Luke Ford

Aimee Bender (b. June 28, 1969) is an American novelist and short story writer. Her fiction draws fairy tale, surrealism, and psychological realism into a single line of work. She sets one impossible event inside an ordinary world and follows its emotional consequences with full seriousness. Since her debut in the late 1990s she has become a central figure in the revival of literary fabulism in American fiction.

She grew up in Los Angeles in a Jewish home. Her father worked as a psychoanalyst, her mother as a dance therapist. Both trades read emotional life through the unconscious mind and the body, and that double inheritance runs through her stories, where physical change carries psychological weight. She has resisted autobiographical readings of the work, yet the pattern holds across book after book: a body alters, and the alteration names a feeling that plain description would miss. She earned a bachelor’s degree in literature, with an emphasis on creative writing, from the University of California, San Diego, in 1991, and an MFA from the University of California, Irvine, in 1997. At Irvine she studied with the novelist Judith Grossman and the writer Geoffrey Wolff, both of whom pressed for precision and emotional truth. That training stayed with her even as she moved toward the surreal. She names Oscar Wilde, Hans Christian Andersen, the Brothers Grimm, and Anne Sexton among her chief influences.

She attended Pacific Palisades High School, where she ran with the honors crowd and watched the drama group from the edge. She has said she admired their appetite for performance. She treated writing as a hobby until graduate school, when she began to write every morning.

Her first collection, The Girl in the Flammable Skirt (1998), made her reputation at once. The book became a New York Times Notable Book. Women sprout strange features, household objects acquire feeling, and fairy tale figures meet modern dread. Critics reached for Angela Carter and Donald Barthelme, then noticed the tenderness under the strangeness. The stories left realism behind without losing psychological credit. The impossible became her language for states that ordinary narration struggles to hold.

Her first novel, An Invisible Sign of My Own (2000), follows Mona Gray, a young mathematics teacher who treats numbers as armor against uncertainty. Obsessive ritual becomes a system she uses to hold an unpredictable world in place. The book carries magical touches, but its center sits on isolation and the search for contact. The Los Angeles Times named it a Book of the Year, and a 2011 film adaptation, An Invisible Sign, starred Jessica Alba.

She returned to short fiction with Willful Creatures (2005), her purest run of invention. Potato children, tiny men who live in pockets, and other impossible beings carry recognizable fears. The strange premises rarely settle for whimsy. They expose dependence, loneliness, and the fragile terms of intimacy. The collection drew a James Tiptree Jr. Award nomination, and critics began to treat her as a major shaper of the American short story.

Her largest commercial success came with The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake (2010). Rose Edelstein, a young girl, tastes the emotions of whoever made her food. What looks at first like a charmed gift turns into a burden as she absorbs her mother’s despair and her father’s distance and the family tensions no one names aloud. The novel treats empathy as an overwhelming sense that wears away a child’s boundaries. The book reached the New York Times bestseller list, won the Southern California Independent Booksellers Association award for fiction, and received an Alex Award from the American Library Association. It remains her best-known work and carried her to an international readership.

The Color Master (2013) kept to fairy tale structures with more formal command. The title story imagines an apprentice charged with mixing the colors of the world, and other stories rework folklore and domestic life through surreal change. The collection reached the shortlist for the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award. Reviewers praised the balance of imaginative freedom and_restraint.

Her most recent novel, The Butterfly Lampshade (2020), looks at childhood trauma, mental illness, and memory through Francie, whose mother suffers a psychotic break. As elsewhere in her work, the extraordinary blurs the line between perception and the supernatural, and the novel keeps the ambiguity rather than resolving it. The book reached the longlist for the PEN/Jean Stein Book Award and drew praise for its compassion toward mental illness and family instability.

Several themes recur across the fiction. She studies how children build imaginative systems to make sense of adult suffering. She draws families as networks of hidden current rather than stable institutions. Physical change stands in for psychological change, and bodies become the ground where shame, desire, and love take visible form. Unlike most fantasy, her stories rarely explain their impossible premises. Characters adapt to the strange the way people accommodate emotional facts they cannot reason their way out of.

Critics group the work under magical realism, fabulism, or slipstream. Bender has said she cares less about genre than about the emotional necessity behind a premise, and that surrealism lets a writer reach experience that realism alone cannot hold. Magical events serve as metaphor for the reader while staying literal for the character who lives them. Alongside Kelly Link and Karen Russell, she helped define a generation of American fabulists who traded strict realism for emotion-driven fantasy. Her restrained prose and her refusal to explain the supernatural set her apart from the rest.

She teaches as Distinguished Professor of English at the University of Southern California, where she has mentored emerging novelists and short story writers and once directed the PhD program in creative writing and literature. Her workshops favor curiosity, intuition, and long attention to a single image over formula or commercial calculation. She argues that fiction starts in mystery, not certainty, and that a writer should resist explaining away the strange impulse that set the story going. Her own practice follows the rule. She writes about two hours each morning, begins with a vivid image or an odd sentence, and discovers the story in the act of writing rather than through an outline.

Her stories have appeared in Granta, The Paris Review, Harper’s, GQ, Tin House, and McSweeney’s, and several have been broadcast on This American Life and Selected Shorts. She has won two Pushcart Prizes and earned a Shirley Jackson Award nomination for her story “Faces.” Her books have been translated into more than sixteen languages.

A 2006 interview fills in the person behind the work. She describes herself as optimistic and friendly, and says people who knew her without knowing her well were surprised by the dark material in her fiction. She rejects the word “flat” for her public manner and prefers “calm.” She does not believe in the muse. She named Halloween her favorite holiday for its license to enter the unconscious through imagination and fantasy. She links the literary to depth, and depth to despair, while warning that despair performed to join a club is the more hopeless kind.

In the same interview she traced a rise in her Jewish identification to the end of her marriage. Her then-husband had defended a swastika his family displayed as an ancient pagan and Native American symbol, and she asked only that they reverse it. She tied the dispute to Jewishness and to the close of the marriage, and said the divorce brought a resurgence of interest in valuing her Judaism. She began to attend synagogue more often, took part in the Reboot gatherings of younger joys, and appeared twice at the San Francisco Jewish Book Festival. She had not been to Israel, and she described the relationship of American Jews to Israel as a subject that shuts people down where it ought to open a lively debate. Asked where Jewishness sat among her priorities, she moved it up the list over the course of the conversation, from a number a moderator had once put near the bottom to something closer to the center.

Bender has published a small body of work, and each book has widened her standing as a writer who joins formal invention to emotional depth. Her method, the single surreal premise that lights up a recognizable feeling, has spread among younger American writers. In a period split between strict realism and high-concept fantasy, she holds the uncertain ground between the ordinary and the impossible, and treats the fantastic as one more route to emotional truth rather than an escape from it.

Aimee Bender and the Body That Will Not Be Read

Noon, a Tuesday in late August 2006. She takes the call on schedule. The voice on the line stays level through every question, and the interviewer notices, and he names it.
“Your voice seems flat,” he says. “I don’t know if you are tired or if this is just your interview voice.”
She does not let it pass. “I’m feeling a little defensive of the word ‘flat,'” she says, “but that is my manner.” A moment later she sets the better word in place. “I’m often called ‘calm,’ which I prefer over ‘flat.'”
The exchange runs no longer than a minute, and it holds the whole architecture. The surface is calm. The dark sits underneath. People who knew her in high school without knowing her well were surprised, she says, by the material in the fiction, and cannot place where it comes from. The surface tells them nothing. That gap, between the level voice and the thing under it, is the work. Her art descends through one to reach the other.
Ernest Becker (1924-1974) gives the name for what such an art does. A hero system is the arrangement a culture or a single person builds so that a mortal animal can feel he counts against a universe that ends him. The system assigns the tasks that earn significance and the dangers that threaten it. Read a person’s sacred values and you read the death they are trying to outlast. Bender’s hero system runs on a simple proposition stated in plain terms during that same call. “What interests me in writing,” she says, “is vulnerability and pushing for something underneath the surface, exposing something.” The hero is the one who goes under. The reward is contact with an emotional truth that the lit surface of ordinary life keeps sealed.
She inherited the descent and refused the map. Her father worked as a psychoanalyst, her mother as a dance therapist. One trade reads the symbol, the dream decoded, the symptom that means. The other reads the body, the feeling carried in posture and motion. Bender keeps both instruments. She writes bodies that carry feeling and premises that arrive from the unconscious like dreams. Then she withholds the reading. The analyst tells you what the dream means. Bender gives you a girl who tastes her mother’s despair in a slice of lemon cake and tells you nothing about what it means. She grew up in the house of interpretation and built an art that will not interpret. The unconscious stays. The decoding goes.
That refusal is the sacred center, and it sets the terror it answers.
Becker, drawing on Otto Rank (1884-1939), splits the fear into two. There is the terror of death, the animal fact that the body decays and ends, that the self is meat that rots. And there is the terror of life, the dread of standing out as a separate self, exposed, unprotected, responsible for one’s own powers. Most hero systems lean hard toward one pole and pay for it at the other. Bender places both terrors in the same object. The body.
Watch where she goes when the interviewer asks about tattoos. She does not want one. She gives the surface reason first, the old story that a Jew with a tattoo cannot rest in a Jewish cemetery. Then she gives the real reason. “It feels too concrete a choice,” she says. “You make a choice and you having to stick with that choice.” The mark cannot come off. The body keeps it past the moment of choosing, carries it to the grave, settles the question the living self wanted to leave open. The cemetery and the tattoo arrive in the same breath because they name the same thing. The body will be buried. The body remembers. The body decides what you cannot take back.
Her fiction lives on that edge. A woman sprouts a feature she did not ask for. A girl’s tongue reports what her family will not say. The bodies in these stories betray their owners by telling the truth, and the owners adapt the way people adapt to a diagnosis. The transformation is the terror of death, the body acting on its own clock, and the terror of life, the self exposed past any cover, in one image. She found the place where the two fears meet and built a career standing on it.
Now the values. A hero system does not invent new words. It takes the common ones and bends them to its own gravity, so that a single value means one thing here and the opposite three feet over. Three of Bender’s words show the bend.
Take vulnerability, her own word, the one she names as the engine of the work. For her it is the route in, the condition you seek, the open door to the thing under the surface. A writer who is not exposed has written nothing. Carry that word to a combat medic and it inverts at once. Vulnerability is the gap in the armor, the thing that gets a man killed, the state his whole training exists to close. Carry it to a founder raising a round, and it becomes a line on a risk page, exposure to be hedged, a weakness a rival will price. Carry it to a Pashtun elder in an honor home and it reads as shame, the loss of face that a family spends its name to prevent. Then set it beside a hospice nurse, who treats vulnerability as the human floor, the condition every patient shares and no one survives, the thing to sit with and accompany rather than close or hedge or hide. Bender stands near the nurse and far from the medic. Same word. Five deaths behind it, five different things a person is trying not to be.
Take depth. She links it to the literary and the literary to despair. “When you go into depth, you’re going to find despair,” she says, and she means this as the cost of honest descent, not a defect of it. To a free diver, depth is the pressure that can kill and the silence worth the risk, transcendence bought with breath. To an oil driller, depth is where the value waits, a distance to be crossed and the prize hauled up and out. To the analyst, her father’s trade, depth is the unconscious, a region to be surfaced and read and brought into the light of the consulting room. Bender keeps the diver’s reverence and the analyst’s terrain and rejects the driller’s extraction and the analyst’s surfacing. She goes down. She does not bring the meaning up. The depth is for dwelling, not for hauling.
Take mystery. Her teaching turns on it. She tells her workshops that fiction starts in mystery, not certainty, and that a writer must resist explaining away the strange impulse that set the story moving. For a detective, mystery is a problem with a solution, a thing whose only proper end is its own erasure. For a physicist, mystery is the present edge of ignorance, honored and then pushed back. For an illusionist, mystery is a method hidden so the effect can land, a trick whose secret is held only to be sold. For a contemplative in any of the old traditions, mystery is the sacred, the thing you dwell in and never solve, and the attempt to solve it is the error. Bender sits with the contemplative and against the detective. Her premises arrive unexplained and stay unexplained because explanation would be the desecration. She built a religion of the unsolved and staffed it with potato children and a girl who tastes grief.
The rival hero systems crowd in from every side, and she names one of them in the interview without being asked. The interviewer says she carries a vulnerability that would have gone missing had she become a lawyer. She agrees fast. “I don’t think I could’ve been a lawyer,” she says. “A lawyer is a protector. What interests me in writing is vulnerability and pushing for something underneath.” The lawyer earns significance by closing the gap, by armoring the client, by leaving nothing exposed. The writer earns it by opening the gap and climbing in. Two hero systems, one shared word, opposite tasks. To the protector, the exposed surface is the failure. To Bender, the exposed surface is the achievement.
The realist is the second rival, the writer who keeps to the possible and treats the impossible as a child’s evasion. Becker’s subtraction story sits here. The modern secular world took the enchanted cosmos away, the world where a body could turn into a tree and the turning meant something, where the unseen pressed on the seen. What it left is a flat field of fact, and the literary realist guards that field and calls the policing maturity. Bender runs the smuggling operation. She slips one impossible thing back into a recognizable Los Angeles and lets it work with full seriousness. She does not rebuild a magical world. She restores the single magical fact and dares you to call it a lie. The realist’s death is to be caught believing in nothing under the surface. Hers is to be caught explaining the thing she should have left alone.
The genre builder is the third rival, and the line between them runs fine. The fantasy writer who constructs rules, systems, an explained machinery of magic, treats mystery the way the physicist does, an edge to be mapped. Bender refuses the map for the same reason she refuses the tattoo. The explained premise is the concrete choice you cannot take back. The unexplained one stays alive. Critics grouped her with magical realism, fabulism, slipstream, and she waves the labels off and says she cares about the emotional necessity behind a premise and nothing else. The label is a rule. She will not be ruled.
And the performer is the fourth, the reader who does voices, who fills a room by force. The interviewer presses her on this too. Does she take charge of a room. Does she speak louder. She does not. “I don’t usually dominate a discussion or a room,” she says, and of her readings, “it’s not like I am going to take on a character’s voice. I want the words to convey it and to read it in a way that goes under the words.” Her significance does not live in the performed surface. It lives under it, in the same place her fiction lives, which is why the flat voice and the dark page belong to one person and one system.
Three coordinates locate her when the essay closes. The first is the house she came from and turned. The analyst reads the dream and the dance therapist reads the body, and the daughter keeps the dream and the body and burns the reading, so that her art is the parental method run backward, all symptom and no diagnosis, and the withholding is the whole of the originality. The second is the body as the ground where her two terrors meet, the tattoo she will not take because the body keeps what the self would rather hold open, the transformed bodies of the fiction that tell the truth their owners cannot, where death and exposure arrive in one image and she has spent six books standing on the spot. The third is the religion of the unsolved, the depth entered for dwelling and not for hauling, the mystery honored and never cracked, the calm surface laid over the dark like the level voice over the long pause on a phone in late summer, a manner she would rather you call calm, and a descent she has asked no one to explain, least of all herself.

