little twerps-there were five or six of them in there, a regulation two in front and at least three more crammed into the semifictional backseat fit only for a suitcase or two-they were probably in the nabe to swallow goldfish, scope the beggars and score some coke: I probly saved them some trouble they were such marks. Anyhow, I parked and went off to see Hakki Bey.

"In Africa, they have a word for them," Kip, or whoever, told me.

I recradled the phone on my shoulder. "They have a name for who exactly?"

"For the people who drive Mercedes. The way they form tribal names ... well, take the Watusi for example. The i on the end signifies the plural, wa means People or the People of, and tus the place they're from or the characteristic they'd like to be known by. Watusi therefore means the People of Tus. Africans call the people who drive Mercedes the Wabenzi."

The Wabenzi. I felt illuminated by the concision, the aptness, the implied perspective on character and culture, the kind of fools we make of ourselves, given world enough and time. I hoped to be capable of equivalent wit some day. I was certain that I would never, ever be a member of that particular tribe.

For one thing, I have never, at least not since junior high, when the exactly right cut of tight black wee-jeans seemed crucial to all I possessed of personhood, been that keen on the symbols of worldly stares. I am one of the least worldly individuals you will meet this side of the monastery or Notville, and in general, I have been so out of touch with the iconography of loot that when Hakki Bey told me some years back how he and Shareen used to pull up to the one-buck movies at St. Mark's Place in this black Mercedes-I think this was when he was hooked up with those spoonbenders from outer space up in Ossining and they used to let him borrow the car-it was such a goof that heads would turn-"Hey man, imagine me and this skinny little black girl carrying our baby getting out of this big Mercedes to catch a couple of East Village movies for a dollah!"-well, I didn't even get the joke, or pick up on the polarities that made it tick. I thought Mercs were these sober-looking European cars, essentially modest, some kind of better-executed Volvos. Although I remember too, some years after Hakki's remark, tooling south down the Thruway between Woodstock and the City in an old '67 sky-blue Volvo 122S-in my early thirties, my first car-whose exhaust, toward the end of that vehicle's natural life, poured grey-blue through the firewall and the dashboard, then over me and out the windows. In winter I'd wear my Turkish white sheep-skin coat and hat and crank the windows wide open so as not to croak of asphyxia before my time, tearing down the highway something like a literal house on fire, two plumes of blue jetstreaming out behind me carrying the souls of dead brain cells and fabulous with poison. I had some king-hell headaches halfway down and provoked commentary from the tollbooth attendants at Harriman. "You bet," and "Yes I will," I told them, "just as soon as I can." I remember thinking, amid my monoxides of delirium while peering through the streaming blue and grey at larger, more majestic chassis steaming south-they gave me plenty, of leeway in the process, mind you-that Mercedes in some unnoticed interim had changed, the older, more modest ones having been replaced by elongated distortions of themselves whose most wretched excess was their stacked taillights and the strange, raised and slanted moldings along the interior undersides of their windows: functionless leatherette swoops which moreover would make it difficult to rest one's arm upon the sill in summer. Little did I then know that these "new" Mercs I so disliked were merely the S series then current, the larger items Daimler-Benz had always put out, the lux models, Hitler-size, always a tad pompous but much to be desired, top of the line.

Anyhow, years passed and I learned a number of things.

IT WAS AFTER my parents' deaths, and I was worn out.

I had gone back up to Woodstock in the hopes of starting my life up again after two or three years of unrelenting misery, and my friend Daniel-note the accent on the second syllable; I'm going to leave it out of the typography from here on because it looks like a false moustache-Furman was living in my Brooklyn apartment, where the furniture would not creak beneath the weight of memory for him, or the air clot with images of my mother raving while my father struggled for breath, and death looming but taking its time, making sure that every hope of mercy was crushed in its turn before mortally itself broke the door in and collected what was left. Where I had parked myself upstate, the winter's cold seeped through the dark log walls no matter where I sat in the room and the overhead light in its outsize Japanese paper globe swung so wildly in the periodic blow from the forced-air heater that one seemed also to be at sea, on the wrong day, pitching on some bitter North Atlantic of the soul. I practiced drums, visited friends, gazed wistfully at green mountains, paid hapless, too-mournful court to a local saucer-eyed Irish beauty, tried fitfully and without success to write fiction, watched interminable television, clicking discontentedly on the zapper from zilch to shining zilch in the hope of spending a minute or two without pain, and when I woke up in the sleeping balcony and looked out the small casement window beside the bed at the bare branches nodding outside in the grey morning tapping on the walls in an indecipherable but all too obviously minatory code, blindman to blindman and dead to the dead, I found it impossible to imagine how in a month or so they'd be green again, covered in the lushness of leaves and lifted by warmer breezes: the world was a cold barren empty place to which life no longer had the strength to return.

