My Name is Asher Lev

It is funny how you find yourself doing things at times without knowing why, or if you are even enjoying yourself.  I was driving the boys to do their papers last week, and tuned in to the tail-end of a discussion about a novel I had quite forgotten aobut.  I cannot even remember when it was I decided I wanted to read it, but it was brought to memory that afternoon in the car, and I quickly wrote the title on my hand (lest I forget it again).  Yes, I do that often ... yes, I mean both writing on my hand and forgetting.

It seems many habits are hard to break.

The story of Asher Lev is a beautiful torment to read on paper, and to imagine in reality.  I do not know how many of my friends and acquaintances would relate to this novel, or even want to in truth.  Asher has been given a tremendous gift in his art, and is understood by very few.  There are parts of me that "get" him completely and parts that hope I never will.  It is a strange ride of swells and sick turns ... sometimes staring into seemingly limitless depths, and other times awed by the beauty of the atmosphere you become a part of in the reading.  It must be like mountain climbing, if you don't look down.  Jonam repeatedly asked me how I liked the book, and I would constantly reply "it's depressing".  I even thought I had  "lost" it for a number of days until I searched the underworld of my bed, and re-discovered it.  Jonam joked that I put the book far under the bed in my sleep, on purpose, because I didn't like it,  but I was riveted and unable to simply walk away.  Each chapter would build upon its predecessor with more fascination for both the anguish of the artist, and the intricasies of Hasidic Judaism.  It is masterpiece and mournful, both.

I suppose I liked this review enough, if you care to read it instead of the novel.  I am not much of a book reviewer.  I have been left, though, with a lot to ponder.