Aimee Bender and the Two Markets

Pierre Bourdieu (1930-2002) built a way to read a writer that starts not with the writer but with the field she stands in. The literary field, in his account, is a structured space of positions, and a position carries its value from where it sits relative to the others, not from any quality the work holds on its own. The field splits along one axis above all. At one pole sits restricted production, art made for other producers, for the small set of people who confer prestige, art that disavows the market and earns its credit by the disavowal. At the other pole sits large-scale production, art made for the broad audience, art that takes its reward in sales and counts the sales as proof of nothing but sales. The two poles run on opposed economies. The restricted pole treats commercial success as a stain. The large pole treats critical esteem as decoration on a product that has already won. A writer’s whole career can be read as the management of her place between them.
Bender’s career states the problem in its sharpest form, because she holds both positions at once. This is the fact a field reading has to explain.
Start with the restricted pole, where she made her name. The Girl in the Flammable Skirt (1998) arrived as a story collection, the form with the least commercial promise and the most prestige per page in the American literary economy. It became a New York Times Notable Book. The surreal premise, the refusal to explain it, the descent from Angela Carter and Donald Barthelme that the critics reached for at once, all of it placed her among the producers who make work for other producers. The consecration markers followed in the currency of that pole. A James Tiptree Jr. Award nomination for Willful Creatures (2005). A Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award shortlist for The Color Master (2013). Two Pushcart Prizes. A Shirley Jackson Award nomination. None of these pays much. All of them confer the thing the restricted pole exists to confer, which is the recognition of peers and gatekeepers, the symbolic capital that cannot be bought and can only be granted by those who already hold it.
The credential sits underneath the awards and matters more. She holds an MFA from the University of California, Irvine, taken in 1997, and she took it studying with the novelist Judith Grossman and the writer Geoffrey Wolff. Bourdieu reads this as the inheritance of position. A writer does not enter the field from nowhere. She enters at a location prepared by who trained her, and the training transmits more than craft. It transmits the disposition, the feel for the game, the sense of what counts as serious and what counts as cheap that a player carries without having to think it. The Irvine pedigree and the descent from Grossman and Wolff place Bender inside the consecrated lineage before she has published a word the wider world will read. Her later teaching post, Distinguished Professor of English at the University of Southern California, completes the circuit. She holds the chair that confers the disposition she once received. She has moved from the consecrated to the consecrator.
Then comes The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake (2010), and the other pole opens under her feet. The novel reached the New York Times bestseller list. It carried her to an international readership and translation into more than sixteen languages. By the logic of the restricted pole, a bestseller is a problem, because the broad audience is precisely the body whose approval the restricted pole has trained itself to distrust. Sales prove reach. The restricted pole does not trade in reach. It trades in the refusal of reach, and a writer who sells in those numbers has to account for the sales in a coin that does not devalue her standing among the people who granted her the standing in the first place.
Watch how she manages it, because the management is the whole art of holding a double position. Lemon Cake does not abandon the restricted-pole method. It runs the same engine as the prize-winning stories. A single impossible premise, a girl who tastes the feelings of whoever cooked her food, set in a recognizable Los Angeles, never explained. The book sells in the large market while keeping the form that earns credit in the small one. The surreal premise is the hinge. It is strange enough to hold the prestige of the difficult and human enough to carry the broad reader through. She did not cross from one pole to the other. She built a bridge that let the symbolic capital and the sales arrive on the same book without either canceling the other. Bourdieu’s rarest case is the writer who converts across the divide without loss, and Bender is a working instance of it.
The interview from August 2006 shows the conversion problem live, in the writer’s own handling of the field’s central word. The interviewer asks how often “literary” is a code word for despair. She does not answer the question first. She handles the word.
“What interests me about your question,” she says, “is that ‘literary’ is such a charged word. It can feel snooty.”
That sentence is field theory spoken by a native. She knows the word carries a class position. She knows it can read as a claim of superiority, the restricted pole looking down at the large one, and she reaches to defuse the charge before she will use the word at all. Then she rehabilitates it on her own terms. “I hope that ‘literary’ means going into something with depth, and when you go into depth, you’re going to find despair.” She converts the status word into a labor word. Literary stops meaning above you and starts meaning down further, a measure of descent rather than rank. The move lets her keep the prestige of the term while disowning the snobbery the term carries. She wants the capital. She does not want the bill that comes with flaunting it.
She goes further in the same exchange and names the counterfeit directly. Some despair is honest, she says, the place a writer reaches when he pushes himself. And some is fake, performed “to join the club.” Bourdieu would mark that line as the field policing its own boundary. The club is the restricted pole. Membership is conferred by the display of the right suffering, the right difficulty, the right refusal of easy pleasure. A writer who fakes the despair is forging the credential, claiming the position without paying the price the position demands. Bender draws the boundary even as she stands inside it. The gesture is itself a bid for position. To name the counterfeits is to claim you are not one.
Two more passages from the interview show the field exacting its discounts, the costs Bourdieu says every position carries.
The first is the discount for strangeness. “Some people don’t take my stuff seriously,” she says, “because they think it’s weird.” This is the tax the surreal pays at the boundary with the realist mainstream. Literary realism holds a large share of the field’s middle, the respectable center where seriousness is assumed, and a writer who works in the fantastic has to earn back the seriousness that the realist receives by default. The weird premise that buys her credit at the avant-garde pole costs her credit at the realist center. She pays at one register what she banks at the other.
The second is subtler and sits in the body. The interviewer tells her she is gorgeous, twice, and ties her looks to the work, and she pushes back on the tie. The field, in Bourdieu’s account, distributes its capital unevenly across kinds of bodies, and a woman writer who reads as cute draws a discount on her seriousness that a man does not draw. The prestige economy of the restricted pole presents itself as pure, a matter of the work and nothing else, and it is not pure. It reads the author’s body and prices it. Bender takes the compliment and resists the inference, because she knows the inference carries a cost, that to be received as cute is to be received as light, and light is the one thing the descent into depth cannot afford to be called.
Three coordinates close the reading. The first is the double position itself, the prize collections and the bestseller novel run on the same unexplained premise, the bridge across the divide that lets the symbolic capital and the sales sit on one shelf, the rare conversion that costs her nothing at either pole because the method that earns the credit is the method that wins the readers. The second is the inherited location, Irvine and Grossman and Wolff and now the USC chair, the disposition received and then transmitted, a player who entered the field at a consecrated address and has moved up to the desk that assigns the addresses. The third is the management of the charged word, “literary” defused and reclaimed and turned from a mark of rank into a measure of descent, the counterfeit despair named and shut out, the discounts for the weird and the cute absorbed and resisted, a writer who knows exactly what every token in the game is worth and has spent a career spending them well.

Aimee Bender and the Rhythm That Will Not Catch

Randall Collins (b. 1941) argues that the basic unit of social life is the encounter, and that an encounter succeeds or fails by a measurable physics. He calls the successful one an interaction ritual. It needs four things present at once. Two or more bodies in the same place. A barrier that marks who belongs and who does not. A single object of shared attention. And a shared mood that builds as the encounter runs. When the four lock together, the bodies fall into rhythm, gesture answering gesture, voice catching voice, and the rhythm pumps out the thing Collins puts at the center of everything, emotional energy. Emotional energy is confidence, warmth, the charge a person carries out of a good encounter and spends seeking the next one. People chain these encounters across a life, drawn toward the situations that fill the tank and away from the ones that drain it. A failed ritual leaves a person flatter than it found him.
The interview from August 2006 is a ritual caught partway to failure, and the failure is on the record because the interviewer says so while it happens.
She has called him on schedule. The first ingredient, bodily co-presence, arrives over a phone line, which is to say it arrives weakened, because Collins holds that the rhythm runs on bodies in a room, on the micro-signals of face and posture that a wire strips away. Two people on a call have to build entrainment with half the materials. Sometimes the call still catches. This one does not. He reaches for the shared mood and cannot find it. He names the problem out loud.
“You seem not animated,” he says.
“I feel animated,” she answers. “I’m pretty calm. I get that a lot.”
He pushes again, looking for the rhythm a good encounter throws off. “When you want to take charge of a room, what do you do? Do you speak louder?”
“Does it feel like I’m speaking quietly?”
The two of them are running different templates for the same ritual. He treats emotional energy as something a person performs upward, voice raised, room taken, the charge made visible so the other body can catch it. She treats the charge as something held low and steady, carried under the words rather than thrown across them. He reads her level voice as a tank near empty. She reads her level voice as a full tank held in reserve. Neither template is wrong by Collins’s lights. They simply do not entrain. The signals each one sends do not register as signals to the other, and the encounter never finds the rhythm that pumps the energy out.
Then the interviewer says the word, and the word is “flat,” and her resistance to it is the most charged moment in the call.
“Your voice seems flat,” he says.
She does not let it pass. “I’m feeling a little defensive of the word ‘flat,'” she says, “but that is my manner.” Later she sets the better word in its place. “I’m often called ‘calm,’ which I prefer over ‘flat.'”
Collins lets us see what the fight is about. “Flat” is the word for a drained ritual, the encounter that produced no energy, the body that gives nothing back. “Calm” is the word for energy held without display. She is fighting over the reading of her own emotional state, because the reading determines what kind of ritual partner she is taken to be. Accept “flat” and she becomes a sink, a person who pulls the energy down. Hold “calm” and she becomes a different kind of presence, charged but quiet, the energy real and merely undisplayed. The defensiveness rises right there, the only point in the call where her voice moves off its level, and it moves to defend the level itself.
Collins says emotional energy is not a private trait. It is a social product, made in the encounter or not made. So when the interviewer reads her as low and she reads herself as full, the question of who is right cannot be settled by looking inside her. It can only be settled by whether the encounter catches, and this encounter does not catch, which means the interviewer’s reading half-creates the flatness he reports. He brings less energy to her than her readers and her workshops bring, and so she gives less back, and the low rhythm he gets is partly the rhythm he made. The phone, the mismatched templates, the pressing on a sore word, all of it drains the encounter, and then the drainage gets recorded as a fact about her manner.
Set against the failed call is the ritual that works for her, and it has only one body in the room. She writes about two hours each morning. She begins with an image or an odd sentence and finds the story in the writing. Collins allows the solitary ritual a place in the chain, though he treats it as the harder case. A person alone can still focus attention on a single object, still build a mood, still charge a symbol with significance, but the energy has to come from somewhere, because there is no second body to catch a rhythm with. Collins’s answer is that the lone ritualist runs on energy banked from earlier encounters, on an internalized membership that lets the solitary act feel like communion with an absent group. The morning desk is a private rite that draws on a public charge.
Her line about the muse tells us where she thinks the charge comes from, and it lands inside Collins’s account. “I don’t believe in the muse,” she says. The muse is the old name for an external source, a spirit that visits, a transcendent supply of energy that arrives from outside the writer and outside the act. To deny the muse is to relocate the whole supply. The energy does not visit the desk. The desk makes it. The sitting itself, repeated every morning, is the ritual that generates the charge, and the charge is the reward that pulls her back the next morning and the morning after. Collins would say she has described the chain precisely. The practice runs because the practice pays, and it pays in the only currency that keeps a solitary discipline alive across decades, the emotional energy of the rite performed again.
The third stretch of material is her re-entry into Jewish life, and it is a textbook chain of rituals doing repair work after a ritual collapsed. The marriage failed, and it failed around a charged object, a swastika her then-husband’s family displayed and defended as an ancient symbol. She asked them to reverse it. The dispute carried the full weight that Collins assigns to a sacred symbol under attack, because a sacred symbol is exactly an object charged by ritual until a group treats it as non-negotiable, and a swastika in a Jewish woman’s married home is the sacred of her people turned upside down in the place she lives. The marriage ended. And then, she says, the divorce brought a resurgence of interest in valuing her Judaism.
Watch what the resurgence runs on. Not belief stated in the abstract. Participation. “Going to synagogue more,” she says, “and being more aware of what is going on in Jewish LA in my age group.” She names Reboot, the gatherings of younger Jews talking through their Judaism. She appeared twice at the San Francisco Jewish Book Festival. Every item on that list is a co-present ritual, bodies in a room, a barrier marking the members, a shared focus, a shared mood. Collins predicts this exactly. A person rebuilds solidarity not by deciding to believe but by attending, by putting the body in the room where the energy is made, and letting the repeated encounters recharge the symbols that a failed encounter drained. She told the interviewer that being Jewish had moved up her list of priorities, from a spot a moderator once put near the bottom to something nearer the center. The list did not move because she reasoned her way up it. It moved because she kept showing up to the rituals, and the rituals did what rituals do.
The interviewer asks how she feels about being one of God’s chosen people, and she laughs and says she has some trouble with that. The trouble is consistent with everything else. She does not draw her charge from a transcendent grant, not the muse for the writing and not the election for the faith. She draws it from the practice, the morning desk and the synagogue floor, the rites a body performs until they pay.
Three coordinates locate her. The first is the failed call, the phone that thins the co-presence, the two templates for emotional energy that never entrain, the fight over “flat” against “calm” that is a fight over what the encounter produced, and the low rhythm the interviewer records as her nature when it is partly the product of his own thin charge. The second is the solitary rite, the two morning hours, the muse denied so that the energy has nowhere to come from but the sitting itself, a private discipline that runs on a public charge banked from every room she has written toward. The third is the repair chain, the marriage broken on an inverted sacred symbol and the slow recharge that followed, Reboot and synagogue and the book festival, the priority that climbed her list because she kept putting her body where the energy is made, a writer who trusts no visiting spirit and builds her significance the only way Collins says it can be built, in the encounter, by showing up.

The Set

Aimee Bender (b. 1969) belongs to the American literary fabulists, the writers who keep one foot in realism and one in the fairy tale and decline to be filed under either. The set has no membership roll, but its members recognize one another on the page. George Saunders (b. 1958), Kelly Link (b. 1969), Karen Russell (b. 1981), Kevin Brockmeier (b. 1972), Judy Budnitz (b. 1973), Steven Millhauser (b. 1943), Miranda July (b. 1974), and, among the younger arrivals, Carmen Maria Machado (b. 1986) and Samanta Schweblin (b. 1978) in translation. They claim a line of ancestors and cite them often, because citation is how the set marks its borders: Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986), Italo Calvino (1923-1985), Gabriel García Márquez (1927-2014), Angela Carter (1940-1992), Donald Barthelme (1931-1989), Flannery O’Connor (1925-1964), Anne Sexton (1928-1974), Hans Christian Andersen (1805-1875), the Brothers Grimm, Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), and Haruki Murakami (b. 1949). At the speculative edge they keep a careful, admiring distance from Ursula K. Le Guin (1929-2018), Margaret Atwood (b. 1939), and Octavia Butler (1947-2006), figures they honor without quite claiming, because those names carry the genre charge the set works to hold off.

What they value is invention, and a particular kind of it. Not plot invention and not world-building in the genre sense, but the single strange image that opens an emotion sideways. A boy with keys for fingers. A girl who tastes the feelings of whoever cooked her food. A man who reverses through evolution while his lover watches. The image is the unit of worth. Bender names the source without disguise. Her mother took her to modern dance and to theater of the absurd and gave her, in Bender’s word, permission to be weird, and her psychoanalyst father gave her the conviction that the unconscious is a real place worth following. She calls herself the combo platter and says her best work comes when she lets the unconscious rule the page. The set shares the creed. The dream is truer than the argument, the image truer than the statement, and the writer who trusts the strange access reaches a feeling the realist cannot reach head on.

Their hero is the original, the writer who founds no school and joins none yet whom everyone reads to learn from. The set prizes the sui generis above the skilled, and its highest token names the value out loud. Saunders, Link, and Russell each hold the MacArthur Fellowship, the grant the public calls the genius award, and the word is the set’s word for what it most admires. To be a hero here is to make a thing no one has made and to be claimed for it by the consecrating institutions while keeping the aura of the uncategorizable. The career runs on staying legible to the prestige world without being captured by it, and on staying cool to the indie world without being demoted to it.

The status games follow from that double bind, and the first of them is boundary policing. The line between literary fiction with fantastical elements and genre fantasy is the set’s most guarded frontier. To be called a magical realist flatters. To be shelved as fantasy demotes. This is why the citations run to Borges and Carter and never to the science-fiction shelf, except for the few names the set has lifted across the line. Atwood’s own long refusal of the science-fiction label is the move in its pure form, and the set understands the move from the inside. The adjacent world has its own vocabulary, slipstream, coined by Bruce Sterling (b. 1954), and interstitial, the banner of the foundation Delia Sherman and Ellen Kushner helped start, and the fabulists tend to keep both words at arm’s length, since accepting them might pull the work toward the genre pole.

The second game is pedigree. Program lineage marks rank, and Bender carries a strong one. She took her degree at the University of California, Irvine, under Judith Grossman (1937-2018) and Geoffrey Wolff (b. 1937), in the cohort that produced Michael Chabon (b. 1963), Alice Sebold (b. 1962), and Glen David Gold (b. 1964). Sebold is her close friend, and the friendship is itself a form of capital, a tie to the cohort that came up together and rose together. She teaches at the University of Southern California and directed its doctoral program in creative writing, which converts her own consecration into the power to consecrate others.

The third game is placement, and it has a strict order. The New Yorker sits at the top, then Granta, The Paris Review, Harper’s, Tin House, and the McSweeney’s orbit around Dave Eggers (b. 1970), whose magazine The Believer named one of Bender’s collections a book of the year. Conjunctions, the journal Bradford Morrow (b. 1951) has run for decades, is the set’s clubhouse, the place where the innovative and the fabulist publish among their own. Broadcast confers its own rank. Bender has been read on Ira Glass‘s This American Life and on the Selected Shorts program at Symphony Space, and a story carried on the air reaches past the small reviews into the larger room.