IN EARLY SPRING, my friend Nick Prestigiacomo called to ask a favor.

The spiritual healer he was flavoring that year needed a place to work out of on his forthcoming trip to New York. Could I make my parents' place available?

I asked Daniel, and it seemed I could. He wouldn't mind spending five days in another friend's apartment.

So I came down to town, the world in leaf again, straightened the joint up a bit and prepared to receive visitors. Ken Lawton was a large-size genial limping Englishman about sixty with snuff all over the front of his immemorial grey tweed jacket-he kept a stash loose in the right front pocket and carelessly helped himself from it every couple of minutes. His wife, Alice, seemed, despite an elaborate, nearly court-Chinese arrangement of jet black hair piled atop her head, uneccentrically middle-class, the very soul of English teatime. I put them up in what had been my parents' bedroom and I slept, as I had during my parents' calamitous decline, on a thin, stowable foam mattress on the living room floor. Nick and a number of people to whom he had advertised Ken's powers started coming from the City to be healed the next morning, praising the pastoral calm of fair Brooklinium-the people say hello to you on the street! there are so many trees! it's so quiet and friendly and you pay what for rent?

"Brooklyn is the Borough of Homes and Churches," I informed them.

Alice had gone off to the City or for a walk in nearby Prospect Park, and I found myself in the living room, trying to read or write but actually answering the doorbell, greeting the pilgrims and making coffee to keep them busy while they waited. Ken kept them in the bedroom about half an hour each, accepted only a modest fee and sent them home ecstatic. "I was suspended above an abyss on a golden cord attached to my navel," one of them told me. "I was lifted. I revolved." Later, Ken gave me a freebie in exchange for the use of the flat, and when he laid his hands on, or rather over me, I had the pleasant but unspectacular sensation, not vision, of invisible barriers gently crumbling, like sandstone walls powdered by the rains of some other, subtler spring. Ken confessed his puzzlement at the wealth of internal cinema people managed to conjure up when he worked on them. He also told me that he felt sure, and he had talked it over with Alice and she did too, that I had quite literally been through hell but that good things were going to happen for me quite quite soon.

I had already pretty much decided to go to Turkey again by way of Europe, and probably on from there to Israel. It was my habitual route of self-renewal, and it might work again.

I found myself saying as much over coffee to Max Rosenblatt while he awaited his turn with Ken, me on the sofa, Max in the armchair and our white china cups of coffee-the good dishes, the ones my parents never used-on the large triangular glass Noguchi coffee table that went with nothing else in the room, all false late forties antiques heavy with needless ornamentation and ancestral karma. There were leaves and branches nodding yes outside the window, five storeys up, and a bit of a breeze wafting into the room. I must have gone on to describe the physical problems I was having-the paralyzing pain in my right knee that kept me limping, something like Ken, and unable to walk more than a block without stopping, staggered by the penetration of the ache; and the at least equal agony in my right elbow that stopped me cold every time I tried to pick up anything the weight, say, of a hardcover book-and that consequently I would be unable to travel in the manner to which I had become accustomed, heaving a suitcase on and off trains and buses, through the bare or busy streets of exotic or forbidding cities into cheap hotels and off the edge of civilization into caves in the desert, holy tombs, Anatolian steppes, wilderness, undiscovered country, annihilation, adventure, sometimes even love. "I'm gonna have to buy a car," I told him.

I probably failed to notice Max's face brighten. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, and the thing is, since I'm going to Turkey I've got to buy something I can get parts for there, which comes down to a couple of old model Fiats and Renaults the Turks manufacture under license, not great cars, but if you need a part for anything else you could be stuck for months. And, oh yeah, you can get parts for Mercedes, but that's kind of out of my league."

