A Tale of Love and Darknessby Amos Oz, Nicholas de Lange (Translator)
"[An] ingenious work that circles around the rise of a state, the tragic destiny of a mother, a boy’s creation of a new self." — The New Yorker
A family saga and a magical self-portrait of a writer who witnessed the birth of a nation and lived through its/i>/b>/b>
Winner of the National Jewish Book Award
"[An] ingenious work that circles around the rise of a state, the tragic destiny of a mother, a boy’s creation of a new self." — The New Yorker
A family saga and a magical self-portrait of a writer who witnessed the birth of a nation and lived through its turbulent history. A Tale of Love and Darkness is the story of a boy who grows up in war-torn Jerusalem, in a small apartment crowded with books in twelve languages and relatives speaking nearly as many. The story of an adolescent whose life has been changed forever by his mother’s suicide. The story of a man who leaves the constraints of his family and community to join a kibbutz, change his name, marry, have children. The story of a writer who becomes an active participant in the political life of his nation.
"One of the most enchanting and deeply satisfying books that I have read in many years." — New Republic
"[An] indelible memoir"
"Touching, haunting, wrenching, amusing, and sometimes downright hilarious...the best book Oz has ever written"
PRAISE FOR A TALE OF LOVE AND DARKNESS
"Detailed and beautiful . . . As he writes about himself and his family, Oz is also writing part of the history of the Jews . . . We are in the hands here of a capable, practiced seducer."--Los Angeles Times
"This lyrical saga . . . succeeds both as a revelatory tale of the artist as young man and a gripping portrait of the young Jewish state itself."--The Miami Herald
The Washington Post
The New York Times
- Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
- Publication date:
- Edition description:
- First Edition
- Sales rank:
- Product dimensions:
- 5.31(w) x 8.00(h) x 1.42(d)
Read an Excerpt
I WAS BORN and bred in a tiny, low-ceilinged ground-floor apartment. My parents slept on a sofa bed that filled their room almost from wall to wall when it was opened up each evening. Early every morning they used to shut away this bed deep into itself, hide the bedclothes in the chest underneath, turn the mattress over, press it all tight shut, and conceal the whole under a light gray cover, then scatter a few embroidered oriental cushions on top, so that all evidence of their night's sleep disappeared. In this way their bedroom also served as study, library, dining room, and living room.
Opposite this room was my little green room, half taken up with a big-bellied wardrobe. A narrow, low passage, dark and slightly curved, like an escape tunnel from a prison, linked the little kitchenette and toilet to these two small rooms. A lightbulb imprisoned in an iron cage cast a gloomy half-light on this passage even during the daytime. At the front both rooms had just a single window, guarded by metal blinds, squinting to catch a glimpse of the view to the east but seeing only a dusty cypress tree and a low wall of roughly dressed stones. Through a tiny opening high up in their back walls the kitchenette and toilet peered out into a little prison yard surrounded by high walls and paved with concrete, where a pale geranium planted in a rusty olive can was gradually dying for want of a single ray of sunlight. On the sills of these tiny openings we always kept jars of pickles and a stubborn cactus in a cracked vase that served as a flowerpot.
It was actually a basement apartment, as the ground floor of the building had been hollowed out of the rocky hillside. This hill was our next-door neighbor, a heavy, introverted, silent neighbor, an old, sad hill with the regular habits of a bachelor, a drowsy, still wintry hill, which never scraped the furniture or entertained guests, never made a noise or disturbed us, but through the walls there seeped constantly toward us, like a faint yet persistent musty smell, the cold, dark silence and dampness of this melancholy neighbor.
Consequently through the summer there was always a hint of winter in our home.
Visitors would say: It's always so pleasant here in a heat wave, so cool and fresh, really chilly, but how do you manage in the winter? Don't the walls let in the damp? Don't you find it depressing?
Books filled our home. My father could read sixteen or seventeen languages and could speak eleven (all with a Russian accent). My mother spoke four or five languages and read seven or eight. They conversed in Russian or Polish when they did not want me to understand. (Which was most of the time. When my mother referred to a stallion in Hebrew in my hearing, my father rebuked her furiously in Russian: Shto s toboi?! Vidish malchik ryadom s nami!-What's the matter with you? You can see the boy's right here!) Out of cultural considerations they mostly read books in German or English, and presumably they dreamed in Yiddish. But the only language they taught me was Hebrew. Maybe they feared that a knowledge of languages would expose me too to the blandishments of Europe, that wonderful, murderous continent.