The fourth game is the award taxonomy, and the set runs a double ledger. The literary prizes, the National Book Award, the Pulitzer, the National Book Critics Circle, sit at the top of the internal hierarchy. The crossover prizes confer cool rather than rank: the Shirley Jackson Award, the James Tiptree Jr. Award, renamed the Otherwise Award in 2019, the World Fantasy Award, the Alex Award for adult books that reach teenagers. Bender has touched both ledgers. She drew a Tiptree nomination for Willful Creatures, a Shirley Jackson finalist place for the story “Faces,” and an Alex Award for The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, alongside the New York Times Notable designations and the Los Angeles Times bestseller weeks that mark the literary side. Holding both ledgers at once is the flex the set most respects, because it proves the writer can be strange enough for the cool world and serious enough for the high one.

Their normative claims fall out of the values. Follow the image. Trust the unconscious. Do not explain the strange thing, because explaining condescends to the reader and kills the feeling. Strangeness is a legitimate route to emotional truth, and the realist claim to a monopoly on seriousness is unjust. Teach by permission, not by rule, which is how Bender describes her own classroom and how the set describes its ideal of mentorship, a freeing rather than a drilling.

Underneath the norms run two essentialist convictions the set rarely states but everywhere assumes. The first holds that there are real writers, born strange, who need only permission to find the voice that was always theirs, as against those who force the weird from outside and produce the counterfeit. Bender tells the origin story in this key. In graduate school she handed in two stories per assignment, the one she thought she should write and the strange one she preferred, and when her peers and teachers chose the strange one she stopped pretending. The true voice was discovered, not built. The second conviction holds that the unconscious is a real wellspring and that metaphor is the native tongue of certain emotions, not a decoration laid over them. On this view the surreal is not a style a writer selects. It is the only honest language for what the writer has to say.

The moral grammar distributes praise and blame along the same axis. Virtue is originality, the courage to be strange, fidelity to the image, generosity toward the reader, and the refusal of cliché and of the market. Sin is the derivative, the over-explained, the cynical, and what Bender calls the tricked-up realistic fiction that readers, she found, liked less than her stranger work. The cardinal sin is to be genre in the low sense, to write the fantastic without aspiring to the literary, and the twin sin facing it is to be the realist who mistakes his mode for the whole of seriousness. The set keeps one demand above the rest. Whimsy must be redeemed by weight. The strange image has to pay off in feeling, or it stands convicted of mere cleverness, which in this company is the thing closest to shame. Grace exists, and it takes one form. The community absolves the formerly timid writer who finds the nerve to write weird, and the permission narrative, told and retold, is its rite of welcome.

I Interviewed Novelist Aimee Bender

I got to tell her: "You're freakin' gorgeous."

It was a great moment in literary history and a turning point in relations between the sexes.

If I had been blogging in 1992, there would never have been the L.A. Riots.

Let's go to the audiotape.

Noon. Aug 29, 2006. Aimee Bender phones me as scheduled.

Luke: "What are the qualities of the best and worst interview experiences you've had?"

Aimee: "In the best ones, I go with the flow as it happens and it deepens as it goes. It can be easy to have a quick answer and then jump to something else."

Luke: "Your writing is so surreal, you're a bit more of a challenge."

Aimee: "It's a challenge for me to know how to talk about it in a way that can connect to someone. Often I'll end up talking about my writing routine and how I sit down to write in the morning. The process of how stuff happens on the page is hard to pin down."

Luke: "How much do you have to do with your website www.flammableskirt.com?"

Aimee: "I set it up with my boyfriend of the time."

Luke: "I remember the moderator of your panel [on the Jewish Guilt book at the People of the Book Festival 2006] said that to Aimee being Jewish may be number ten on your list of priorities."

Aimee: "And I said, maybe it's number five.

"If I'm the only Jew in the room, I'm aware. That's a form of identity."

Luke: "When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?"

Aimee: "A writer at times, but I also wanted to be a singer and an actress."

Luke: "Are you a good singer and actress?"

Aimee: "I'm a bad actress and I'm not a good singer but I really like it."

Luke: "I've seen you on a few different panels and there's a vulnerability to you that wouldn't be there if you had become a lawyer."

Aimee: "I don't think I could've been a lawyer. A lawyer is a protector. What interests me in writing is vulnerability and pushing for something underneath the surface, exposing something."

Bender went to Pacific Palisades High School. "I was with the nerdy honors crowd. Then the drama group was the counterpoint. I was enamored with their enthusiasm for performance."

"I viewed writing as a hobby until graduate school when I began writing every day."

Aimee got her BA in Literature (with an emphasis on Creative Writing) in 1991 and her MFA from U.C. Irvine in 1997.

"In general, I'm an optimistic person. I'm friendly. I like people. The people who didn't know me well were surprised by the dark stuff in my writing. I have people who've known me since highschool who don't know where that stuff comes from."

Luke: "What do you do with your nervous energy?"

Aimee: "I don't smoke but I get the appeal. Walking is good. I can over-think things. I'll structure things. Make lists. On a good day, I can talk myself through it and see what's under it. Usually there's something complicated."

Luke: "Are you at peace with yourself?"

Aimee laughs. "No. There's tons of conflict."

Luke: "Where is being Jewish in your list of priorities?"

Aimee: "It's become more important. There are ways that I deal with my nervous energy that feel Jewish. The ways that I'm attracted to Hebrew."

Luke: "When did Aimee Bender become cool? You're on a good trajectory."

Aimee laughs. "In graduate school, I typed up that I want to be in a bookstore and I want loyal fans."

Luke: "When do you get the most animated? You seem not animated."

Aimee: "I feel animated. I'm pretty calm. I get that a lot. Interviews are a particular form where you try to articulate things that are often hard to articulate. My style in general is low-key."

Luke: "When you want to take charge of a room, what do you do? Do you speak louder?"

Aimee: "Does it feel like I'm speaking quietly?"

Luke: "I'm just curious."

Aimee: "I can't tell if you mean…"

Luke: "Your voice seems flat. I don't know if you are tired or if this is just your interview voice…"

Aimee: "It's hard for me to know.

"To command attention, it's not usually a problem."

"I don't usually dominate a discussion or a room."

Luke: "Do you enjoy performing at a reading?"

Aimee: "Yes, but it's not like I am going to take on a character's voice. What you may experience as flat, I think something else is going on. I want the words to convey it and to read it in a way that goes under the words."

Luke: "Can you do voices?"

Aimee: "Not really."

"This American Life reads things that can seem like a deadpan but I really like it.

"I'm feeling a little defensive of the word 'flat' but that is my manner."

Luke: "You've never done phone sex as a profession."

Aimee: "No, but even if I had, I wouldn't tell you."

"I'm often called 'calm,' which I prefer over 'flat.'"

Luke: "You're freakin' gorgeous. How has your body affected your writing?"

Aimee laughs. "I get a little insult. Now I get a little compliment.

"Thank you."

Luke: "It'd be hard to write your librarian story without the confidence that beauty brings."

Aimee: "It's about inhabiting that feeling of being attractive."

Luke: "Have you experienced not being taken seriously as a writer because you are cute?"

Aimee: "Some people don't take my stuff seriously because they think it's weird."

Aimee's published three essays.

Luke: "How do you like writing under the constraints of being factually true?"

Aimee: "I find it really hard."

Luke: "Do you fear that your muse will leave you?"

Aimee: "No, because I don't believe in the muse."

Luke: "Is Halloween still your favorite holiday?"

Aimee: "Yes, because it's about imagination and fantasy and going to an unconscious expression of something."

Luke: "That essay you read at the Heeb reading [in June 2005]…"

Aimee: "Have we met?"

Luke: "Yes. There. It was brief."

Aimee: "It hasn't shown up yet in Heeb. They haven't done something with those talks. I'm not sure I want to push it."

Luke: "You wrote about…"

Aimee: "A failed marriage."

Luke: "Anti-Semitism. Your husband defended the swastika."

Aimee laughs. "I like how that's boiled down."

Luke: "He said it was an ancient pagan symbol."

Aimee: "The reverse swastika was the Native American symbol at his family's house. I just wanted them to turn it around. It was about Jewishness and the end of the marriage and that's why being Jewish has felt more important to me over the past few years. I felt like it was going to drift away and then I got divorced and there was a resurgence of interest in me about valuing it."

Luke: "What does that mean behaviorally?"

Aimee: "Going to synagogue more..and being more aware of what is going on in Jewish LA in my age group. I went to this thing called Reboot, a bunch of Jews getting together and talking about their Judaism. I did the San Francisco Jewish Book Festival twice."

Luke: "What do you find inspiring and depressing about Jewish life?"

Aimee: "I find the questioning and depth of thought inspiring. I've always liked the symbols.

"Any religion can get depressing when things are taken in a closed way."

"Figuring out the relationship of American Jews to Israel is complicated. People shut down around that topic. That's a big problem because it should be a lively and engaging debate."

"I've never been to Israel."

Luke: "How do you feel about being a part of God's Chosen People?"

Aimee laughs. "I have some trouble with that."

Luke: "How would you like to be tattooed?"

Aimee: "I would not like it, but I like it when other people are tattooed. I like seeing what people pick."

Luke: "Why would you not want to be tattooed?"

Aimee: "I do feel a little thing about the Jewish cemetery thing [the myth that a Jew who has a tattoo can not be buried in a Jewish cemetery as Jewish law forbids getting a tattoo]. It would bother me if I couldn't be buried in a Jewish cemetery. But it's more about you make a choice and you having to stick with that choice and it feels too concrete a choice."

Luke: "How often is 'literary' writing just a code word for despair?"

Aimee: "What interests me about your question is that 'literary' is such a charged word. It can feel snooty. I hope that 'literary' means going into something with depth, and when you go into depth, you're going to find despair."

Luke: "Is there some force that pushes 'literary' people to write despair?"

Aimee: "Sometimes it is the honest place people go when they push themselves. When it is fake despair to join the club, that is even more despairing."

"One of the reasons people like Charles Bukowski is that he puts voice to these [despairing] feelings and it gives release and freedom."

Related Links:

Pearl Abraham Elisa Albert Steve Almond Jonathan Ames Shalom Auslander Aimee Bender Karen Bender Amy Bloom Danit Brown Melvin Jules Bukiet Tamar Fox Naama Goldstein Rebecca Goldstein Yael Goldstein Laurie Graff Lauren Grodstein Ehud Havazelet Joanna Hershon Dara Horn Molly Jong-Fast Mitchell James Kaplan Binnie Kirshenbaum Sana Krasikov Adam Mansbach Tova Mirvis Gurumurthy Neelakantan Alana Newhouse Jon Papernick Rachel Resnick Thane Rosenbaum Elizabeth Rosner Wendy Shalit Ilana Stanger-Ross Laurie Gwen Shapiro Rochelle Shapiro Andrea Seigel Robert Siegel Terrie Silverman Margot Singer Leora Skolkin-Smith Yuri Slezkine Diana Spechler Steve Stern Ayelet Waldman Katharine Weber Tamar Yellin People of the Book Festival 2006

Yosef Abramowitz Edward Alexander Michael Berenbaum Sally Berkovic James Besser Reuven Blau Stephen Bloom Andrew Silow-Carroll Shmuley Boteach Benyamin Cohen Debra Nussbaum Cohen Robert Cohn Ami Eden Rob Eshman Larry Cohler-Esses Frances Dinkelspiel Matt Dorf Ami Eden Charles Fenyvesi Eric Fingerhut Amnon Finkelstein Sue Fishkoff Samuel Freedman Stephen Fried Robert I. Friedman Heshy Fried Jonathan Friendly Neal Gabler Evan Gahr J.J. Goldberg Ari Goldman Yossi Klein Halevi Malcolm Hoenlein Wayne Hoffman Hollywood Jews Mickey Kaus Eve Kessler Michael Kinsley Amy Klein Marc S. Klein Lisa S. Lenkiewicz Gene Lichtenstein Jason Maoz Jonathan Mark Deborah Dash Moore Alana Newhouse Gustav Niebuhr Ori Nir Steve Rabinowitz Gary Rosenblatt Jennie Rothenberg Debra Rubin Neil Rubin Walter Ruby Douglas Rushkoff Jonathan Sarna Cathy Seipp Rabbi Avi Shafran Mark Silk Sheldon Teitelbaum Jonathan Tobin Tom Tugend David Twersky Teresa Watanabe Steven I. Weiss Leon Wieseltier Paul Wilkes Lauren Winner Yori Yanover Larry Yudelson

Pearl Abraham (b. 1960) is an American novelist, essayist, translator, and teacher of creative writing whose fiction maps the moral and intellectual ground where Hasidic Judaism meets secular modernity. She belongs to a small group of writers who report on the inner life of ultra-Orthodox communities from inside that life rather than from the outside. Across four novels, a story collection, essays, translations, and decades of teaching, she treats religious authority, intellectual hunger, exile, and the longing for transcendence as the recurring matter of serious fiction. Her central characters do not arrive at a settled identity. They negotiate one, and the negotiation never closes.

She was born in Jerusalem in 1960, the third of nine children, into a Hasidic home headed by a rabbi. Her childhood moved between Israel and New York City until the family settled in New York when she was twelve. Those years of relocation handed her several languages and several worlds. She learned first in Yiddish, then in English, then returned to Yiddish schooling, so that English became a third language she came to as a reader and chose as a writer. The back-and-forth between insular religious settlements and American streets gave her early and firsthand the conflict of competing identities that became her subject.

Abraham studied at Hunter College and earned a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing at New York University. She built a career that joined fiction to teaching rather than separating them. She taught at New York University, Sarah Lawrence College, and the University of Houston before moving to Western New England University, where she taught English and creative writing, founded and directed the MFA in Fiction program, and retired as Professor Emeritus in 2022. She also founded and edits S for Sentence, an online journal devoted to the craft of the sentence. For much of her teaching life she split her weeks between Manhattan and western Massachusetts.

Her debut novel, The Romance Reader (1995), made her reputation. It follows Rachel Benjamin, a young Hasidic woman whose appetite for secular books collides with the rules of her community. Earlier American fiction had tended to render Orthodox Jews from the outside, as a closed people observed at a distance. Abraham wrote from memory and from inside the warmth and the constraint at once. Critics admired the book for withholding easy verdicts. It refuses to cast Orthodoxy as mere cage or modernity as mere rescue, and gives weight to the costs and goods of each. Library Journal named it among its Best Books of 1995, and the novel found readers abroad. Its German edition, Die Romanleserin, held a place on Der Spiegel‘s bestseller list for months, proof that a story rooted in Brooklyn Hasidism could travel as a tale of intellectual awakening and the struggle between inherited tradition and a single will.

Her second novel, Giving Up America (1998), moved from adolescent revolt to adult marriage. It traces the slow erosion of a young Jewish couple as ambition, religious obligation, and cultural expectation pull against one another. The book turns away from communal confrontation toward the quieter erosions by which a marriage holds or fails. Reviewers credited her with rendering intimate emotional change without flattening it into argument.

In The Seventh Beggar (2005), Abraham turned to Jewish mysticism and philosophical speculation. She took her starting point from a tale by Rabbi Nachman of Breslov (1772-1810) and braided contemporary characters through Kabbalistic themes, setting mystical inquiry beside artificial intelligence and computer science. The novel asks whether technical invention can stand in for spiritual imagination, and whether a confident rationalism accounts for the human reach toward transcendence. Harold Bloom (1930-2019) praised it as a striking reimagining of one of Nachman’s most cryptic stories. It reached the final three for the Koret Jewish Book Award in fiction. Although the book draws openly on Breslov, its intellectual temper also recalls the world of Chabad Hasidism in the home she came from, where rigorous study and devotional feeling press on each other. Her characters carry that pressure: they try to reconcile hard thinking with love and faith, and the effort gives the novel its heat.

Her fourth novel, American Taliban (2010), marked a departure. Loosely drawn from the case of John Walker Lindh (b. 1981), it follows an American surfer whose spiritual search carries him toward Islam and the Taliban. Abraham declines to read radicalization as politics alone. She presents it as one outcome of the search for meaning that drives seekers across traditions, and shows how idealism, curiosity, and the appetite for absolute truth can resolve into very different fates depending on circumstance and company.