"Not necessarily," Max said, brightening still further, something a trifle manic widening his eyes behind their heavy specs, His large, bullet-shaped head, with its time-heightened brow and close-cropped black hair along its sides, seemed momentarily to expand. "A couple of years ago, when the dollar was really up there, you could pick up a used Mercedes for like three thousand bucks-"

"Whaat?" (Somewhere in there I must have learned what Mercedes meant, and cost.)

"-and now that the dollar's sliding a little you might have to pay tour or five."

"No shit?"

"No shit. You could pick one up, drive it around a few months, then sell it for about what you paid."

"Five'd be about my limit," I figured, "and if I could sell it after ..."

"No problem," he assured me, a broad gesture of arm and hand calming whatever waves of doubt might have risen in the room.

"A Mercedes," I speculated. "It's a good car."

"It's a GREAT car."

"Safe in a crash," I said, letting the siren sing to me in a voice for all the world like that of reason, "no small virtue with all those loonies on the road in Turkey ..."

"Safer than a Volvo," Max told me.

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. In crash tests ..." And Max went on awhile excited now, a car nut on the loose, and I joined in, about how I'd do best to buy one in Belgium, no import duties and it'd spare me a trip to Germany, I spoke French of a sort and there was no point trotting out, among Germans, a version of their language composed mostly of scraps of the familial Yiddish. And I remembered Belgium, walking the cobbled streets of Ostend one night with a British actress on my arm, stopping for a cold beer here or a brass band playing in a gazebo there, the unevenness of the stones sending the side of her breast against my left arm shoulder high (she was tall, Megan, and wore boots with heels, hence her need, on those treacherous continental stones, of my invincible arm): outward hound eleven years back in 1975 on my first trip to Turkey, where I had my best mystical experiences, lived at Mahmoud's, bless his departed soul, came down with pneumonia and wrote all those terrific unintelligible visionary poems. I wrote the first poem of the journey sitting next to the actress aboard the ferry just before docking beneath chalk cliffs in the dark before dawn, and saw her for the last time on the passport line, except for once in a spy-thing on television, Twenty-nine years old back then! Could those bones still walk at almost forty? A Belgian Mercedes sounded reasonable. I had some money, most of it inherited, it is true, rather than earned, felt more dead than alive and could not for the life of me put together a credible impersonation of a functioning human being. A trip to Turkey seemed in order, a car seemed necessary, and as Max painted the picture a Merc did not appear all that extravagant, I did not remember that Max was a former mental patient who had flipped out while tending the chicken house down at the Gurdjieff plantation in West Virginia and that it had taken the statutory ten strong men to subdue him. Worse, later on he would be damn fool enough to buy a lean and low-slung used red Alfa that put a look of crazed adoration on his face but hardly ever ventured out of the repair shop.

AFTER KEN AND ALICE LEFT, Daniel came back and I took the subject up with him. "As your attorney," he said in his crisp Eastern European accent, fluttering the r of "attorney" like a morsel of lark's wing off the tip of his tongue, "I advise you to steal a bicycle." He settled himself further into the armchair Max had sat in and made his grinding chuckling sound. "Although if you intend to quicken the pace at which you are squandering your patrimony, a Mercedes will almost certainly serve you better than the collection of former girlfriends and impecunious male friends you currently support."

(Continues...)



Excerpted from I, Wabenzi by RAFI ZABOR Copyright © 2005 by Rafi Zabor. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Be the first to write a review
( 0 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(0)

4 Star

(0)

3 Star

(0)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing all of 2 Customer Reviews
  • Posted November 21, 2008

    I Also Recommend:

    What a magnificent book, perhaps the finest book of the 21st century so far. I've read it twice and I plan to reread it again in 2009.

    Rafi has present a moving story of his relationship with his parents as well as a powerful story of spiritual journey, I find this book infinitely absorbing and I recommend it unreservedly.

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

    Posted December 18, 2005

    One of the Best Books I've Ever Read

    This account of Rafi's life, miseries, ecstacies and various adventures blew me away. I found it moving and thought provoking, and I highly recommend it. I suggest you buy it today - I bet you will love it.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
Sort by: Showing all of 2 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)