{"id":196136,"date":"2026-06-27T22:55:41","date_gmt":"2026-06-28T06:55:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lukeford.net\/blog\/?p=196136"},"modified":"2026-06-27T19:45:47","modified_gmt":"2026-06-28T03:45:47","slug":"no-lessons-the-fiction-of-melvin-jules-bukiet","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lukeford.net\/blog\/?p=196136","title":{"rendered":"No Lessons: The Fiction of Melvin Jules Bukiet"},"content":{"rendered":"

Melvin Jules Bukiet (born 1953) is an American novelist, short-story writer, anthologist, and critic who teaches creative writing at Sarah Lawrence College. His fiction returns to the same ground across four decades: the Holocaust and what it does to the people born after it, Jewish identity stripped of religious belief, and the distance between memory and invention. He belongs to the second generation, the children of survivors, and he has built a career on a single question. How does a man inherit a catastrophe he did not live through, and what does he owe a past that shaped him before he could consent to it?
\nBukiet was born in New York City. His father came from a shtetl near Cracow and was born in August 1923. He saw more death before twenty than almost anyone alive. His mother and younger children were sent to relatives, gathered, and gassed at Belzec. The father and his own father stood in the Cracow ghetto when it was liquidated on March 13, 1943, and three thousand Jews were killed. They reached Auschwitz the next day. From there the Germans marched them to Buchenwald and then to Theresienstadt, where the war ended for them. Bukiet’s grandfather died the day the fighting stopped in Europe, of typhus. The father reached the United States in 1948. The mother’s story ran the other way. Her family had fled the czar a generation earlier, and she grew up in Norma, a small Jewish farming town in New Jersey. She was American-born, not a survivor, a distinction Bukiet keeps clear in his own accounts. His parents married about a year before he was born, and he arrived as the first child of an entire clan that had nearly ceased to exist. He describes uncles staying up all night to build a life-size fire engine for his third birthday and a household charged with the wonder that he existed at all.
\nHe took his bachelor’s degree at Sarah Lawrence College, the school where he now teaches, and his MFA at Columbia University. During Bernard Malamud’s (1914-1986) last years Bukiet worked as his research assistant, and he has written with admiration about Malamud’s slow revision and refusal to lower a standard. He joined the Sarah Lawrence faculty in 1993 and has taught writing there since.
\nHis first published book, the novel Sandman’s Dust (1985), showed a writer ready to fold fantasy and grotesque comedy into realism. Stories of an Imaginary Childhood (1992) won the Edward Lewis Wallant Award for Jewish American fiction. The book rebuilds the vanished Polish shtetl of Proszowice, the town his family came from, and places a boy named for the author inside a childhood the author never had. The move is deliberate. For the descendants of survivors, Bukiet suggests, the lost world arrives only through imagination, never through memory. While the Messiah Tarries (1995) collected his stories. After (1996) became a defining work. Set in Germany in the months after liberation, it follows survivors who rebuild their lives through black-market trade, smuggling, and choices that carry no moral comfort. By refusing to make survival ennobling, Bukiet argued that catastrophe leaves ethical confusion behind, not redemption.
\nThe books that followed widened the range. Signs and Wonders (1999) retells the Gospels as a dark fable set at the close of the twentieth century. Strange Fire (2001) satirizes Israeli politics, religious zeal, and messianic hope through a blind speechwriter inside the country’s political elite. A Faker’s Dozen (2003) gathered interconnected stories and drew notice as a book of the year from the San Francisco Chronicle. Across these works his method holds. He blends biblical material, Jewish folklore, and surrealism while keeping the moral questions in front: responsibility, survival, the cost of historical truth.
\nBukiet has been candid about how he writes<\/a>. He does little research and trusts invention over reporting. He set books in a Germany he had never seen and a Washington he did not know, and he defended the practice without apology. He does not separate imagination from experience, and he holds that imagination often feels more real. Asked once whether a Washington insider might find such a novel false, he granted the point and said he did not write for insiders. If he could render the Washington of his own mind, he would count the book a success. Emotional truth, he argued, carries the work. Flaubert (1821-1880) was not a woman and wrote Madame Bovary; Dostoevsky (1821-1881) was no murderer and made Raskolnikov. When a journalist pressed him that readers want the texture of a real place, the kind Tom Wolfe (1930-2018) packs into a best seller, Bukiet answered that best sellers often serve a non-fictional appetite, the wish to know what goes on behind the scenes, and that this taste reflects a literalism he does not respect. He calls the novel a theological medium. Men can make worlds too, and creation is the novel’s first aim.