Beside the novels she has published essays, reviews, poetry, translations, and short stories in The New York Times, Michigan Quarterly Review, Epoch, The Forward, and LitHub. Her first story collection, Animal Voices, Mineral Hum, made the shortlist for the 2018 Mary McCarthy Prize in Short Fiction. Her essay “For the Sins…” was cited as a notable essay in The Best American Essays. Her story “Hasidic Noir,” published in Brooklyn Noir, won the 2006 Shamus Award for Best Short Story, which shows her ease in carrying Jewish material into an unexpected genre. She has translated the Yiddish writer Lamed Shapiro (1878-1948), helping bring his dark, psychologically dense fiction of Eastern European Jewish life to English readers, and she edited the Dutch anthology Een Sterke Vrouw: Jewish Heroines in Literature.

A 2006 interview gives her own account of the questions that move her work, and the account is sharp. On God she refuses the conversion story her readers might expect. She does not report a childhood faith later shed. She says the love and fear of God simply missed her, despite the prayers said twice a day, and that she watched her religious classmates sway and pray and suspected some of them of performance, of building a reputation toward a good marriage. Her interest in God came late and not on religious terms. She holds God as an abstract human idea of a perfection toward which a person aspires, and she aligns herself with the ascetic mystic’s aim, the pursuit of a knowledge or experience the mystic reaches, while declining the title of mystic for herself. Meaning, for her, lives in knowledge, in good literature that tells us what it is to be human, in the making of decent literature, and in teaching it so that good readers come after her.

She is hard on piety, and harder on piety without learning. Growing up she saw it in girls and women shut out of the education their brothers received. As an adult she meets Jewish men and women who have access to knowledge and prefer not to know, who relish custom and ritual and law without asking what any of it signifies. On a panel about Orthodoxy she tried to open a rigorous conversation about what Orthodoxy means, how and why it began, and whether it remains a livable way, and she cited Maimonides (1138-1204) on piety for the masses and wisdom for the elite, and Henri Corbin (1903-1978) on dogma as the presupposed end of prophecy, the close of an individual’s path to eternity. The panel and the room would not follow her there. They wanted attendance figures for Upper West Side synagogues and personal confession. She allows that the failure to connect might have been her own.

Her theory of the novel sits at the center of the interview and runs against the market that sells her books. She reads the novel as an anti-authoritarian form born in reaction against the epic, with its heightened verse and idealized heroes, and against the prose romance written for entertainment. From the romance the novel took prose; from the epic it took a higher purpose. The form belongs to the town square and admits the carnival and the parody, and it was never meant as mere entertainment, which she leaves to the Harlequin, the thriller, the mystery, the spy saga. The word novel still carries the sense of the new, and a book that keeps the name owes something new, some reaction against what came before. Publishers, hunting the widest sale, have sold the literary novel as easy entertainment and so built false expectations in readers. She points to Don Quixote, by Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616), as likely the first modern novel and an immediate bestseller dressed as a parody of chivalric romance, yet over nine hundred pages, not an easy read, and not in the way readers expect funny. Vladimir Nabokov (1899-1977) called it crude and cruel, and she agrees, a book of one cruel prank after another, and full of pedantry, and alive far beyond its pages. The Seventh Beggar, she insists, rewards the reader who relaxes and lets intuition do the work, because a mystic’s story is organized by intuition rather than by the hunt for meaning.

She is most cutting on what she sees as a counterfeit Yiddishkeit in American Jewish fiction. Reading Steve Stern (b. 1947), Dara Horn (b. 1977), and Nicole Krauss (b. 1974), she says she knows by the first page that the writer’s Yiddish and Yiddish culture come from books and legend and a long-gone immigrant world rather than from speech. The nostalgia and the corn give it away. She hears the same corn from any Upper West Sider with a grandmother who spoke some Yiddish, and she notes that real Yiddish speakers in Williamsburg do not experience their language as tragicomic. This sweetened immigrant Yiddish is what general readers recognize and what confirms them in what they already feel, so they prefer it to a version stranger and truer, and non-Jewish readers walk away certain that Jews and Yiddish run to oy veys and kvetches, never learning that fine poetry once lived in the language, as in the work of Jacob Glatstein (1896-1971). To keep Yiddish light and funny and easy enough to please, she says, is a kind of sellout. She cites Isaac Bashevis Singer (1904-1991) on the impossibility of writing Yiddish in America.

She gives a measured reading of the controversy around Wendy Shalit (b. 1975), whose 2005 New York Times Book Review essay charged Jewish novelists with writing unfairly about Orthodox Judaism. Abraham grants Shalit a valid question, whether such books are art, and answers that much of it is entertainment, while calling Shalit’s conclusions confused. Good and bad literature, she holds, have nothing to do with religion. Stereotype, caricature, and sentiment make for easy reading and easy sales, and craft alone does not make art. Enduring art gives us characters who live on the page and walk off it and keep living for centuries, as Don Quixote and Hamlet do, and such characters come from the writer’s power to enter another fully, what John Keats (1795-1821) called negative capability, the capacity to become the other. She suspects Shalit left her off the list because she did not fit the thesis. She writes, she says, with sympathy for that world, and hopes her characters are not caricatures, and that time will settle the question.

She rejects the prophecy of Ted Solotaroff (1928-2008), who wrote in 1988 that the live Jewish edge in American fiction would pass to writers anchored in the observant community and drawn to the argument between Judaism and modernity under feminism, the sexual revolution, and the Holocaust. She calls the forecast blinkered and already disproved by events no one foresaw. Jews, she says, are no longer one of the interesting minorities, and the sophisticated Jewish reader skips work too anchored in Jewishness. She notes that Irving Howe (1920-1993) tried similar predictions and missed the new wave of Jewish immigration from Eastern Europe and Russia. Her hope rides instead on hybridity. She points to Steve Reich (b. 1936), whose Tehillim sets Hebrew to rhythms drawn from African music, and to Osvaldo Golijov (b. 1960), who crosses Spanish and Jewish strains, and she sees no reason such crossing should not feed literature as it has fed music. Don Quixote, again, the crossing of epic and romance, stands as her model, and she reads The Seventh Beggar, with its bluegrass and Hasidic festival, its golem and its computer, its braiding of Nachman’s seven beggars with the sevens of other tales, as a book of that hybrid impulse.

Abraham occupies a transitional place in Jewish-American letters. She stands between earlier novelists such as Chaim Potok (1929-2002), whose fiction centered on men negotiating Orthodox Judaism, and the later off-the-derech memoirists who chronicle departures from ultra-Orthodox life. Where many of those memoirs dwell on the mechanics of escape, her novels keep the intellectual seriousness and spiritual reach of the religious world her characters inhabit, even as they question its authority. Beside Rebecca Goldstein (b. 1950) and Allegra Goodman (b. 1967), she helped widen the range of contemporary Jewish-American fiction, and her sustained insider’s portrait of Hasidic life sets her apart from both. Her style joins Hasidic storytelling, above all the symbolic parables of Nachman, to modern psychological realism, and lets theological questions rise out of family life and ordinary conflict rather than abstract debate. Reading runs through her fiction as plot and as figure for transgression, transformation, and the widening of consciousness. Books become the thing that breaks the inherited frame and opens what lies past it. She is one interpreter, among the leading ones, of the country where tradition meets the modern self, and she reports from inside it.

The Pages That Remain: The Hero System of Pearl Abraham

Pearl Abraham sits on a panel about Orthodoxy and tries to start the conversation she came for. She cites Maimonides (1138-1204), who held that piety serves the masses and wisdom the elite. She cites Henri Corbin (1903-1978), for whom dogma presupposes the end of prophecy, the close of the road by which a single man might reach eternity. She asks the room what Orthodoxy means, when it began, why it arrived late to a people with a long prophetic past, and whether it remains a livable way. The room does not follow. The other panelists and the audience want the count of worshippers in Upper West Side synagogues. They want personal confession. She is playing for one stake and the room is playing for another, and the gap between the two games is the whole of her life as a writer.

A hero system, in Ernest Becker’s account, is the scheme a culture hands a man so he can feel he counts, and so hold off the knowledge that he will die. Change the scheme and you change what a man will die for, what shames him, what saves him. The panel fails because Abraham has carried a different scheme into the room. Hers is not the one most of her readers expect from a woman raised Hasidic, the third of nine children in a rabbi’s home, schooled first in Yiddish and brought to English as a third language. They expect the apostate’s tale, the cage and the escape. She refuses it. She has a higher value, and she names it without flinching. Meaning lives, she says, in Knowledge, in gnosis, and in good literature that tells a man what he is.

The death she is holding off is one she names herself. As a child, between five and seven, she feared sleep, and she reads that fear now as a fear of obliteration. As an adult she welcomes sleep and the thinking she does in dream. She notices, on a box of Dutch cigarettes her editor gives her, the warning Roken is dodelijk, smoking is deadly, and she notices that the American warning sneaks the hopeful word health into the same sentence while the Dutch says DEADLY and means it. The American will not say the word. The Dutch says it loud. Abraham hears the difference and tells the interviewer that death has become the motif of the conversation. Then she names her immortality project outright. When she returns to nothingness, she hopes a few of her pages remain, and an independence of spirit she passed to friends and students. The man who has read ten of these essays knows the shape of a denial of death. Here the subject hands it to you, unprompted, in her own words.

So her sacred value is Knowledge, and the trouble starts the moment you set the word beside other men who also hold it sacred and mean by it something else.

For Abraham, Knowledge is salvation. It is gnosis, an end in itself, the nearest a man comes to the divine, and the thing that survives him. For the trauma surgeon, Knowledge is the order of steps that keeps a body alive on the table, and Knowledge that cannot be used the instant it is needed is waste, a vanity. For her own youngest brother, a Hasidic scholar she telephones each week and loves to hear, Knowledge is avodah, service, the text climbed like a ladder toward God, study that worships rather than departs. For the war correspondent, Knowledge is the fact pinned down before the deadline and filed, Knowledge that must be published or it is nothing, the opposite of the mystic’s hoard. For the Trappist who keeps the great silence, Knowledge is what writing ruins, a thing soiled by the sentence that tries to carry it. Five men, one word, five gods. Abraham’s god is the made page that outlasts the maker. Her brother’s god is the One the page serves. The surgeon has no use for a page at all.

Watch the same fracture run through her second value, the individual. Corbin gives her the line she wants: dogma ends prophecy, ends the individual’s reach for eternity, and no novelist could want that end. For Abraham the single self is the unit of eternity, the one who attains, the one who overhears himself and changes, after the model she takes from Hamlet and Don Quixote. For the Marine in the fire team, the individual is the thing that gets the squad killed, and the dissolving of the self into the unit is the whole of virtue. For the farmer in a communal Hutterite colony, individualism is the first sin, the pride in the garden, the appetite that broke the world. For the founder chasing his round of funding, the individual is the genius who counts because he scales, and the crowd is only a market. Abraham’s individual saves his soul by standing apart. The Marine saves his by vanishing into the line. The word holds. The hero system underneath it does not.

Her third value is art, and by art she means the made thing that lasts, the character who walks off the page and keeps living for four hundred years, as she says Quixote and Hamlet do. The novel, for her, began as an anti-authoritarian form, reacting against the epic and its idealized heroics and against the romance written to amuse, and a book that keeps the name owes the world something new. For the publisher who prints her, art is a category that sells or fails to, the literary novel a product dressed as parody and sold past its difficulty, which is how she explains the false hope readers bring to her demanding books. For the aniconist who will paint no living thing, the made image that competes with creation is blasphemy, a theft from God. For the commissar, art serves the state or it is decadence to be corrected. For the radio man who fills four hours of drive-time, art is whatever holds the audience and pays the rent, and he would find her four hundred years a strange and useless span. Abraham wants the form that survives to deserve its survival, and she puts the painful question to herself as much as to others, since the Hasidic movement survived by making itself easy for the masses, and the novel risks the same bargain. The word art carries five futures. Hers reaches past her own death. The radio man’s ends at the next ratings book.

Now the reversal, which is where the man who has read ten of these essays earns his eleventh.

Abraham describes her own life as a subtraction. She left home, family, faith, she says, to become herself, and she is still becoming, as her characters are. The story she tells is the modern one, the removal of illusion, the clearing away of God and community until what is left is the bare self choosing freely. But she did not subtract a hero system. She traded one for another and kept the architecture whole. The Hasidic world she left runs on rigor, on an elite who study while the masses keep custom, on a text that outlives the body, on a teacher who passes a flame to students. Read her sentences again. She prizes rigor and despises piety without it. She quotes Maimonides on the wise few and the pious many and lands on the side of the few. She locates eternity in pages that survive her and in an independence of spirit handed to students. She made God, in her own phrase, an abstract man-made idea of a perfection a man climbs toward. She did not leave the structure. She relocated its God from the heavens to the bookshelf and kept everything else, the study, the elite, the transmission, the text that beats death. She is more Hasidic than she says. Not in creed. In form.

There is a fault running through her own system, and she names the materials for it without naming the fault. Her highest craft value is the one she takes from Keats (1795-1821), negative capability, the power to become the other, to enter a character so fully that he lives. Her highest creed value is the individual who stands apart and saves himself by not dissolving. The art demands the self vanish into another. The creed demands the self hold its ground. She becomes the surfer who walks toward the Taliban, the wife giving up on a marriage, the yeshiva boy lost in his own wanting, and out of that vanishing she makes the thing that marks her as singular and might outlast her. The man who would reach eternity as himself gets there only by becoming everyone else first. She lives in the gap and does not appear to find it a problem, which might be the most telling fact about her.

Set her act of leaving in front of several rooms at once and watch it change shape. To her brother the scholar, who reads the same texts and stayed, she is the one who took the rigor and dropped the service, who kept the ladder and threw away the heaven it leans on. To the off-the-derech memoirist who writes the mechanics of escape, she is the coward or the snob who will not call the old world a prison, who insists on its richness and so betrays the ones still trying to get out. To the nostalgic American Jewish writers she faults by name, she is the scold who guards a Yiddish she thinks she owns by birth and they only borrowed from books. To the publisher she is a difficult mid-list author who will not write the easy book. And to the traditionalist, the man whose hero system runs on blood and covenant and the chain of generations, leaving home, family, and faith to become oneself is the deepest defeat a person can choose, the surrender of the only eternity there is, which is descendants and a people and a covenant kept, traded for a private gnosis and a hope of pages. Five rooms. One woman walking out a door. A heroine, a traitor, a snob, a poor earner, a lost soul. The act does not change. The scheme that reads it does.

Three coordinates to keep her placed.

She tells the interviewer she sounds well connected and social and then corrects the record. She spends most of her time alone, in the company of her dachshund, Emma P. The hero of Knowledge works alone, and the room is where she fails, and the desk is where she is saved. Watch her always leave the room for the page.

She admires real scholarship and her brother’s open, heretic talk, and she meets grown men and women with access to knowledge who prefer not to know. Her contempt is not for the believer. It is for the man who keeps the custom and skips the study, who wants the comfort of the ladder without the climb. That contempt is the clearest sign that the old system never left her. It only changed its altar.

She hopes a few of her pages remain. That is the wager, stated plain, and it is the same wager the Hasid makes on the soul and the Marine makes on the unit and the founder makes on the company that scales past his death. The word she lives by is Knowledge, and the thing she wants from it is the thing every hero system promises and none can prove, which is that the man will not, after all, end.

The Drawbridge: Pearl Abraham and the Literary Field

Pearl Abraham opens a novel by Steve Stern (b. 1947) or Dara Horn (b. 1977) or Nicole Krauss (b. 1974) and closes the case by page one. She does not need to read further. The Yiddish on the page comes from books and legend, she says, from Henry Roth and an immigrant world long gone, and the nostalgia and the corn give the writer away. A real speaker of Yiddish in Williamsburg, she notes, does not experience his language as tragicomic, and would think you came from the moon if you said so. The judgment lands fast because it is not a judgment about a sentence. It is an act of placement. She is sorting writers into those who hold the real thing and those who hold a counterfeit, and the speed of the sort is the surest sign that something other than reading is at work.

