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February 16, 2006

THURSDAY AFTERNOON WOOD

Regular readers of TEV are probably tired by now of our constant and immoderate enthusiasm for James Wood.  We know he's staked out some controversial positions, that some consider him a narrow-minded literary stick in the mud but for our money, even when we disagree with him (infrequently) we think there's no one reading more closely and writing more thoughtfully, who engages as deeply with the material he reviews.

But Wood might be at his very best when examining the intersection of theology and literature.  Given his past, this should come as no surprise.  And this brilliant review in the London Review of Books of Robert Alter's The Five Books of Moses: A Translation with Commentary is Wood at his most far-reaching and authoritative best.  Who else would be likely to make this same bravura leap:

Or take the moment at the end of Chapter 2 of Exodus, where the Bible-writer tells us that God began to hear the groaning of the Israelites in their Egyptian bondage: ‘So God looked on the Israelites and was concerned about them,’ says the New International Version. The King James has: ‘And God looked upon the children of Israel, and God had respect unto them.’ Alter has: ‘And God saw the Israelites, and God knew.’ Notice that the New International Version shies away from repeating the word ‘God’, something that fazes neither the KJV nor Alter. But Alter’s reading is at once elegantly emphatic – ‘and God knew’ – and accurate. He informs us that the Hebrew verb has no object, and that Greek translators mistakenly tried to ‘correct’ it. How majestic and indeed divine that objectless ‘knew’ is. And Alter’s version allows one to make new connections with biblical-sounding texts. Saul Bellow, who grew up reading the Hebrew Bible, and whose English was profoundly influenced by both the Tanakh and the King James Version, was very fond of that objectless verb ‘knew’. Tommy Wilhelm, the hero of Seize the Day, is haplessly surrounded by people he fears are the kinds of people who ‘know’ (as opposed to the confused hero): ‘Rubin was the kind of man who knew, and knew and knew,’ Tommy thinks to himself. Mr Sammler’s Planet ends with the eponymous hero reflecting that he has met the terms of his life-contract, those terms ‘that we all know, God, that we know, that we know, we know, we know’. This always sounded biblical to me, but Alter’s translation of the line in Exodus has given me chapter and verse.

Observations like this make us feel like we're doing little more than turning pages when we read ... Check it out and read it through.  It will reward your close attention.

Posted at 01:31 PM in Obsessions |

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Comments

Brendan Wolfe

Agreed one hundred percent. Although I greatly respect & admire James Wood, perhaps the spotlight should be on Robert Alter, whose critical work for decades has been nothing short of astonishing. It's also an opportunity—in our highly politicized environment, where the likes of Pat Robertson stand in for what it means to be religious—to recall that the Bible is a beautiful & challenging work of art.

Posted by: Brendan Wolfe | February 17, 2006 at 06:36 AM

Jimmy Beck

I'm in the middle of The Broken Estate right now--it's like a shot of literary vitamins.

Posted by: Jimmy Beck | February 17, 2006 at 09:25 AM

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TEV DEFINED


  • The Elegant Variation is "Fowler’s (1926, 1965) term for the inept writer’s overstrained efforts at freshness or vividness of expression. Prose guilty of elegant variation calls attention to itself and doesn’t permit its ideas to seem naturally clear. It typically seeks fancy new words for familiar things, and it scrambles for synonyms in order to avoid at all costs repeating a word, even though repetition might be the natural, normal thing to do: The audience had a certain bovine placidity, instead of The audience was as placid as cows. Elegant variation is often the rock, and a stereotype, a cliché, or a tired metaphor the hard place between which inexperienced or foolish writers come to grief. The familiar middle ground in treating these homely topics is almost always the safest. In untrained or unrestrained hands, a thesaurus can be dangerous."

SECOND LOOK

  • The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald

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    Penelope Fitzgerald's second novel is the tale of Florence Green, a widow who seeks, in the late 1950s, to bring a bookstore to an isolated British town, encountering all manner of obstacles, including incompetent builders, vindictive gentry, small minded bankers, an irritable poltergeist, but, above all, a town that might not, in fact, want a bookshop. Fitzgerald's prose is spare but evocative – there's no wasted effort and her work reminds one of Hemingway's dictum that every word should fight for its right to be on the page. Florence is an engaging creation, stubbornly committed to her plan even as uncertainty regarding the wisdom of the enterprise gnaws at her. But The Bookshop concerns itself, finally, with the astonishing vindictiveness of which provincials are capable, and, as so much English fiction must, it grapples with the inevitabilities of class. It's a dense marvel at 123 pages, a book you won't want to – or be able to – rush through.
  • The Rider by Tim Krabbe

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    Tim Krabbé's superb 1978 memoir-cum-novel is the single best book we've read about cycling, a book that will come closer to bringing you inside a grueling road race than anything else out there. A kilometer-by-kilometer look at just what is required to endure some of the most grueling terrain in the world, Krabbé explains the tactics, the choices and – above all – the grinding, endless, excruciating pain that every cyclist faces and makes it heart-pounding rather than expository or tedious. No writer has better captured both the agony and the determination to ride through the agony. He's an elegant stylist (ably served by Sam Garrett's fine translation) and The Rider manages to be that rarest hybrid – an authentic, accurate book about cycling that's a pleasure to read. "Non-racers," he writes. "The emptiness of those lives shocks me."

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