\nEditing forms a second body of work. Bukiet assembled Neurotica: Jewish Writers on Sex, a book that began as a phone joke with his agent and went to auction two days after he drafted a few pages of nonsense to quiet her. He followed it with Nothing Makes You Free: Writings by Descendants of Jewish Holocaust Survivors (2002), among the first major anthologies of second-generation voices, and Atonement for a Sinless World, on guilt and secular Jewish identity. With David G. Roskies (b. 1948) he co-edited Scribblers on the Roof: Contemporary Jewish Fiction. The collections helped set the terms for a conversation about post-Holocaust memory and the changing shape of Jewish writing in America.
\nHis criticism carries the same convictions as his fiction. He has written for The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Paris Review, the Los Angeles Times, and The American Scholar. In his 2007 American Scholar essay “Wonder Bread” he attacked the literature of wonder he associated with Dave Eggers and the McSweeney’s circle, a writing he read as self-congratulating sentiment dressed as innocence. He argued that real tragedy resists tidy closure and that fiction should hold the unsettling weight of suffering rather than soften it into therapy. The same skepticism toward consolation runs through his work on the Holocaust. In the PBS documentary Auschwitz: Inside the Nazi State he said we learn nothing from it. He called the impulse to draw a lesson dangerous, because a lesson is one inch from a silver lining, and a silver lining is one inch from justification. He named the second-generation writers, himself among them, viciously unredemptive.
\nThat refusal grows from how Bukiet holds his Judaism. He describes himself as a secular Jew, and he means something exacting rather than diluted: a rigorous hold on Jewish ethics, culture, and history without belief in God. His father went to shul most Saturdays and said he came for the gossip, though he knew the prayers. The father’s rule was minhag k’din, custom becomes law, and Bukiet inherited the form without the faith. He has called his own relationship to God antagonistic and assumes God will kill him in the end. He allows that some creative force may exist, not the man with the long beard. Pressed on whether he is a good Jew<\/a>, he answered yes, and defined the good Jew as a man who takes a long-enduring ethos into himself, not one who attends services. He likes Jews and stays ambivalent about Judaism, and he doubts that a secular Jewishness can carry the people across the generations, yet he refuses to fake belief for the sake of continuity. Each generation, he says, does as it must.
\nHe guards the word genocide with the same care. Bukiet rejects the claim that descent from survivors grants wisdom or privilege. He has said the inheritance conveys proximity to enormity and nothing more, and he resents writers who use the Holocaust to lend their work gravitas or to win a moral free pass. After the Hamas attack on Israel of October 7, 2023, he became a loud opponent of describing Israel’s military response as genocide. He argued that the term, coined by Raphael Lemkin (1900-1959) for the destruction of European Jewry, loses its meaning when stretched for political use, a distortion of both language and history. Once he signed a copy of one of his novels to the German chancellor Helmut Kohl (1930-2017) with the number 108016, his father’s camp number.
\nHis temperament matches his prose. Bukiet admires outrage and certain kinds of hatred, fears weakness in himself and in others, and accepts a reputation for being difficult. He says the things he is hard on deserve it. He keeps a study buried in paper and arrives on time without fail, and he claims he had not missed a class in twelve years. He has been married for more than two decades and has three children. In 2023 he wrote Runts, a satirical play drawn from the Sarah Lawrence sex-cult scandal, staged at the New York Summer Theater Festival, and said tenure would protect him from any administrator he annoyed.
\nBukiet still teaches at Sarah Lawrence and remains a figure in American Jewish letters. His fiction, his criticism, and his anthologies share one purpose. They insist that catastrophe will not resolve into a clean story, that memory comes to us broken, and that literature owes its readers truth rather than comfort.<\/p>\n