Pierre Bourdieu (1930-2002) gave us the tools to see what. A literary field, in his account, is a space of positions arranged between two poles. At one pole sits restricted production, art made for other artists and for a small body of qualified readers, where the reward is recognition by peers and the slow consecration of time. At the other pole sits large-scale production, the book made to sell, measured by the market and the bestseller list. The two poles run on opposed principles. At the commercial pole, sales prove worth. At the autonomous pole, sales prove nothing, and a large audience can count against a man, since the crowd is held to want comfort and the easy thing. Bourdieu called this the economic world reversed. The writer who would accumulate the durable capital, the symbolic kind, learns to disavow the other kind, the money, and to wear his small sales as a mark of seriousness.

Abraham has done Bourdieu’s structural map for him, in her own words, and called it a theory of the novel. The novel, she says, began as an anti-authoritarian form, against the epic with its idealized heroics and against the prose romance written to amuse. It took prose from the romance and a higher purpose from the epic. A book that keeps the name owes the world something new, some reaction against what came before. Entertainment she assigns to the Harlequin, the thriller, the mystery, the spy saga. That is the autonomous pole describing itself and pushing the commercial pole to the far side of a line. When she adds that publishers, hunting the widest sale, have sold the literary novel as easy entertainment and built false hope in readers, she is naming the heteronomous force, the market, reaching across the line to colonize the high form. And when she asks whether the form that survives the market deserves to survive, since the Hasidic movement lived by making itself easy for the masses, she states the autonomy principle in moral dress. Worth, at her pole, runs against survival by sale.

Read her trajectory across the field and a career comes into focus. Her debut, The Romance Reader (1995), was a commercial success. Its German edition, Die Romanleserin, held a place on Der Spiegel‘s bestseller list for months. A Bourdieusian reading does not treat that as the prize. It treats it as a starting position, economic capital that can be converted into the durable kind only if it is followed by a turn toward autonomy and a disavowal of the market that produced it. Her later work makes the turn. The Seventh Beggar (2005) makes hard demands on the reader, takes its frame from a tale by Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, braids Kabbalah through artificial intelligence, and asks to be read by the relaxed and confident few rather than the many. She founds and edits a journal devoted to the craft of the sentence, the sentence being the autonomous pole’s purest object, form attended to apart from any market. She founds and directs an MFA program, which makes her a consecrating house herself, one that forms the habitus of the next cohort and reproduces the standards by which the field judges. The arc moves from the bestseller list toward the small rigorous audience, and in this field that arc accrues symbolic capital rather than spends it.

The capital she trades in has a particular source, and here the analysis earns its keep. Abraham holds something her competitors cannot buy and cannot study their way into. She was born in Jerusalem into a rabbi’s home, the third of nine children, schooled first in Yiddish, carried between Israel and New York, brought to English as a third language. That trajectory deposits in her a stock of native capital, the insider’s Hasidic knowledge and a Yiddish learned from the mouth rather than the page. In the literary field, that stock converts into symbolic capital of a high order, the authority of the witness who reports from inside a closed world. Critics praised The Romance Reader for refusing the outsider’s easy verdict, and the refusal is legible as the dividend of native capital. She can render the warmth and the constraint at once because she carries both, and the carrying is not for sale.

Now watch the boundary war, which is a struggle over the rate of exchange. When Abraham closes the Stern or Horn or Krauss novel by page one, she rules that their Yiddish is borrowed capital, acquired from books and an immigrant nostalgia, and so counterfeit. The ruling is not disinterested. It defends the value of her own holdings. If book-Yiddish converted as well as mouth-Yiddish, her edge would shrink. The whole worth of the native stock rests on its scarcity and its resistance to purchase. A thing anyone can study is a thing anyone can hold, and a thing anyone can hold confers no distinction. So she draws the line precisely where her capital sits, with the lived and the spoken on the legitimate side and the studied and the borrowed on the vulgar side, and she calls the borrowed version a sellout, light and funny and easy enough to please, which is the charge the autonomous pole always brings against the commercial one. The authenticity claim is the form her cultural capital takes. Real Yiddish from the mouth is valuable because it cannot be bought, and she is its holder.

The irony sits in plain sight. Abraham performed the very conversion she denies the others. She took insider Hasidic knowledge and Yiddish literacy and turned them into literary standing, an MFA, teaching posts, the consecrated debut, the place in the histories of Jewish-American letters. The conversion is legitimate by the field’s own rules. What the analysis adds is that policing the boundary is how the newly consecrated secure the ground they have just taken. She crossed the bridge and pulled it up behind her. The native who converts her nativeness into art has the strongest reason to insist that no one else can do the same, since her standing depends on the conversion staying rare.

The struggle with Wendy Shalit (b. 1975) runs along a different axis and shows the same hand. Shalit charged, in a 2005 essay, that Jewish novelists wrote unfairly and negatively about Orthodox Judaism. The charge proposes a principle of evaluation in which fidelity to the religious community sets the standard. Abraham grants the question a hearing, asks whether the work is art, answers that much of it is entertainment, and then moves the axis. Good and bad literature, she holds, have nothing to do with religion. Stereotype and sentiment make for easy reading and easy sales, and craft alone does not make art, which lives in characters who walk off the page and keep living for four hundred years, after the model of Don Quixote, by Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616), and Hamlet, and after what John Keats (1795-1821) called negative capability, the power to become the other. The move is a position-taking. By ruling religion irrelevant and craft sovereign, she shifts the contest onto the ground where her capital pays best, the autonomous pole of pure literary value, and away from the ground of communal fidelity where a Shalit might score. She suspects Shalit left her off the list because she did not fit the thesis, and she might be right, but the deeper point is that the disinterested standard she raises is interested all the way down. Disinterest, at her pole, is a strategy, and a profitable one.

Geography does work for her too. She reports that Dutch and overseas critics read The Seventh Beggar better than American or Jewish ones, that her best interviewer was a Dutch journalist who got a full front page and never misquoted, that even the Dutch beauty magazines run smarter writers. The ranking is a claim about national subfields. She places the foreign field nearer the autonomous pole, more literary, more able to consecrate her on the terms she wants, and she places the American Jewish readership nearer the commercial pole, hungry for the nostalgic and the easy. When she says American Jews are no longer the people of the book, she is filing a complaint about the competence of her home audience to confer the recognition she values, and looking abroad for consecration instead. The German bestseller and the Dutch front page become, in her telling, marks of literary worth rather than mere sales, because they come from a field she rates as serious.

She handles the one fact that strains the whole arrangement with care. Don Quixote was an immediate bestseller, sold as a parody of chivalric romance, which threatens the rule that sales prove nothing. She rescues the rule by reframing the book. It runs over nine hundred pages, it is hard, it is not in the way readers expect funny, and Vladimir Nabokov (1899-1977) called it crude and cruel. The bestseller is readmitted to the autonomous pole because a consecrated peer has certified its difficulty and its cruelty, and because time, four centuries of it, has done the slow work the market cannot do. Commercial success at the origin is forgiven once symbolic capital accumulates on top of it. That is the path she walked herself, from Der Spiegel toward the small rigorous reader, and Quixote is the precedent she reaches for to make the path honorable.

Three coordinates to keep her placed in the field.

She is rich in cultural capital and modest in the economic kind, the writer who teaches, edits a journal of the sentence, and reaches a small consecrated audience. That is a position, not an accident, and she has chosen it move by move, away from the bestseller and toward the few. Watch the choices, not the sales.

Her authenticity talk is the language her capital speaks. Each time she rules a rival’s Yiddish borrowed and her own real, she is setting the rate of exchange so that her holdings keep their worth. The contest looks like a quarrel about craft. It is a quarrel about whose capital counts.

Her crossed from the closed world into the literary field by converting the closed world into art, and she guards the crossing as if it could be made only once. The drawbridge is up. The native who turned her nativeness into standing has the surest motive to call every later crossing a counterfeit, and that motive, more than any judgment about a sentence, is what closes the case by page one.

The Set

The set gathers after the work is done, and the work, that night, was a panel. Someone asked Pearl Abraham (b. 1960) and the others on the dais what it means to be Jewish, and the writers said their lines and came down off the stage tired of saying them. Then Melvin Jules Bukiet (b. 1953) and Steve Stern (b. 1947) and Aryeh Lev Stollman (b. 1954) and Abraham go café-hopping, a thing Abraham traces to Tel Aviv, and Bukiet smokes and Abraham takes the smoke secondhand, though she carries biddies and cigarillos when she can get them, and the best source for biddies is Paul Auster (1947-2024), who keeps whole little boxes of them. This is the set in its own room. Watch what they prize and what they will not be caught wanting, and the room explains itself.

What they value is the made thing that lasts and the mind rigorous enough to make it. Knowledge stands at the top, gnosis, real scholarship, the open and heretic conversation a man can have only with another well-read and independent mind. Abraham telephones her youngest brother, a Hasidic scholar, once a week and loves to hear the esoteric ideas he is thinking, and she prizes him above most Orthodox men she meets because he stays open to the most honest and heretic talk. Around that core sit the lesser goods that serve it. The difficult book over the easy one. The sentence attended to as a sentence. The character who walks off the page and keeps living for four hundred years, after Don Quixote, by Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616), and Hamlet. The reader who relaxes and lets intuition do the work. The negative capability John Keats (1795-1821) named, the power to become the other, which Abraham holds as the test of a real writer against a maker of caricature. Solitude is a good here too. Abraham says the set sounds well connected and then corrects the record. She spends most of her time alone, with her dachshund, Emma P, and the friendships run by email with only the rare face-to-face. The Dutch, she says, are the best at downtime. They call the gathering lounging.

The hero, to this set, is the writer who makes the enduring thing against the market and against the crowd. To live a life that counts is to leave pages that survive you. Abraham says outright that when she returns to nothingness she hopes a few of her pages remain, and an independence of spirit she passed to friends and students, and the whole set runs on some version of that wager. The villain is the sellout, the man who keeps his Yiddish light and funny and easy enough to please, the entertainer who fills the room and earns the living and calls it art. The shameful thing is to be middlebrow, to be nostalgic, to please the crowd, to perform Jewishness for applause at a bad Jewish event. Harold Bloom (1930-2019) sits near the top of the hero order as a consecrator. His praise of The Seventh Beggar counts because he is the kind of reader the set recognizes, and the same goes for the foreign critics who read her hard book better than the home ones did.

The status games run on who reads whom correctly. Abraham ranks readers the way another man ranks wines. Dutch and overseas critics over American ones, who she says did worse with The Seventh Beggar. Younger readers who go with the flow over Jewish critics who hunt too hard for meaning. The journalist Jan Donkers, who interviewed her for NRC, gets full marks because he is literary, skilled with the tape, gets things right, no misquotes, nothing out of context, and was given a full front page. Even the Dutch beauty magazines run smarter writers, she says, and names Ilonka Leenheer of Dutch Elle, who wrote a smart piece and was given the space to do it. Her Dutch editor, Pieter Swinkels, supplies the baby torpedoes and the cigarette box that says DEADLY in plain Dutch. The home audience loses the game. American Jews, she says, are no longer the people of the book.

The sharpest move in the game is the judgment by page one. Abraham opens a novel by Dara Horn (b. 1977) or Nicole Krauss (b. 1974) or Steve Stern and rules, before the second page, that the Yiddish on it comes from books and legend rather than the mouth, that the nostalgia and the corn give the writer away, that a real speaker in Williamsburg would think you came from the moon for calling his language tragicomic. The speed is the point. To place a celebrated peer that fast is to display the connoisseur’s ear, and the display is itself the status claim. The other moves are quieter. Proximity to the consecrated, the biddies bummed off Auster, the praise from Bloom. The claim that she performs better alone, takes full responsibility, and falters only when she shares a stage. The note that at summer camp she was the crush object rather than the crusher, that the value lay in being beloved. The dancer who was never a team player, whose achievements were solo, on stage, choreographed for the group but performed apart.

Their normative claims follow from the values, and they are firm. A novel ought to attempt something new and react against what came before, or it forfeits the name. A writer ought to refuse the nostalgic and the easy, since keeping the work light enough to please is a kind of sellout. A reader ought to bring negative capability and become the other, and a serious man ought to want to know rather than prefer custom and ritual and law without caring what they signify. Orthodoxy ought to be examined, Abraham says, asked what it means and when it began and whether it remains livable, and she cites Maimonides (1138-1204) on wisdom for the elite and piety for the masses, and Henri Corbin (1903-1978) on dogma as the presupposed end of prophecy. The room she was in that night would not go there. It wanted the count of worshippers in Upper West Side synagogues and it wanted confession. The set holds that the room failed a duty.

The essentialist claims sit under the oughts and give them their force. The novel is anti-authoritarian by nature, born against the epic and the romance, owing the world newness as a condition of its name. Real Yiddish is by nature spoken, carried in the mouth and the culture, and book-Yiddish is by nature counterfeit, which is why the page-one ear can detect it. Art is the thing that endures and lives, and entertainment is by nature the lesser kind, fit for the Harlequin and the thriller and the spy saga. Good and bad literature have nothing to do with religion, which separates the aesthetic from the devotional as two different orders of thing. The man who has had the real thing, Abraham says, does not easily fall for the fakes and wannabes, so discernment is treated as a settled property of the well-formed, not a mood. And Jews, she says, are no longer one of the interesting minorities, a claim about a changed condition of the people rather than a passing fashion.

The moral grammar fuses the aesthetic and the moral into one judgment. A corny sentence is not merely a weak sentence. It is a small betrayal, evidence of a man who chose the crowd over the truth. The deep axis runs from the authentic and rigorous and enduring at the good end to the nostalgic and easy and crowd-pleasing at the bad end, and the worst sin along it is the sellout, the trading of the real for the saleable. Bad faith is the other cardinal offense. Abraham confesses she suspected her swaying, praying classmates of performance, of seeking a good reputation toward a worthy marriage, and the suspicion is moral, not only social. To perform devotion you do not feel, to relish ritual you will not examine, to write the Yiddish of a grandmother you never heard, all fall under the same charge. The honest and heretic conversation is the highest good in this grammar, and the man who can sustain it, like her brother the scholar, earns the deepest respect the set gives. Loyalty runs to truth and craft rather than to the tribe. In this grammar, leaving home and family and faith to become oneself reads as the brave act, the becoming that never finishes, and the elite stands above the mass on a ladder that is intellectual before it is anything else.

That grammar inverts the one she was raised in, and the inversion is the whole of her distance from home. In the world of the rabbi’s house, the nine children, the mother afraid of God and death and hell, the father who loved Him, loyalty and continuity and covenant are the goods, piety is the virtue, and the chain of generations is the thing that beats death. In that grammar the individual who walks out the door is a loss, and leaving faith to become oneself is the surrender of the only eternity there is. Abraham keeps the rigor of that world and drops its God, or relocates Him, calling Him an abstract man-made idea of a perfection a man climbs toward. She admires real scholarship hugely and meets grown men and women with access to knowledge who prefer not to know, and her contempt falls on them rather than on the believer. The set she chose is built around that contempt. It is a diaspora of soloists who gather to complain about having had to perform their Jewishness, who conduct their friendships by email, who rate the Dutch over the home crowd, and who agree on one thing above all, that the made thing must be hard and true and that the easy version is a sellout dressed as art.

Three things to keep in view about the set.

It is loose and largely absent, held together by email and the rare café night and a shared list of the consecrated and the corny. Stern and Stollman live near Abraham upstate, and a painter friend is in the area for the occasional adventure, but the set is a network of people who each prize solitude, and the gathering is the exception, not the rule. Watch how rarely they are in the same room.

Its boundary is policed by the ear. Horn and Krauss and the other nostalgic writers stand just outside it, near enough to be read and ruled on, far enough to be the negative example the set defines itself against. Wendy Shalit (b. 1975) stands outside it on the other side, charging the writers with disloyalty to Orthodoxy, and the set answers by moving the question from loyalty to craft. Rebecca Goldstein (b. 1950) and Allegra Goodman (b. 1967) and the predecessor Chaim Potok (1929-2002) sit nearer the center, fellow workers in the same material, and the critics Ted Solotaroff (1928-2008) and Irving Howe (1920-1993) hover as prophets the set disputes.