On my parents' scale of values, the more Western something was, the more cultured it was considered. For all that Tolstoy and Dostoevsky were dear to their Russian souls, I suspect that Germany-despite Hitler-seemed to them more cultured than Russia or Poland, and France more so than Germany. England stood even higher on their scale than France. As for America, there they were not so sure: after all, it was a country where people shot at Indians, held up mail trains, chased gold, and hunted girls.
Europe for them was a forbidden promised land, a yearned-for landscape of belfries and squares paved with ancient flagstones, of trams and bridges and church spires, remote villages, spa towns, forests, and snow-covered meadows.
Words like "cottage," "meadow," or "goose girl" excited and seduced me all through my childhood. They had the sensual aroma of a genuine, cozy world, far from the dusty tin roofs, the urban wasteland of scrap iron and thistles, the parched hillsides of our Jerusalem suffocating under the weight of white-hot summer. It was enough for me to whisper to myself "meadow," and at once I could hear the lowing of cows with little bells tied around their necks, and the burbling of brooks. Closing my eyes, I could see the barefoot goose girl, whose sexiness brought me to tears before I knew about anything.
As the years passed I became aware that Jerusalem, under British rule in the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s, must be a fascinatingly cultured city. It had big businessmen, musicians, scholars, and writers: Martin Buber, Gershom Scholem, S. Y. Agnon, and a host of other eminent academics and artists. Sometimes as we walked down Ben Yehuda Street or Ben Maimon Avenue, my father would whisper to me: "Look, there is a scholar with a worldwide reputation." I did not know what he meant. I thought that having a worldwide reputation was somehow connected with having weak legs, because the person in question was often an elderly man who felt his way with a stick and stumbled as he walked along, and wore a heavy woolen suit even in summer.
The Jerusalem my parents looked up to lay far from the area where we lived: it was in leafy Rehavia with its gardens and its strains of piano music, it was in three or four cafés with gilded chandeliers on the Jaffa Road or Ben Yehuda Street, in the halls of the YMCA or the King David Hotel, where culture-seeking Jews and Arabs mixed with cultivated Englishmen with perfect manners, where dreamy, long-necked ladies floated in evening dresses, on the arms of gentlemen in dark suits, where broad-minded Britons dined with cultured Jews or educated Arabs, where there were recitals, balls, literary evenings, thés dansants, and exquisite, artistic conversations. Or perhaps such a Jerusalem, with its chandeliers and thés dansants, existed only in the dreams of the librarians, schoolteachers, clerks, and bookbinders who lived in Kerem Avraham. At any rate, it didn't exist where we were. Kerem Avraham, the area where we lived, belonged to Chekhov.
Years later, when I read Chekhov (in Hebrew translation), I was convinced he was one of us: Uncle Vanya lived right upstairs from us, Doctor Samoylenko bent over me and examined me with his broad, strong hands when I had a fever and once diphtheria, Laevsky with his perpetual migraine was my mother's second cousin, and we used to go and listen to Trigorin at Saturday matinees in the Beit Ha'am Auditorium.
We were surrounded by Russians of every sort. There were many Tolstoyans. Some of them even looked like Tolstoy. When I came across a brown photograph of Tolstoy on the back of a book, I was certain that I had seen him often in our neighborhood, strolling along Malachi Street or down Obadiah Street, bareheaded, his white beard ruffled by the breeze, as awesome as the Patriarch Abraham, his eyes flashing, using a branch as a walking stick, a Russian shirt worn outside the baggy trousers tied around his waist with a length of string.
Our neighborhood Tolstoyans (whom my parents referred to as Tolstoyshchiks) were without exception devout vegetarians, world reformers with strong feelings for nature, seekers after the moral life, lovers of humankind, lovers of every single living creature, with a perpetual yearning for the rural life, for simple agricultural labor among fields and orchards. But they were not successful even in cultivating their own potted plants: perhaps they killed them by overwatering, or perhaps they forgot to water them, or else it was the fault of the nasty British administration that put chlorine in our water.
Some of them were Tolstoyans who might have stepped straight out of the pages of a novel by Dostoevsky: tormented, talkative, suppressing their desires, consumed by ideas. But all of them, Tolstoyans and Dostoevskians alike, in our neighborhood of Kerem Avraham, worked for Chekhov.