What Survives the Body<\/strong><\/p>\n

In the mid-1980s Vice President George H. W. Bush (1924-2018) stood before five thousand survivors and their children at the Washington Monument and gave a speech. Melvin Jules Bukiet walked out on it, for his politics, and took a seat in the first of several dozen waiting buses. An old woman had gotten there before him. A few more came after. They had calculated right: the first bus filled would be the first to leave. Then a young woman with a clipboard arrived and told them the front bus was held for VIPs and they would have to clear out and go to the back of the line. The old woman began to curse. Hitler didn’t beat us, she said, and you won’t. Bukiet egged her on. He was ready to link arms and go limp, and he could see the headline forming in twenty-point type, survivors arrested at the Washington Monument. Authority gave way. They kept the bus. As it looped the Mall the old woman was still muttering, how dare they, and Bukiet leaned forward and said, but we had fun, didn’t we, and she gave him a smile bright as sunshine. They had never met. They knew each other.
\nThe scene holds the man. He has contempt for the ceremony and relish for the fight, an eye for the story even as he lives it, and a quick blood-tie to anyone tough enough to spit at the clipboard. Ernest Becker (1924-1974) argued that every culture hands its members a way to not die, a scheme of significance that lets a man feel his life will outlast his body, and that men cling to the tokens of that scheme because the tokens hold off the terror underneath. Becker called it the hero system. Most men take the vehicle their culture offers and ride it without looking. Bukiet looked, and refused almost all of them, and bet everything on one.
\nHe refused God first. He calls his relations with God antagonistic and assumes God will kill him in the end. He allows there might be some creative force, not the man with the long beard. The afterlife, the oldest immortality-vehicle, he leaves on the lot. He refused the lesson next. In the PBS film on Auschwitz he said we learn nothing from it, and named the search for a lesson dangerous, because a lesson sits one inch from a silver lining and a silver lining one inch from justifying the thing. He refused the consoling story, the redemptive arc, the healing. And he refused the soft capital handed to a child of survivors, the moral authority that descent confers. He says the inheritance conveys proximity to enormity and no wisdom, no privilege, and he resents the writer who cashes it for gravitas, or for sex.
\nThat leaves him one vehicle. The made thing. He calls the novelist’s fame forever and the journalist’s fame good until the dog needs walking. He wanted, in his own words, his blood cascading down the ages, and when adoption came up he said the beautiful thing was not for him, he wanted the blood. He was the first child of a clan the Germans had nearly erased, and the uncles stayed up all night to build him a fire engine, and the house carried the wonder that he was there at all. So his death-denial runs on two engines turning the same way. Children of his blood. Books of his making. The line continues where the murder almost cut it.
\nWatch the sacred words, then, and watch them mean other things in other hands.
\nTake memory. For Bukiet memory is a wound kept open on purpose, and the closing of it is the betrayal. The sacred token inside the word is genocide, Raphael Lemkin’s coinage, which Bukiet guards for the dead and which he fought to keep precise after October 7, 2023. Now set him beside the people for whom memory is also holy. The hospice chaplain leans over the bed with her laminated badge and asks the dying man if there is anyone he needs to forgive, because for her a memory completed is a good death and an open wound is a thing to be dressed and closed. The genealogy hobbyist prints the family tree on archival paper and frames the crest, because for him memory is lineage and a flattering one, the dead enlisted to dignify the living. The founder in the gray vest archives the quarter and moves on, because for him the past is friction and the legacy lives forward, in the product, in the next round. Each holds memory sacred. None would keep the wound bleeding the way Bukiet keeps it, because none has built his survival on honest witness against the lie. The word is shared. The terror underneath is not.