Its highest figures are not in the room at all. The composers Steve Reich (b. 1936) and Osvaldo Golijov (b. 1960), whose crossing of cultures Abraham holds up as the fertile path. Isaac Bashevis Singer (1904-1991) on the impossibility of writing Yiddish in America, and Jacob Glatstein (1896-1971), who proved fine poetry once lived in the language. Lamed Shapiro (1878-1948), whom she translates, and Rabbi Nachman of Breslov (1772-1810), whose tale gave her a novel, and Cervantes and Vladimir Nabokov (1899-1977), who certified Quixote as cruel and alive. The living set drinks and smokes and lounges and complains, but it orients by the dead and the distant, the ones who made the thing that lasted, which is the only thing this set agrees a life is for.

The Voice

Abraham reports almost in passing and then moves past: she never had the religious phase. The other girls began to sway and pray longer and harder than anyone else, and she watched them and wondered, and suspected some of them of putting on a show toward a good marriage. The love and fear of God missed her, she says, despite the prayers said twice a day. That is not the memory of a believer who lost her faith. It is the memory of someone who stood outside the thing from the start and took notes. Everything else follows from that early position at the edge of the room.
She is a constitutional non-belonger, and she made the incapacity into a vocation. Look at the pattern and it holds across every domain. She was the crush object at summer camp, not the crusher, and she says the value lay in being beloved rather than in loving. She was a dancer, a soloist, never a team player. She left home, family, faith. Her friendships run by email with the rare face-to-face. She spends most of her time alone with a dachshund. Her great subject, in every novel, is a figure suspended between worlds and at home in neither, the Hasidic girl with the secret library, the surfer walking toward the Taliban, the couple whose marriage thins out into separate solitudes. She writes the only thing she knows from the inside, which is the experience of not fully belonging anywhere.
What saves a person built this way is not community, which she cannot enter, but knowledge, which she can. She names it plainly. Meaning lives, she says, in Knowledge, in gnosis. The word is exact and she chose it. She cites Henri Corbin, the scholar of Islamic and esoteric gnosis, on dogma as the end of prophecy and the close of the individual’s road to eternity. She cites Maimonides (1138-1204) on wisdom for the elite and piety for the masses, and she lands with the elite. She made God into an abstract idea of a perfection a man climbs toward, and set her aim at the knowledge the mystic reaches while declining the title of mystic. This is a recognizably Gnostic shape, and it is not loose to call it that. Knowledge saves rather than faith or works. The few ascend and the many stay below with their custom and ritual, which she meets in grown men and women who have access to knowledge and prefer not to know, and whom she holds in a contempt she never turns on the simple believer. The spark escapes the body. When she returns to nothingness she hopes a few pages remain. The religious architecture of her childhood did not leave her. She moved its God from the heavens to the bookshelf and kept the ladder, the elite, the ascent by study, the disdain for the merely embodied life.
She prizes negative capability, the power John Keats (1795-1821) named, the capacity to become the other so fully that the character lives. Here the woman who cannot belong, who watches from the edge, who exalts the single self, requires the opposite of all that. To make the thing she wants to make she has to dissolve into someone else. The watcher’s one available communion is imaginative, temporary, controlled, conducted on the page rather than in the room. Reading and writing are how the non-belonger touches other lives without the risk of the gazebo, the panel, the marriage. That is why reading runs through her fiction as both plot and salvation, the book that breaks the inherited frame and opens what lies past it. She is describing the only door she ever found.
The same position that gives her the watcher’s clear eye gives her a defensive streak that does not become her. Her trick of closing a rival’s novel by page one and ruling the Yiddish counterfeit is partly real ear and partly the guarding of a scarcity she depends on. If anyone could acquire what she inherited, her edge would shrink, and she draws the line of the authentic exactly where her own holdings sit. Her insistence that good and bad literature have nothing to do with religion is true as far as it goes and also moves the contest onto the one ground where she wins. And the career bears the marks of chosen marginality. Her debut sold abroad as a story of awakening, and she spent the years after walking away from that audience toward the difficult book and the small rigorous reader, until the complaint arrives that American Jews are no longer the people of the book, which is partly a complaint that they stopped reading her on her terms.
She refused the escape narrative when it was the easy sale, and kept the intelligence and the spiritual weight of the world she left even while questioning its authority, which is harder and rarer than either the loyalist’s defense or the apostate’s exposé. The honesty she prizes, the open and heretic conversation, she practices on herself more than most writers do, which is why the interview gives so much away without seeming to notice.

The Prose

Reviewers call the prose of Giving Up America sparse and exacting, and the debut a quiet performance, an assured book narrated in a muted voice that seems to whisper secrets to the reader. Kirkus put the matter best by calling it an austerity of method, a writer who makes few concessions to the ignorance of non-Jewish or assimilated readers and so delivers an unflinching portrait of a world closed to outsiders. The same review credited her with refusing the cardboard opposition between a rebel daughter and a repressive faith, and with letting the reader feel the limits of the girl’s own way of seeing her parents. Present tense runs under all of it. The line a reader pulled from American Taliban shows the cadence, a boy committed to living in the present in the present tense, the sentence built by accretion of short phrases rather than subordination.
The engine under the spareness is a rule she states herself, and it explains more than any adjective. Her pet peeve, she says, is the over-explained book clumsily addressed to the reader, and she cites Borges (1899-1986) on a historian of the Arabs who never mentions the camel because he does not have to, since the characters who live inside a world would not explain it to each other. That is the whole of her technique. She withholds the gloss. She trusts the reader to keep up or fall behind. The austerity the critics praise is the formal shape of a refusal to translate for the tourist.
The refusal carries a polemic. She told an interviewer that she did not meet Jewish sentimentalism and nostalgia until she left the rigor of the Hasidic world and ran into American Jewish literature, which she found packed with what Yiddish calls schmaltz, meaning fat. Her leanness is aimed at that fat. The trimmed sentence is the same judgment she passes on the nostalgic Yiddishists, made at the level of the line rather than the argument. Stollman, interviewing her, caught the payoff, that she renders Yiddish rhythms and culture without the dissonance one sometimes finds in such writing. The rhythm comes through and the corn does not, because she will not stop to point at either.
She is not only a minimalist, and The Seventh Beggar is where she reaches for more. She says she wanted to do more with form there, working in the fairy tale, legend, personal histories, and oral forms like the wedding jester’s rhymes, letting storytelling itself complicate the structure of the novel. The Romance Reader already carried some of this, punctuated by parody flights of the romance novels Rachel reads in secret. So the spareness is a baseline she departs from on purpose, and the departures are formal, structural, drawn from oral and folk genres rather than from ornament. She adds architecture, not adjectives.
She also varies the prose by who is holding the camera. In American Taliban she shifts at the end from the son to the mother and writes the mother far more emotionally, and she explains the split as truth to character: the secular rationalist mother is the sentimental one, while the son who embraces religion is not. The unsentimental style belongs to the believer and the warm style to the skeptic, which inverts what a reader expects and tells you she treats register as characterization rather than as a fixed house voice.
The limit shows up in the same book, and it is the most useful thing the criticism reveals, because the strength and the weakness are one gesture. The reticence that signals mastery when she writes the world she owns reads as absence when she writes a world she does not. Bookforum faulted the novel for an obsequious care for every community and for the wooden, hospitable tones she gives the Muslim characters, with a protagonist who stays inscrutable because he is never forced to act or defend himself. Kirkus went harder, calling the result, once she cuts away from the boy at the threshold of the Taliban, an ideological travelogue of a disengaged slacker. Read those complaints next to her Borges rule and the trouble is plain. Not explaining works when she knows the world from the inside, since the unsaid thing is present in her and reaches the page by pressure. Applied to Islam, a world she studied rather than lived, the unsaid thing is simply missing, and the same refusal to gloss leaves the characters flat and the convert opaque. The method that produced intimacy now produces a hole. She did not have for the mountains of Pakistan what she had for a rabbi’s house in upstate New York, and the prose, stripped as ever, could not hide the difference. It was built to hide nothing.
Her style is the formal print of the same temperament that runs through everything else about her. The watcher who stood at the edge of the praying girls and took notes is the writer who will not explain herself, who trims the fat, who withholds the gloss and trusts the few readers who can follow. When she writes from inside her own knowledge the reticence becomes authority and the muted voice carries the secret. When she writes from outside it the reticence becomes evasion and the muted voice goes quiet because there was nothing behind it to say. Her great strength and her characteristic failure are the same move, performed on different ground.

My July 11, 2006 Interview

I interviewed her this week via email (and got her answers back July 11, 2006).

* What's the wildest, craziest, riskiest thing you've ever done (aside from murdering your protagonist 80 pages in)?

A: You mean other than leave home, family, faith to become me, and it seems I am still forever becoming, as are my characters. I've had some adventures, but writing The Seventh Beggar may have been my greatest one so far.

* The dominant emotion I feel when reading your novels is sadness verging on depression. Is this your dominant emotion? Is this how you feel when you write? Do you seek to evoke an emotional reaction from your readers, and if so, what?

A: Sad and depressed? This comes as a surprise. I think, and am confirmed in this by mail from readers, that my novels are often funny. I'm probably the least depressed (or maybe I should say least neurotic) of Jewish writers, and I think some of these Jewish writers will confirm this. You may be responding to something different (than the standard Jewish American writing) in my narrative voice or in the voice of my characters, or maybe your sadness is based in a preconception that has more to do with what you think of Hasidism. What do you think?

I look to engage my reader's interest, of course, but I'm not all that focused on the reader as I write. I'm largely immersed in my characters and they tend to grow and lead the way. When I start to see and love the characters for who they've become, then I know that they are alive, that the novel may yet live. My writing tends to be character driven, which may be why the death of my protagonist is so painful to readers. It was certainly a challenge for me, as the writer.

* What's the story of you and God? You believed as a child, but dropped this belief when you went to college? Did God ever speak to you?

A: I can't say that I believed in God as a child; I just never experienced that religious phase that most teenagers go through, that time when your classmates begin to sway and pray longer and harder than anyone else. Based on the absence of any such inner urge, I could only watch and wonder; I'll confess that I sometimes judged them as pretenders — I thought they might be seeking a good reputation so as to beget a worthy mate in marriage.

I understood as a child that I ought to believe, but somehow, the love and fear of God missed me, despite my twice a day recitations of the O hear Israel. I knew even as a child that my Mom was very afraid (I'm not as certain of her love for God, as I am of my father's) and still is afraid of God, death, hell, and even as a child her fear felt childlike to me. I did, though, for a number of years, about 5-7, have a fear of going to sleep, which I think was a fear of obliteration. As an adult, though, I welcome sleep, and the kind of thinking I do in sleep and dream.

My interest in the concept of God came to me belatedly, and not on a religious level. I'm interested in the idea of divinity as an aspiration, a height or level of achievement, the ascetic mystic's interest, though I am not a mystic either. My goal is to attain as often as possible the divine knowledge or experience, intuitive and otherwise, that becomes available to the mystic. I may have had a few glimpses of it, in the course of my life, at work. Most people do, I think.

* When you participate in Jewish life, what encourages you and what discourages you?

A: Piety is a huge turnoff. And piety without rigor, without an intellectual grounding, is even worse. Growing up, I encountered a lot of that in girls and women who didn't have access to the education of their brothers. But I now meet grown Jewish men and women who have access to knowledge and prefer not to know. They seem to relish custom and ritual and law without quite knowing or caring what or whether it signifies. I was on a panel on Orthodoxy recently and I tried my best to set up a rigorous conversation about what orthodoxy means, and how and why it began — it actually arrived late to Judaism, which had a long prophetic tradition, unlike its all-too-early arrival to Christianity — and whether orthodoxy is still a viable way to live. I cited Maimonidies who said that orthodox piety is for the masses and wisdom is for the elite. Henri Corbin, the author of Alone with the Alone, writes that orthodoxy or dogma presupposes an end to prophecy, meaning individualism, an end to the possibility of an individual's attaining eternity. Who, in our day and age, would want that? Certainly no novelist. The audience and the other panelists did not want to or could not go there. They wanted to talk about the number of worshippers in Upper West Side synagogues, and they wanted personal confessionals. I should qualify this: it could have been my personal failure to communicate: I've been told that I perform better when I'm not sharing the stage with others, probably because then I take full responsibility.

I admire real scholarship. Hugely. I talk to my youngest brother approximately once a week and love hearing about the esoteric ideas he's thinking and writing about. He's a Hasidic scholar and writer, knows his way around the texts, and in tremendous contrast to most orthodox Jews I meet, he's open to the most honest and heretic conversations. Not that this is true of every Hasid, and the reverse is probably not true of every orthodox. It takes a well-read individual with an independent, rigorous mind to converse freely.

* When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up? What crowd did you hang out with in highschool, college? Today?

A: It shouldn't come as a surprise that I wasn't the most popular kid. For one thing, I wasn't a team player. My achievements tended toward individual ones: I was a dancer and performed on-stage, solo and within groups. In my Junior and Senior years of high school (and also summer camps), I was head of dance and I choreographed for musicals and plays. We staged a lot of these then, for some reason (I didn't attend a Hasidic school). My school hired a professional pianist and director who taught me a modicum of ballet and modern dance which generated rumors that I'd taken ballet classes. I developed a passion for dance and wanted to become a classical ballet dancer. On days off from school, I would take the local minibus to a ballet school on Main Street to study the photos in the windows. Of course, my parents would never allow me to wear tights and leotards, but in my second year of college, I signed up for dance classes, soon learned that I was too old for classical ballet, and decided to drop it. Entirely.

In college, as an undergraduate, I found parties a huge bore since everyone was stoned and I wasn't. Ditto at those final-tour Grateful Dead and The Who and Neil Young concerts. I had a boyfriend who loved The Who. I shared Bill Clinton's problem: I didn't/couldn't inhale smoke, so I tried eating pot, and once drinking it as ganga tea, experiences that left me with no love for it.

Today: do I hang out? I'm in touch with various writers and friends, and we sometimes hang; we call it lounging. My Dutch friends are especially good at downtime. Most of my writerly relationships are conducted largely via email, with only a rare face-to-face meeting. The Jewish contingent has its own ghetto dynamic going and it's especially fun when we manage to get Steve Stern, Melvin Bukiet, Aryeh Stollman and I together, usually after another bad Jewish event where we are asked to speak on what it means to be Jewish. Melvin and I have our own standing specialties: we go café hopping (I think this started in Tel Aviv), drink and smoke; I should say, he smokes, I mostly secondhand smoke — though I smoke biddies and cigarillos, when I can get them. Best source for biddies: bum them off Paul Auster, who carries whole little boxes of them. Excellent source for baby torpedoes: my Dutch editor, Pieter Swinkels. The label on the box, "Roken is dodelijk," adds flavor. Unlike the American warning, which manages to get the optimistic word health in it, the Dutch uses the word DEADLY loud and clear. Death, for better or worse, seems to have become a motif of this conversation.

I now spend quite a bit of time upstate where my social life seems to have taken off. And I'll be teaching at Western New England College, in Springfield, MA this year. There are more of us up here these days than in New York City. I have a friend in the area who is a painter and we get together for various adventures. And Aryeh Stollman and Steve Stern aren't far away.

Having said all that — it makes me sound well-connected and social — I should tell you that I'm really not. I spend most of my time alone, in the company of my dachshund, Emma P.

* I find a world without God and religion depressing. I'm curious where you find happiness and meaning if everything is just going to end in nothingness.

A: Oh God. I find meaning and happiness in Knowledge (gnosis). And in good literature, which tells us about ourselves, what it is to be human. And in trying to craft decent literature. And in teaching it, which I hope will create good readers of literature.

Meaning in God? Well, yes, since my concept of God is an abstract man-made idea of a perfection to aspire to. Re: Religion? Not if it means orthodoxy, or some other conventional form of it.

And nothingness? I can trace my beginning as a thinker back to the year in high school when I studied the commentaries on the concept of tohu va'vohu in Genesis. Every novel begins with a blank page; that's why writers are so neurotic during their year of publication. They have to go back to that blank page one. That, and also their publishers serving up the usual publishing debacles, and then the dearth of good readers. What will remain, when I have returned to NOTHINGNESS, are I hope a few of my pages. And an independence of spirit and wit that I hope to have imparted to friends and students.

* Being raised in a serious religion immunizes one from falling for wacky cults such as the Kabbalah Centre, I believe. Would you agree?

A: I do agree with you. When you've had the real thing, you don't easily fall for the fakes and wannabes. Indeed you remain quite discerning and you probably don't easily embrace anything else. I, for one example, had no interest in becoming an orthodox, modern orthodox, conservative or reform Jew.

