Sunday, December 31, 2017
Abishag says nothing in reply. After a long pause she asks, “Did he invite you to the festivities? I would love to escort you—”
“Festivities?” say I. “No one tells me anything these days, which is why I am becoming so pitifully suspicious.”
“I see him down there,” she says. “His guests are arriving now, gathering around to greet him. They’re laughing. He’s not.”
At that I wave my hand. “Adoniah must be tired. He’s utterly weary of life here, in my palace. Luxury can be such a boring thing when you’re born into it.”
She glances back at me, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Is it, really?”
“It must be,” say I. “Unlike me, he’s never fought for what he has. To entertain him, his mother throws one party after another in his honor.”
“He’s young,” says Abishag. “And so tense. She just wants to make him happy.”
“As you may know, her name, Haggith, stands for celebration, which suited her perfectly well several decades ago, when I first cuddled her in my arms. How eloquently I praised her beauty, back then! Alas, how quickly it has waned! Gone is my delight—”
“That,” says Abishag, in her dreamy voice, “is the nature of it, is it not?”
“Perhaps so,” I say. “But now, in heaven’s name, what is there to celebrate? That, I’m afraid, is yet unclear to me.”
“Does a party need a reason? Sometimes,” she says, “it’s just for fun.”
“Fun? Not at this extravagant cost,” I counter. “My wife thinks I don’t know the extent of her expenses. Lately she’s stopped asking me to authorize them. Instead, she simply acts as if my entire treasure already belongs to her son, simply because.”
“Because he’s entitled. According to her, giving no reason at all for this squandering is much more convincing than the best excuse.”
I prop myself up on my pillows to catch sight of Haggith. There she is, wearing her best winter gown, which is puffy here, tight there, and fleecy all around, elaborately designed to give her flesh a much needed lift in all the right places.
With great jubilation, my wife is chatting about nothing worth mentioning, first with one guest, then another, all the while lavishing rich food upon them. The rest of my wives—Michal, Ahinoam, Abigail, Maachah, Abital, Eglah, and Bathsheba—stay away from her, perhaps in the women’s quarters. She pays no attention to them. After all, her son is next in the line of succession. He is the heir-apparent, now that his elder brothers—my firstborn Amnon and my beloved Absalom—have perished.
Friday, December 29, 2017
I remember how I expected that some of the soldiers in this boat would soon become casualties. Others must have been thinking the same thing. No one talked anymore, not a word was uttered, but you used your eyes. From time to time I would find myself casting a look sideways at a guy, thinking, which one of us is about to die? Is it you or is it me?
Then, ramps were dropped along the boat line and one after the other, we jumped into the cold water, which rose up to our chest, our shoulders. For a moment, some disappeared under the turbulent surface. Half-swimming, half-wading, and carrying our overloaded packs and our M-1 semi-automatic rifles, we began to move slowly onto the shore, unsure if we are already in front of the Nazi strongpoint.
Where was the enemy? Perhaps over there, atop the bluff? Were they aiming their rifles and machine guns at us, biding their time for just the right second to press the trigger? Were they watching, waiting patiently for us to come closer into their sights, within a comfortable shooting distance, before letting loose?
Accidentally I stumbled and took a big gulp of water, which made me thrash about and filled my throat with a briny tang. My chest heaved, struggling for air until, somehow, I found firm ground underfoot. Carrying my pack I struggled forward through the high surf of the sea and laid my left hand firmly on the pack of the man in front of me. Upon my back I felt the hand of another man. A line was forming. All seemed so orderly, which gave the impression that we were merely carrying out a routine exercise. Forward we marched, now crossing through shallow water that hissed at us, drowning out the alarming sound of silence.