\nTake truth. Bukiet wants the ugly fact kept ugly, truth over comfort, and in fiction he wants the emotional truth that lets Flaubert (1821-1880) write a woman and Dostoevsky (1821-1881) write a murderer he never was. The grief author on the morning show speaks of your truth and means the empowering version, the story that serves growth, truth with a payload of uplift. The oncologist titrates the truth, manages what the patient can hear this week, doses it, because in his system the fact is a drug and the dosage is the art. The monk on the cushion treats the truth as wordless, beyond the story, and the ego’s little narratives as the illusion to release. Bukiet’s truth carries no uplift and reaches no union. It stays in the room. It stings, and the sting is the point of it.
\nTake strength. Bukiet fears weakness as suicidal and admires outrage and the man willing to say anything. The wellness coach unrolls her mat and tells the class that vulnerability is the bravest thing, that softening is the work, so that for her the shared weakness is the strength. The pastor preaches power made perfect in weakness, the meek inheriting, the cheek turned, surrender as the higher force. The drill instructor on the yellow footprints means by strength the suppression of the self for the unit, discipline under fire, obedience. Bukiet’s strength is none of theirs. It will not soften and it will not obey. It stands alone and refuses to flinch, a near-aesthetic of toughness he learned from a father who survived by it.
\nTake the keystone, the made thing, and the words around it, creation and the line. Here the clash runs sharpest, and the documents stage it. The reporter believes a man earns his world by going to it, by the status detail won on the ground, and that a Washington invented at the desk is a cheat. Bukiet wrote a Germany he had never set foot in and called imagination more real than experience. Pressed, he answered as Flaubert. Empathy, the power to imagine oneself as someone else, is the precondition of art. For the reporter immortality comes through fidelity to the real. For Bukiet it comes through the world of the mind that feels true. Set him beside the Orthodox man, and the same word turns again. Only God creates. The human task is service and the keeping of the covenant and the child raised in the law, and the line continues through the mitzvah and the grandchild, not the book. Set him beside the father who wants only grandchildren, for whom a novel is no answer to an empty chair at the table. Bukiet wants both, the blood and the books, because he reads the secular life as circular, ending in annihilation, and so the made thing has to carry the weight God will not.
\nThis explains the heat. Becker held that a threat to a man’s sacred value reads to him as a threat to his defense against death, so he answers with a rage out of scale to the offense. When Bukiet went after Dave Eggers (b. 1970) and the wonder writers in his 2007 essay “Wonder Bread,” the charge ran deeper than taste. He read them as sellers of a counterfeit immortality, a death-denial built on a lie, and the lie desecrates the dead whose memory is the ground he stands on. The silver lining, the healing arc, the cult of innocence, the stretched word genocide, all of it is the same enemy to him, the soft story laid over the wound. He is a connoisseur of other men’s death-denials, and his own heroism runs partly in the negative, in the stripping away of every comfort his neighbors use to get through the night.
\nThe family scenes show where he learned it. At his father’s funeral the rabbi said a few touching things and several lies about the father’s faith in God, of which he had none, and the lie at the graveside is the whole enemy in miniature, consolation painted over a man who believed nothing. In the hospital the father leaned over after the rabbi promised a prayer for the sick and whispered that the prayer helps the living the way the prayer for the dead helps the dead. Custom becomes law, the father said, minhag k’din, faith emptied of belief and kept as form. Bukiet took the father’s clarity and hardened it into a vocation.
\nOnce he gave one of his novels to the German chancellor Helmut Kohl (1930-2017) and signed it 108016, his father’s number from the camp. The whole system stands in that act. The made thing carries the memory, the number, into the hand of the man’s nation, witness and aggression and continuity in one motion, the dead inscribed by the son who turned down God and the lesson and the soft inheritance and bet that the line would run on in ink and in blood. He wanted it cascading down the ages. He is still writing it down.<\/p>\n