* What do you think of the contemporary "spirituality" craze? It strikes me as cheap grace. People looking for the benefits of religion without paying the price that organized religion demands.

A: The Hasidic movement would not have survived if it hadn't made itself appealing to the masses. Perhaps you could say that about the novel as well. The ascetic lifestyle appeals only to the elite, the seriously rigorous. But the question remains: Is the form that survives worthy of survival? This is a painful question that writers and artists everywhere must ask themselves every day: To survive, to actually earn a living, one must make the work easy or accessible enough for the masses, but then is the art worthy enough to be called art, to engage in?

* I've heard the novel described as a bourgeois medium primarily suited for entertainment. Yet you make considerable demands on the reader in The Seventh Beggar. Do you think most of the readers of that book are up to that task? I notice that interviewers love asking you fancy shmancy questions about the various intricacies of the book and I can't help thinking that these intellectual concerns, stylistic concerns, otherness and being concerns, are miles removed from the average bloke picking up your book and hoping to have a good time.

A: Your question comes at a moment in which I am preparing for a lit class titled "The Development of the Novel," so this may come off as pedantry, but I don't mind joining the ranks of pedants such as Don Quixote and Charles Kinbote.

The novel as a genre began as an anti-authoritarian form, in reaction against the epic with its heightened language (verse) and false or idealized heroics, and also against the prose romance (chivalric or pastoral/Arcadian) produced for entertainment. From the romance, the novel took prose and refined it, from the epic it took worthiness, or a higher purpose. Yes, the form is based in the town square, it embraces the carnivale, or aspects of parody, but it is not and was never intended as mere entertainment. That remains the task of romances such as Harlequins and thrillers and mysteries and spy sagas. The word 'novel' still means new, though it's been around a few centuries now, and when all is said and done, the novel, to continue calling itself a novel, ought to attempt something new, to react against what came before it. Unfortunately the general public has not been informed of this. What's happened is that the publishers aiming to earn as much as possible have sold the literary novel as entertainment, which it can be, though it isn't mere entertainment or easy entertainment, and so has created a false set of expectations. Don Quixote, probably the first modern novel, was an immediate bestseller, sold as a parody of the chivalric romance, but the book isn't an easy read (it's over 900 pages long), and it isn't funny, though most readers who come to it expect it to be. Nabokov famously called it crude and cruel and it is that: it's filled with cruel prank after cruel prank. And with plenty of pedantry. But Don Quixote lives, both in and out of its 900 pages.

That said, The Seventh Beggar is entertaining — my publisher forgot to tell you that. Its best readers are the ones who relax and go with the flow without looking so hard for meaning. The book is intuitively organized and intuitively coherent — it is after all a mystic's story — and it takes a relaxed, confident reader to allow intuition to do the work of understanding. Younger readers do well with it. Non-Jewish critics, especially from overseas, did better with it then Jewish ones, which means what? That American Jews are no longer the people of the book? But I think we've already established that.

* At what age did you begin to have an erotic interest in boys? I assume your family and religious community put a squash on this. Did you run wild with the boys when you got your freedom? I'm sorry to be so vulgar, but there's very little wank material in your works.

A: You're wrong about the "wank material" in my work: Joel engages in an orgy of wanking in the first third of The Seventh Beggar. And Rachel of The Romance Reader has her fantasy variations on love, if not sex. And Deena, of Giving Up America, well, she's in the mode of renouncing love along with much else. At the age of, maybe ten, I had a crush on a friend of my brother's, Ari Weinstock, who taught me to ride his banana handle banana seat bicycle. My parents didn't fuss about it. Then I fell out of love with Jewish boys and in love with fictional MEN. Oddly enough, I didn't read much secular Jewish fiction. I was reading classics, such as The Scarlet Letter and Wuthering Heights and A Tale of Two Cities, as page turners! By the time I was in my teens I was spending most of my time with women and though I didn't develop a crush for anyone in particular, I was the crush object or crushee (a word?) of various girls, usually a few years older than I, usually at summer camp, where we'd sit in a gazebo in the dark, and look at the stars. I must not have been erotically engaged since I found it rather vapid, didn't know what to say. The value of these crushes, I think, was more in being beloved rather than in the act of loving.

* How do you feel about the chutzpah of people such as Steve Stern writing in English trying to imitate of Yiddish when they are neither literate in Yiddish nor Hebrew? Shouldn't there be a license to do this?

A: Thing is, when I read [Steve] Stern and [Dara] Horn and [Nicole] Krauss, I don't have to go beyond page one to know that their knowledge of Yiddish and Yiddish culture is based in books (Henry Roth) and legend, and in an immigrant culture long bygone. The nostalgia and cornpone alone is a dead giveaway. I hear that sort of corn from every upper westsider who had a grandmother or father who spoke some Yiddish. They distort and mispronounce words (see Isaac Bashevis Singer on the impossibility of writing Yiddish in America), for example, "patchkeying," an Englishing of the word "patchkeh" — the most recent one I've heard. To them, Yiddish is sad and funny, though ask a real speaker of Yiddish in Williamsburgh whether his language is tragicomic and he'll think you're from the moon. If there's wit, it's in the speaker's skills, in succinct and witty phrasing, which is true of every language.

SIGNIFICANTLY, though, this immigrant nostalgic Yiddish is what general readers recognize, and the nostalgia and corn confirms them in what they already feel about Yiddish, which makes them feel good, and so they prefer reading this to reading a version that is unfamiliar, perhaps more than they want to know.

Non-Jewish readers, if they bother at all, come across all this nostalgia and corn and walk away confirmed in what they already think: that Jews and Yiddish are full of oy veys and other kvetches, that if this is art, it's art on a Chagall level. You'd never know that fine poetry, by say Yankev Glatshteyn, was once written in this language. At the end of the day, working in this nostalgic joking vein, keeping the Yiddish and Yiddish culture just light and funny and easy enough to please, is a kind of sellout.

* What did you think of Wendy Shalit's January 2005 essay in the NYT book review about Jewish novelists writing negatively and unfairly about Orthodox Judaism? I noticed she did not mention you.

A: Wendy Shalit was asking a valid question — she asked whether this is art, and the answer is that much of it is merely entertainment — but her conclusions were entirely obtuse, astonishingly confused. Good literature and bad literature have nothing to do with religion. Stereotypes, caricatures, and sentimentality are easy crowd pleasers, and make for easy reading. These writers are finding a market niche-Jewish Americans seeking entertainment disguised as literature — and filling it. Even if the work shows some craft, it doesn't necessarily qualify as art. Enduring art features authentic characters that live on the page, and walk off the page and continue to live for 400 years, as Don Quixote and Hamlet have. Such characters come from the writer's ability to enter deeply and empathetically into these characters, from what Keats famously called "a negative capability," which is an ability to become the OTHER. Shakespeare's characters are particularized humans who can think and change, and, after Harold Bloom, "overhear" themselves.

The controversy helped the writers sell books. And they all took full advantage of it with responses. I like to think that I was excluded because I didn't suit Wendy's thesis. For one thing, I write with empathy and sympathy for that world. And I hope my characters aren't caricatures, and I hope they live. Only time will tell, and so we'll have to postpone the question for a century or so.

* What do you think of this? Ted Solotaroff's comment in a 1988 New York Times Book Review essay that "[a]s assimilation continues to practice its diluting and dimming ways, it seems evident that the interesting Jewish bargain or edge in American fiction will be more and more in the keeping of writers…who are anchored in the present-day observant Jewish community and who are drawn to the intense and growing dialogue between Judaism and modernity under the impact of feminism, the sexual revolution, and the Holocaust."

A: It's an attempt at prophecy but it's blinkered and in any case, has already been proven false. All sorts of unforeseen things happen. For one thing: Jews are no longer one of the interesting minorities and, I'll take a leap here, we, perhaps I should say I, aren't even all that interesting to ourselves, never mind to others, except perhaps to the Christian Right writers of the Left Behind series, who want to co-opt our biblical history. The sophisticated Jewish reader looking for something to read is skipping Jewish work that is too anchored in the subject of Jewishness. Irving Howe, btw, attempted some similar predictions re: Jewish writing, and was wrong since he also didn't foresee that there would be a new wave of Jewish immigration from Eastern Europe and Russia.

In music, the crossing of genres and cultures has been extremely fertile. Think of Steve Reich, whose Tehillim takes the rhythms and chants and forms of African music and sets Hebrew texts to them. Or Osvaldo Golijov, who crosses Spanish and Jewish strains. I don't see why hybridity shouldn't do as much for literature. It already is doing it. Talented assimilated Jews will find ways of expression that reflect their varied influences. Hybridity makes for some of the greatest work: Don Quixote, which crosses the epic with the prose romance, is again a perfect example. The Seventh Beggar has something of this hybrid impulse, with, the bluegrass/Hasidic festival, with the golem and Cog, with a tale that crosses Nachman's Seven Beggars with the "sevens" of other fairy tales.

Luke: "I'm sure you've been interviewed over 100x… Who was the best and the brightest?"

Pearl: "Dutch journalists are far and away better than American ones, more literary or something, at least the ones I've encountered. Jan Donkers who interviewed me for NRC was very good, not only literarily but also skilled at use of tape, at getting things right, no misquotes, nothing out of context, Really on, and uses the interview form with some panache. He got a full front page, so that may have helped. Also in the Netherlands, even the mags, such as beauty mags, have better educated, smarter, good writers/journalists. Dutch Elle for example has Ilonka Leenheer, who interviewed me and wrote up a really smart piece. And she was given enough space too."

Danit Brown (b. 1968) is an American novelist and short story writer whose fiction examines domestic life and the disturbances that run under it. She works in psychological realism, builds her narratives through shifts in perception rather than incident, and treats family, motherhood, identity, and cultural inheritance without sentiment. Her comedy comes from the contradictions of ordinary experience, not from satire.

Brown grew up in Queens, New York. As a teenager she moved with her family to Israel, and the relocation gave her the subject she has returned to across her career: the negotiation of two countries, two languages, and two senses of belonging. She has described the difference in plain terms. Living in the United States is physically easier, she says, and she understands how things work here because she reached adulthood here. Living in Israel made her feel she mattered more, an effect she attributes less to anything she did than to the arithmetic of being one in seven million rather than one in three hundred million, and to the comfort of belonging to the majority. The lesson she draws from the comparison is modest and worth quoting against the grain of her ideological attachments: ideology is pleasant, but daily happiness rests on the connections a person makes with others, and by that measure she does better in the United States. The dual perspective organizes much of her published work.

Her education joins analytic and artistic training in an arrangement few writers share. Brown studied mathematics and computer science at Oberlin College, then took a degree in screenwriting from Tel Aviv University. She continued in graduate creative writing at Syracuse University and completed an MFA in fiction at Indiana University Bloomington, where she also held an Indiana Arts Commission Grant during her early career. She credits the MFA with two practical gifts, time to write and deadlines for finishing, and she values the Indiana program for selecting students across a range of styles and backgrounds, which let her learn from peers who wrote nothing like her. The training in mathematics, computer science, screenwriting, and fiction supports the structural control and the emotional clarity that mark her prose.

Brown established herself first as a writer of short stories. Her fiction appeared in Story, One Story, Glimmer Train, and StoryQuarterly, and several stories were broadcast on National Public Radio. These early publications won her a reputation for intimate character studies that combine wit,_restraint, and psychological acuity.

Her first book, Ask for a Convertible (2008), is a linked collection whose characters move between Israel and the United States. The stories do not stand apart from one another. Brown returns to the same figures from new vantage points, and the separate pieces accumulate into a portrait of immigration, family obligation, memory, and identity. Critics praised her command of the form, her ability to revisit a character without losing narrative drive. The Washington Post named the book one of its Best Books of 2008, Barnes and Noble selected it for the Discover program, and it received the 2009 American Book Award. The recognition placed her among the notable new voices in literary fiction. Brown has said she could not have written the collection without the years she spent in Tel Aviv, which gave her both the settings and the emotional ground for the work.

Israel holds a distinct place in her fiction, and the angle she takes is itself a choice. She approaches the country through the rhythms of daily life, friendship, family, and the friction of moving between Israeli and American manners rather than through politics or conflict. She treats immigration as an ongoing negotiation of language, memory, and self, not a single act of relocation. Her remarks about her own household sharpen the point. Her husband, from Minnesota, did not convert to Judaism, though the couple planned to raise their children Jewish, and Brown’s worry centers on something other than faith. She worries about raising American children, about a span of experience that belongs to a childhood in Israel and that she cannot share with them. On the texture of Israeli sociability she is exact and self-aware. She knew she had adjusted to the country, she says, when she could shout with the best of them and not take offense, and she contrasts that with her husband, a man nicer than she has ever been.

After a long interval given to teaching, family, and revision, Brown published her first novel, Television for Women, with Melville House on June 24, 2025. The book follows Estie, a woman whose expectations about marriage and motherhood collapse during pregnancy and the first months after her child is born. Brown takes up postpartum depression, maternal ambivalence, marital strain, and the psychological adjustments of parenthood, and she refuses both sentiment and easy comfort. The novel sets the institutional and medical facts of childbirth against the idealized cultural stories that surround motherhood. Brown spent roughly sixteen years writing and revising the book, an interval that reflects her method and the practical strain of carrying literary work alongside teaching and a family. The novelists Rebecca Makkai, Joanna Smith Rakoff, Kiley Reid, and Elisa Albert praised the novel for its honesty, its humor, and its refusal to romanticize home life, and reviewers noted the precision with which Brown holds the contradictions of early motherhood while keeping a comic edge.

Across her fiction Brown resists idealized accounts of domestic experience. Her protagonists face hard truths about themselves while they try to reconcile ambition with obligation, and the comedy rises from absurdity rather than ridicule. She attends to the emotional labor performed inside marriages and families and to the effort women spend to hold a coherent self against competing claims. Her own anxiety as a writer fits the pattern she describes in her characters. Her recurring fear, she says, is exposure as a fraud, that a reader will pronounce the work worthless and wonder why anyone published it, or that an audience will rise and leave in the middle of a reading. Against that fear she sets the pleasure she names as the reward of the work: an audience that laughs in the right places, the sense of a connection made.

Brown has taught creative writing and composition at Albion College in Michigan since 2005, where she serves as a professor of English. She leads fiction workshops and teaches creative nonfiction, screenwriting, and introductory courses, and she mentors undergraduate writers while she keeps publishing. She loves thinking about how stories are made and watching writers develop. She dislikes grading, and she tells a fond story about a professor of hers in Israel who assigned grades by lottery, announcing at the start of term that every student would land between an 88 and a 92 whether or not they attended, which drove off the indifferent and left the ones who wanted to work. She wishes she had the nerve to teach that way.

Brown keeps an active online presence and has reflected on blogging with the same dry humor she brings to her fiction. She calls it a diary with feedback, then adds the qualification that there is often no feedback. As of 2026, Television for Women remains her most recent book, and she continues to teach, give readings, and take part in literary life.

Brown belongs to a generation of American literary writers who have pushed fiction about home life past the conventional family narrative. Her work joins psychological realism to understated comedy and close attention to identity, above all the identity of women who balance professional ambition, marriage, parenthood, and cultural inheritance. Whether she writes linked stories or a novel, she brings rigor and sympathy to intimate experience and holds to the conviction that the largest human dramas play out within the ordinary routines of a day.