The rest of the world was generally known as "the worldatlarge," but it had other epithets too: enlightened, outside, free, hypocritical. I knew it almost exclusively from my stamp collection: Danzig, Bohemia, and Moravia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Ubangi-Shari, Trinidad and Tobago, Kenya, Uganda, and Tanganyika. That worldatlarge was far away, attractive, marvelous, but to us it was dangerous and threatening. It didn't like the Jews because they were clever, quick-witted, successful, but also because they were noisy and pushy. It didn't like what we were doing here in the Land of Israel either, because it begrudged us even this meager strip of marshland, boulders, and desert. Out there, in the world, all the walls were covered with graffiti: "Yids, go back to Palestine," so we came back to Palestine, and now the worldatlarge shouts at us: "Yids, get out of Palestine."
Copyright © 2003 by Amos Oz and Keter Publishing House Ltd.
Translation copyright © 2004 Nicholas de Lange
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.
Meet the Author
AMOS OZ was born in Jerusalem in 1939. He is the author of fourteen novels and collections of short fiction, and numerous works of nonfiction. His acclaimed memoir A Tale of Love and Darkness was an international bestseller and recipient of the prestigious Goethe Prize, as well as the National Jewish Book Award. Scenes from Village Life, a New York Times Notable Book, was awarded the Prix Méditerranée Étranger in 2010. He lives in Tel Aviv, Israel.
NICHOLAS DE LANGE is a professor at the University of Cambridge and a renowned translator. He has translated Amos Oz’s work since the 1960s.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
See all customer reviews
This memoir by a very gifted writer will never leave you. The piercing honesty and the lovely prose with which the author weaves his fascinating story have left an indelible and intricate tracing through my brain. Read it and you will see why.
A Tale of Love and Darkness is a hilarious though serious book about the life of the author in the historical setting of Jerusalem and the Holy Land. Being the great storyteller he is, Amos Oz made the true events so easy to relate to, and as such this book is remarkable.
I don't get it. I tried to wade through this book and had to stop a quarter of the way. Sure it's rich and reads like poetry, but it is in desperate need of structure and editing. I enjoy learning about some of the founders of Israel and the great writers of the country's past, but reading this memoir is like walking through quick sand and there seems to be no plot or plan. It's almost as if Mr. Oz just sat down and wrote whatever came into his head and that's what ended up in print - with no one giving it a once-over and revising it for the most effectiveness or the reader's sake. This book is going to sit on my bedside and wait for me to finish it. I'm totally unimpressed - even by one of Israel's greatest writers.
If it is true that Oz wants to be remembered for 'The Same Sea', then, sadly, he has outwritten his own favorite with 'A Tale of Love and Darkness'. In 'The Same Sea' Oz began to write openly to his parents yet it is only here that we learn the full story. If we, as readers, love anything of Oz, this 'memoir' written in his twilight is his greatest gift to us, the simplest proof of his humanity, eroticism and insight into the world he has been so kind as to lend us.
﻿ Amos Oz likes to say ¿the first thing you should know about [his] autobiography is that it¿s not an autobiography. It¿s an imposition forced on [him] by the Library of Congress.¿ An interesting confession considering A Tale was published under the genre ¿memoir¿ and went on to reap much acclaim - and quite a bit of money -- as a memoir, including The Koret Jewish Book Award for Autobiography. Asked by befuddled interviewers to clarify himself, Mr. Oz will say only that having asked the dead into his home, they told him the stories he never heard. This is a writerly response, with much truth and sense, but it doesn¿t excuse Mr. Oz for allowing his publisher to tout the work a memoir or to blame the Library of Congress. Actually, a good old-fashioned name exists: a semi-biographical novel. Or, if that¿s not hip enough, call it a post-modernist novel, then, a nod and a wink to the writer to figure out what is real and what isn¿t. As it stands,the many fans of Mr. Oz --- until now I¿ve considered myself one --- believe they¿re hearing true stories, not stories conjured by the artist if he listens hard to ghosts. This past year we¿ve been brutal on American writers who¿ve played on the popular taste for the truth. We¿ve held them to standards and shouted ¿foul¿ when they haven¿t lived up to them. It saddens me that a great fiction writer like Mr. Oz hasn¿t held himself to a higher standard. ¿Oz¿ in Hebrew, we¿re reminded again and again, means ¿strength.¿ As a ¿moral conscience¿, as we¿re also reminded again and again, Mr. Oz demands ¿strength¿ from Israelis and Palestinians alike. And yet he wants us to accept with a titter of laughter that he was somehow coerced into calling his Tale of Love and Darkness a memoir. Shame on him. He should know better --- and something tells me he does.