The Set<\/strong><\/p>\n

Bukiet sits where three worlds overlap, sharing members and a common temper. The first is the cohort of second-generation Holocaust writers, the children of survivors who made inherited catastrophe their subject: Art Spiegelman<\/a> (b. 1948), Thane Rosenbaum<\/a> (b. 1960), Helen Epstein<\/a> (b. 1947), Eva Hoffman<\/a> (b. 1945), and the contributors he gathered in Nothing Makes You Free. The second is the line of serious Jewish American novelists. Above him stand the elders, Saul Bellow<\/a> (1915-2005), his own teacher Bernard Malamud<\/a> (1914-1986), Philip Roth<\/a> (1933-2018), and Cynthia Ozick<\/a> (b. 1928), and behind them Isaac Bashevis Singer<\/a> (1902-1991) and Kafka<\/a>. Beside him work the contemporaries: Steve Stern<\/a> (b. 1947), Pearl Abraham<\/a> (b. 1960), Rebecca Goldstein<\/a> (b. 1950), Allegra Goodman<\/a> (b. 1967), Dara Horn<\/a> (b. 1977), Nicole Krauss<\/a> (b. 1974), Nathan Englander<\/a> (b. 1970), Jonathan Safran Foer<\/a> (b. 1977), Michael Chabon<\/a> (b. 1963), Gary Shteyngart<\/a> (b. 1972), and Shalom Auslander<\/a> (b. 1970), with the Israelis A. B. Yehoshua<\/a> (1936-2022), Aharon Appelfeld<\/a> (1932-2018), and Etgar Keret<\/a> (b. 1967) at the edge. The third world is the apparatus that confers standing: the magazines, The Paris Review<\/a>, The American Scholar<\/a>, The New York Times<\/a>, The Washington Post<\/a>; the writing programs at Sarah Lawrence<\/a> and Columbia<\/a>; the prize committees behind the Edward Lewis Wallant Award; the anthologists and co-editors such as David G. Roskies<\/a> (b. 1948); the critics whose jacket praise certifies a book; the critic-novelists like Daphne Merkin<\/a> (b. 1954). The survivor-witnesses Primo Levi<\/a> (1919-1987) and Elie Wiesel<\/a> (1928-2016) hover over all of it as ancestors, revered and, in Bukiet’s wing, held at arm’s length.<\/p>\n

The set defines itself first by what it refuses. It values seriousness and treats consolation as the enemy. The good book tells the truth about suffering and declines the lesson, the silver lining, the healing arc. It values craft and slow revision, the inheritance Bukiet took from Malamud, and it values difficulty, the sentence that asks something of the reader. It prizes a Jewishness made of history, ethics, memory, and peoplehood, often without God. It honors irony, dark comedy, and the grotesque as the honest replies to horror, and it holds the novel as a high calling, a way to make worlds, set against entertainment and commerce. Memory carries an obligation. The catastrophe must be kept accurate, guarded from sentiment and from political use.<\/p>\n

The hero in this world is the unconsoling witness, the writer who looks at the worst and refuses to soften it. Strength is the cardinal trait and weakness the disgrace; Bukiet calls weakness suicidal and admires outrage and the man willing to say anything. The hero earns his place through talent, not through what happened to his parents. Bukiet states this without hedging. He wants the nod for his gift and not for his inheritance, and he sets himself against any honor handed out for an accident of birth. The deeper stake runs under the talk of craft. The writer makes a thing that outlives him. Bukiet says the novelist’s fame lasts forever and the journalist’s lasts until the dog needs walking, and he confesses he wants his blood cascading down the ages. For a man born first in a clan the Germans had nearly erased, the book becomes the line that continues where the people were almost cut. That is the heroic bid of the set: work that survives the body and answers annihilation with creation.<\/p>\n

The status games run on a few axes. The first is seriousness against sentiment. To write wonder, healing, or redemptive Holocaust kitsch is the low move, and to name another writer sentimental is a kill shot. Bukiet swung it in his 2007 essay “Wonder Bread,” where he went after Dave Eggers<\/a> (b. 1970) and the McSweeney’s<\/a> circle for a self-admiring innocence dressed as art. The second axis is the literary against the commercial. The best seller is suspect, and the small, difficult book admired by a few carries more rank than the popular one. Bukiet would rather build the Germany of his own mind than chase the reported realism that sells, and he reaches back to the old contempt of the intelligentsia for the crowd-pleasing novel, the contempt Tom Wolfe<\/a> (1930-2018) attacked and Bukiet half embraces. The third axis is authenticity, and here the knives come out within the set. Bukiet faults Steve Stern for English faked to sound like Yiddish. Luke faults the novelists for skipping the research that would make their worlds true, and a friend faults Yehoshua for an India spun out of his head and Krauss for a Singer imitation cut loose from the people it describes. The charge of phoniness is a weapon, and each camp aims a different version of it. The fourth axis is the moral authority of the dead. Standing flows to the child of survivors, and Bukiet resents the man who cashes that inheritance for gravitas, or for sex, while the set keeps trading in it anyway. The last axis is the gate. To edit an anthology is to say who belongs to a conversation, and Bukiet has done it three times, drawing the borders of second-generation writing and of contemporary Jewish fiction. To blurb a book, to seat it in The Paris Review, to hand it the Wallant Award, is to confer membership. Descent from Roth, Malamud, Bellow, Singer, and Kafka is a claim worth making, and Bukiet’s apprenticeship to Malamud is itself a title of craft.<\/p>\n