The Fake

The room is small. A bookstore in a college town, folding chairs, a card table of unsold copies by the register. Danit Brown reads from her own pages. She has read this passage before and she knows where the laugh sits, and she comes to the line and waits half a beat and the room delivers the laugh on cue. For the length of that laugh she is not a fraud. The feeling lasts about as long as the laugh does, and then she turns the page.
She has named the fear that the laugh holds off. Her worry, she says, is being revealed as a fake, that some reader will rise and pronounce the work worthless and ask why anyone published it, or that the audience will get up and leave in the middle. Set that fear beside a writer who spends sixteen years on a single novel, and a hero system comes into view.
Ernest Becker (1924-1974) starts from a simple cruelty. A man knows he will die and cannot hold that knowledge in front of him and go on living, so he builds something that promises his significance survives his body. He calls this an immortality project. The project can be a cathedral, a fortune, a bloodline, a book. Whatever it is, the man pours his terror into it and the project pays him back in meaning. Two fears drive the whole arrangement. The first is death. The second, harder to see, is insignificance, the dread that a man might come and go and leave no trace that he was here.
Brown’s project is the sentence that holds a true thing without flinching. Her trade in that economy is honesty. The fraud terror is the death terror in literary dress. To be exposed as a fake is to have produced nothing that outlasts her, to die without remainder, to have built a cathedral that turns out to be a painted backdrop. The sixteen years on Television for Women read differently against that fear. A woman racing death does not spend sixteen years on one book. A woman defending against the charge of fakery spends as long as the defense requires.
The second terror surfaces in her account of her children. Brown grew up in Queens, moved to Israel as a teenager, came back. Her husband is from Minnesota and did not convert, though they planned to raise the children Jewish. Her worry is not faith. She fears a span of experience that belongs to a childhood in Israel, the shouting she learned not to take as insult, the behavioral nuances, and she fears she cannot hand any of it across to American kids. This is insignificance in its domestic form. Not the body’s death but the self that fails to transmit, the inheritance that stops at one generation. Her books carry what her children might not receive. Ask for a Convertible (2008) returns to the same figures from new angles so that no one in it is ever finished. The linked story is an argument against the last page.
Honesty is her sacred value, and her honesty has a particular shape. It works by subtraction. The real is what survives the removal of comfort. Strip the sentiment from motherhood and what remains is postpartum collapse, maternal ambivalence, a marriage under strain, the medical and institutional facts set against the cultural story that papers over them. Her comedy runs on the same engine. The laugh comes from the absurdity that appears once the consoling version falls away. She does not satirize. She removes, and lets the reader see what was always under there.
Here the trouble begins, and it is the trouble Becker means us to find. Honesty is her coin, but it is not one coin. The word travels across hero systems and means a different thing in each, because in each it defends against a different death.
Consider the Talmud scholar bent over a folio in a study hall, the page itself a thicket of commentary around a small block of ancient text. For him honesty is fidelity to what was transmitted. Truth is not a private finding he reports from inside himself. Truth is the chain, the names of the men who handed the teaching down, and his honesty consists in carrying the dispute forward without breaking the chain. The solitary authentic voice that Brown trusts is, to him, the thing most likely to lie, because it answers to no one who came before. His death is the death of the tradition, the page no one opens. He defends against it by transmission, the exact act Brown fears she cannot perform with her own children.
Consider the war photographer in a flak vest at the edge of a square, the camera raised, the body present at the event. For her honesty is the image that cannot be argued with. She was there, the shutter fell, the light struck the film. The whole apparatus of her self-respect rests on having stood in the place where the thing happened and brought back proof. Brown’s honesty is interior, a report from a consciousness no one can verify. The photographer’s honesty is exterior and verifiable, and she would distrust the novelist’s by definition, since who can check it. Her death is the staged photograph, the lie that travels under the authority of the lens. She defends against it with her own body in the dangerous place.
Consider the hospice chaplain in a quiet room, a hand on the rail of a bed. For him honesty is calibrated to the threshold. He does not lie to the dying, and he also knows the hour when a withheld word is the truest service. Honesty for him is a discipline of timing, the right thing said at the moment the person can carry it. Brown’s honesty refuses calibration on principle. She gives the reader the hard fact whether or not the reader is ready. The chaplain’s death is the patient who leaves the world deceived by kindness, and also the patient crushed by a truth delivered too soon. He threads between them. She drives straight through.
Consider the stand-up comic in a black box on a Tuesday, the brick wall, the single stool, the light. For her honesty is the bit that lands. The truth of a line is settled in the room, by the laugh or its absence, and a bit that does not land is false no matter how sincerely meant. She and Brown share more than the others, since Brown waits for the laugh too and reads it as connection made. But the comic submits every claim to the verdict of the crowd, and Brown holds that some true things will empty a room and remain true. The comic’s death is silence, the joke that dies, the long walk off a cold stage. She defends against it with the only proof her trade accepts, the sound of strangers losing control of their faces.
Consider the forensic accountant at a screen at midnight, two columns that refuse to agree. For him honesty is reconciliation. The numbers either tie out or they do not, and a thing is true when the discrepancy goes to zero. He has no use for nuance and no patience for the interior. Brown’s whole subject, the ambivalence that never resolves, the marriage that holds two contradictory feelings at once, registers to him as an unbalanced ledger, a problem someone failed to close. His death is the fraud he missed, the cooked book that slipped past him. He defends against it with a method that admits no ambiguity at all.
Five workers, one word, five sacred things. Each one’s honesty is built to hold off the specific death that haunts that life, and each would find Brown’s version naive, partial, or beside the point. That is Becker’s hard teaching, and the reason these systems do not merge into one. There is no neutral honesty floating above the workers that they all approximate. There is the chain for the scholar, the lens for the photographer, the threshold for the chaplain, the room for the comic, the ledger for the accountant, and the unconsoled interior for the novelist. Brown’s honesty is not the true one among the false. It is hers, and it answers her death.
A second sacred value sits beside the first, and she has stated it plainly. Ideology is nice, she says, but daily happiness has a lot to do with the connections a person makes. She felt she mattered more in Israel, one in seven million rather than one in three hundred million, the comfort of the majority taken for granted. And she concluded that the comfort was a story she told herself, and that the connections were the substance. This is a small, brave subtraction. She strips her own ideology and reports what is left, and what is left is people. The communist with a theory of history, the nationalist who counts belonging in soil and blood, the seeker who needs the universe to mean one large thing, each would hear her preference for connection over ideology as a surrender, a failure of nerve, a wussing out, which is her own word for the temptation she names and resists. Her hero system pays significance not for being right about the world but for being honest about the small radius where a life is actually lived.
The marginal position is the price she pays and the source of the work. She belongs to neither country whole. She is easier in America and suspects the ease of being a dodge. She mattered more in Israel and cannot stay. The doubleness does not resolve, and a hero system that ran on belonging would treat that as failure. Hers treats it as material. The writer who fits nowhere sees the seams that the natives stop noticing, and reports them, and the report is the cathedral.
Three things to hold, then. Her honesty is real and it is local, built to her death and not to anyone else’s, which is why the scholar and the photographer and the accountant would each correct her and each be wrong to. Her connection thesis is the rarer courage in her, since it costs her the consolations of the team and leaves her with the harder truth that a life is small and the people in it are the whole of it. And the incompleteness she cannot fix, the experience she fears she cannot pass to her children, is the engine of everything she makes, the fear she pours into the work, the death she holds off one well-made sentence at a time, waiting in a small room for the laugh that tells her, for the length of the laugh, that she is not a fake.

The Managed Heart of Estie

Arlie Russell Hochschild (b. 1940) gave us a way to see the labor that does not look like labor. In The Managed Heart (1983) she watched flight attendants and bill collectors and named what they were doing. They were managing feeling for a wage. The airline sold a smile, and the smile had to be produced, summoned, held in place through a long shift whatever the woman behind it felt. Hochschild called the act emotional labor, and she drew a line through the middle of it. A worker can perform surface acting, painting on the feeling she does not have, or she can perform deep acting, working on herself until she summons the feeling for real. Both are work. Both cost something. And both run on what Hochschild called feeling rules, the shared script that tells a person what she is supposed to feel in a given place, at a given moment, toward a given person.
The script is the key. A feeling rule is not a law about behavior. It is a law about emotion, an instruction that says you ought to feel grief at this funeral, joy at this wedding, gratitude for this gift. The rule sits above the actual feeling and judges it. And the gap between the rule and the feeling, between what a woman is told to feel and what she finds in herself, is where Hochschild does her work and where Danit Brown (b. 1968) set her novel.
Television for Women, published by Melville House on June 24, 2025, follows Estie through pregnancy and the first months after her child is born. The cultural script for that passage is the most rigid feeling rule a woman ever meets. She is to feel joy. She is to feel love that arrives whole and immediate at the first sight of the infant. She is to feel completed, arrived at the thing she was for. The rule is enforced everywhere at once, by the hospital, by the relatives, by the cards and the casseroles, by the television the title names. And Estie cannot produce the feeling. Her expectations collapse. What arrives instead is depression, ambivalence, a marriage under load, a body and an institution doing things the script never mentioned.
Hochschild lets us see Estie’s collapse for what it is. It is a failure of emotional labor under a feeling rule she cannot meet. The new mother is the purest case of the managed heart, because the wage she is paid is not money. It is membership. Feel the prescribed love and you are a good mother, inside the circle. Fail to feel it and you are something the script has no kind word for. So the new mother surface acts. She paints on the joy for the visitors and the photographs. And the surface acting opens the same wound Hochschild found in the flight attendants, the estrangement of a woman from her own feeling, the sense that the smile on her face belongs to someone else and the woman underneath has gone missing. Postpartum depression, in Brown’s hands, is not only a chemical event. It is the cost of laboring against a feeling rule that will not bend.
Brown’s refusal to romanticize is the novel’s method, and Hochschild names the method too. To romanticize motherhood is to publish the feeling rule as though it were the feeling, to print the script and call it the truth. Brown does the opposite. She sets the institutional and bodily facts of childbirth, the medicine, the machinery, the recovery, against the idealized story that floats above them, and she lets the reader see the distance. This is Hochschild’s distinction made into fiction. The cultural narrative of motherhood is deep acting demanded at scale, a whole society instructing women to work on themselves until the prescribed love appears. Brown shows the work, and shows it failing, and refuses to look away from the failure or to console the reader about it. The novel honors the woman underneath the surface acting instead of the surface.
Hochschild’s second book sharpens the marriage in Brown’s pages. In The Second Shift (1989) she counted the hours and found that the working woman came home to a second job, the unpaid labor of the house and the children, and that the labor was gendered and largely invisible to the man who lived beside it. The invisibility is the cruelty. The work does not register as work, so the woman who does it earns no credit and the exhaustion has no name. Estie’s marital strain reads through this. The feeling rule for motherhood does not arrive alone. It arrives bundled with the second shift, the expectation that she will not only feel the joy but also perform the labor that produces the household, and perform both as though neither were effort. Brown’s marriage buckles at the point where the demand exceeds what any person can manage and still keep a self.
The frame reaches past the novel into Brown herself, which is the test of a good frame. She has named her own emotional labor without the term. Her recurring fear, she says, is being revealed as a fake, that a reader will pronounce the work worthless and ask why anyone published it, or that an audience will rise and walk out in the middle of a reading. Look at what she fears. She does not fear that the book is bad. She fears exposure, the moment the surface acting fails in public, the gap between the composed author at the lectern and the woman who suspects she has nothing. The author at a reading performs authorship the way the flight attendant performs welcome. There is a feeling rule for the writer in the room, the rule that says she should feel and project the quiet confidence of someone who belongs there, and Brown reports the labor of holding that surface against the dread underneath.
And she names the wage. The reward, she says, is the reading where the audience laughs in the right places, the moment she feels she has made a connection. That is the instant the labor pays out, when the managed surface and the true feeling line up at last and the gap closes, when she no longer has to act because the thing she was performing has briefly become real. Hochschild would recognize it. It is the rare moment in emotional labor when the deep acting succeeds completely, when the worker feels what she was supposed to feel and the estrangement lifts. Brown chases that moment in a small room full of folding chairs for the same reason Estie cannot find it in the nursery. The work is to close the gap between the rule and the feeling, and the work mostly does not close it, and the moments it does are why a person keeps laboring.
There is a further turn, and Brown’s own history supplies it. She grew up in Queens, moved to Israel as a teenager, came back, and she has talked about feeling she mattered more in Israel, one in seven million, the comfort of the majority. Hochschild’s later work followed feeling rules across whole cultures, the different scripts that different societies write for the same human moments. Brown lived inside two of those scripts and learned to perform each. She knew she had adjusted to Israel, she says, when she could shout with the best of them and not take offense, which is deep acting described from the inside, a woman working on herself until the local feeling rule became her own. Her husband, from Minnesota and by her account a nicer man than she has ever been, could not acquire the Israeli script, and she does not think he would last there. Two countries, two sets of feeling rules, and a writer who learned to surface act in both and belongs cleanly to neither. The marginal woman is the one who sees the script as a script, because she has had to learn more than one.
That marginality is why Brown can write Estie at all. A woman who took a single feeling rule for the truth could not see the gap. Brown has spent her life in the gap, between countries, between the composed author and the woman who fears she is a fake, between the love a mother is told to feel and the harder set of things she finds. Television for Women puts the gap on the page and refuses to fill it with consolation. The title is the tell. Television is where the feeling rules of motherhood are broadcast at their glossiest, the script in its purest form, and Brown points her novel at the screen and shows the women in the chairs what the labor of meeting that script costs.

December 3, 2008

We did this via email. Check out Danit’s website here. Check out these interviews with the author of "Ask For A Convertible."

* How does it affect your happiness level, whether you are living in the US or Israel?

For me, living in the U.S. is physically easier, and having reached adulthood here, I have a much better understanding of how things work and how people function. At the same time, living in the U.S. can feel like wussing out. When I was living in Israel, I felt that I mattered more even though I wasn’t really doing anything differently–maybe it’s the difference between being one in seven million and one in 300 million. It was also nice being part of the majority, being able to take that for granted. I guess the thing I learned, though, is that ideology is nice, but day-to-day happiness hs a lot to do with the connections you make with others, and in that respect, I do much better in the U.S.

* How did it affect your happiness level publishing your first book?

On the one hand, of course it made me happy. On the other, it was nerve-wracking: what would people think? What if no one reads it? What if it just disappears right back into the ether?

* When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?

I wanted to be a writer and a teacher. And today I’m both. I also wanted to be friends with Michael Jackson, but that didn’t work out, which is probably for the best.

* What were the most interesting reactions you’ve received to your book?

Some people wanted to know if the woman on the cover is me. I wish.

* What do you love and hate about teaching?

I love thinking about how stories are made, and watching writers grow and develop. I hate everything to do with grading, though. I had a writing professor in Israel who assigned grades via lottery; at the beginning of each semester, he’d tell students, "You’re going to get somewhere between an 88 and 92 whether or not you show to class," and then the people who weren’t interested wouldn’t show, and the ones left would be the ones who actually wanted to work. I wish I had the nerve to be that kind of teacher.

* What did your MFA do for you?

It gave me time to write and deadlines for finishing work. And what was especially nice about the MFA at Indiana was that the students seemed to be selected with diversity of writing styles and experience in mind, and so I learned a tremendous amount from my peers.

* What do you love and hate about talking about your book, being interviewed, doing readings etc?

My big worry is being revealed as a fake–that someone will declare, "This is pure crap, and I don’t know why anyone published it." Or that people will get up in the middle and leave.

What I love: when you’re giving a reading and the audience laughs in all the right places, and you really feel that you’ve made a connection with them.

* Are you now friends with any of your blogger crushes?

I tend to lurk on blogs rather than comment, so I’m not sure how my blogger crushes would find me. A couple of my author crushes are Facebook friends with me, however, so I can pretend there’s a relationship there even if there really isn’t.

* How do you like blogging?

I love it. It’s like a diary with feedback, except, you know, when there’s no feedback.

* Did your husband convert to judaism and if not, do Jews give you a hard time, do you give yourself a hard time?

He didn’t convert to Judaism, although we plan to raise our children Jewish. No one really gives us a hard time about it; apparently the key here is to wait so long to get married that your parents are simply relieved that someone wants you. As for me, I worry more about what it means to have American kids–that there will be a whole chunk of experience that comes from having been a child in Israel that I simply can’t share with them.

* How come there are no comments on any of your jewcy posts?

Ouch.

* How has being a wife and mother affected your writing?

Well, I try out my writing on my husband, so that’s nice. But being a mom with young children and also working full time translates into very little time to write.

* Has your husband lived in israel and/or how do you think he’d like living there?

He hasn’t lived there, and I can’t imagine that he’d like it longterm. There’s the language barrier, of course, but there are also all those behavioral nuances. I knew I was finally adjusting to living in Israel when I could shout with the best of them and not get upset. And my husband is from Minnesota and much nicer than I’ve ever been.

* Is it true Israelis are leery of befriending Americans who make aliyot because they expect them to go home to the US?

I don’t know if it’s true, and even if it is, I wonder whether Israelis would be conscious of this, and whether more of this has to do with cultural differences, like not laughing at the same things.  When I was in Israel, it did seem as if English speakers stuck with English speakers except for when it came to dating, but again, that’s just my experience.