The normative claims are sharp. One must not sentimentalize suffering. One must refuse the lesson, since a lesson sits one inch from a silver lining and a silver lining one inch from justifying the thing. One must write with moral seriousness and historical rigor, and on this point Bukiet moved over his career, from holding that only survivors and their children had the standing to write the Holocaust to allowing that anyone may, given rigor and respect for the event’s singularity. One must guard the words. Genocide means what Raphael Lemkin<\/a> meant by it, and stretching it for present politics is a wrong against precision and against the dead, which is why Bukiet fought the term after October 7, 2023. One must be tough and tell the ugly truth. One owes the Jewish people continuity, yet one must not fake belief to secure it. Honesty outranks piety.<\/p>\n

The essentialist claims define the group’s sense of what things are. Jewish suffering is held to be a different order of suffering, continuous enough to shape the people’s consciousness; Bukiet says, with discomfort and without retracting it, that the Jews hold the crown, and that the Irish know the famine happened but do not fear its return the way Jews fear theirs. The Holocaust<\/a> is unique, not one atrocity among many, and its language belongs to it. The novel is a theological medium whose nature is creation. Empathy, the power to imagine oneself as another, is the precondition of all art, which is how a man writes a woman and a Frenchman and a German he has never met. A Jew is a man who has taken a long ethos into himself, defined by that ethos rather than by belief or observance, so that a secular Jew can be fully and rigorously Jewish. One essentialist claim splits the set rather than uniting it: whether descent from survivors confers anything real. Bukiet says it conveys proximity to enormity and no wisdom, no privilege. Others build careers on the opposite premise. A second, harder claim circulates at the edges, about readers themselves, whether audiences will follow a writer across the lines of sex or race or only stay with their own kind; Bukiet answers it with the empathy doctrine, while the reporter’s wing doubts that most readers behave that well.<\/p>\n

The moral grammar follows from all this. The cardinal sin is false consolation, and the cardinal virtue is unflinching witness. Authenticity works as a moral category, not an aesthetic one alone, so that the faked Yiddish, the unresearched country, and the redemptive uplift register as kinds of lying. To distort memory, by sweetening it or by bending the word genocide, is an offense against the murdered. Comedy and the grotesque are licensed, even sanctified, while piety and uplift draw suspicion. Strength reads as near-virtue and weakness as near-vice. God plays almost no part in the reasoning. Bukiet says God offers no answer to the need for morality, that he cannot build a system to ground the wrongness of cruelty and feels it wrong anyway, and the set’s ethics float free of any commandment, anchored instead to truth, to the people’s history, and to the craft. The good man here keeps faith with the dead, refuses comfort, and earns his standing by the work.<\/p>\n

The portrait would lie if it showed one mind. The set divides along live seams. Dara Horn writes a theological Judaism on every page; Bukiet writes none and says the historical and cultural awareness made him who he is. Those who want status detail and lived texture, like me, quarrel with the writers who trust the world of the mind. The wonder school and the unredemptive school read each other as frauds. And the question of who may speak for the catastrophe, settled for no one, keeps reopening. What holds the set together is not agreement but a shared refusal of the easy story and a shared belief that the work outlasts the worker.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Melvin Jules Bukiet (born 1953) is an American novelist, short-story writer, anthologist, and critic who teaches creative writing at Sarah Lawrence College. His fiction returns to the same ground across four decades: the Holocaust and what it does to the … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[38],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-196136","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-literature"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t