Lenny in Dancing with Air
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Wednesday, December 27, 2017
In her blog, Book Reader's Heaven, Glenda A. Bixler blogs about Books, Reviews, Authors, Publicity, Tips, short stories, essays...a little poetry, a cat story or two, thoughts on music, movies and products selections. This year she published her interview with me, in three parts, corresponding to the three volumes in my trilogy, The David Chronicles. Her questions were incisive, as they go into an exploration of the creative spark:
Do you prefer one genre more than others? What does it take; that is, what creates the spark for you to decide you want to write a specific book. And, once you've decided on the topic, how do you proceed?
I love historical fiction because I find it the most demanding of all the genres. You have to know a lot about the time and place, you cannot simply make stuff up. But what I bring with me from my poetry is something different: it is the attention to the music of words, the rhythms of our thoughts.
The classification to genres is only one method available to you to discern the subject of a book. This method can be rigid. I trust that you use it in combination with reading the book description, and taking a peek at the first few pages, which gives you a true taste of the writing style.
I strive to stretch the envelope of what I create. In writing all of my books, I often break the confines of the particular genre, because life as we know it–and my art, which mirrors it– constantly changes from one genre to the next. One moment is is humorous; the next, it is erotic; then, it might be a tragedy.
The David Chronicles! What got you interested...did you lay out your entire series or did you start with one book and move forward...
I have been enthralled with David since childhood, and by the time I started writing the trilogy it seemed that he was living and breathing inside my head. There was no need to lay the story out, because the events are already recounted in scripture. What I focused on is bringing it to life from the king’s point of view, rather than from the point of view of an objective narrator. For example, when Tamar, the king’s daughter, is raped by Amnon, or when Absalom, the king’s son, finds his death, how can David describe these events, since he was not there to witness it? Well, he has an anxious premonition that something is about to go awry, and when the news is conveyed to him he learns all he can about what happened. Being a writer of great talent, he records these events for himself, fighting through his grief.
For your books, approximately what percentage would be considered history versus the fiction added to bring the story to life? Did you use a specific Bible or other religious book to begin? Specifically, how did you gain the amount of knowledge necessary to translate scripture references to a complete series of books?
Studying the biblical story in the original language, rather than in translation, made the story very direct for me. In Hebrew there are no ‘versions’ of the bible--there is the one and only text where every sentence, every word is the same across all illuminated manuscripts and printed books. Translations are interpretations, but growing up in Israel, what I studied is the original.
Let's talk first about your Inspired by Art books...Do the concept for those books come before or after your novels? How did they play a part in relation to your novels? Tell us a little about your teaching activities related to the books...
My art collections are a product of the same fascination with the character, the same interest that sparked the novels. A few years back I embarked on collecting art not by artistic style or era, but rather by the story moment-by-moment, blow-by-blow of the story, as imagined by various artists. Rembrandt, Ivan Schwebel, James Tissot, Rubens, William Blake, Gustave Doré, and Vallotton, to name but a few. These collections served as the basis for a research course which I taught in a university setting, guiding my students in the analysis of contrasts between viewpoints around the biblical story.
Here is how David describes Amnon’s chamber. (the description is inspired by art that depicts him on his bed, rising upon his sister, Tamar):
Upon entering his house I find myself confused—even before taking a look at him—to see that things in it have been staged in a new manner. Perhaps it just seems that way, because of the remarkably dim air, which is thick with some medicinal vapor. It blots the outlines of the furniture, and casts gloom over the entire space. The heavy cabinet that used to stand opposite the bedroom door is now barricading it, so I have to find my way around that obstacle.
Usually at this hour the windows are wide open, so sunlight may pour in, to showcase the bed in all its decadence. It is an expensive, heavy piece, decorated according to his taste, with fancy inlays of metal, mother-of-pearl, and ivory, contrasting each other in hue and shine. But now, the thing is drenched in shadows.
In the dark, you barely note the life-sized statue of a nude holding a fan, standing at this corner of the bed, and the matching statue at the other corner. Carved of Egyptian alabaster, both of these figures lean forward as if to stop you right there, and prevent you from slipping around them. I imagine that if not for being suspended in that motion, they would hiss something, some sordid secret in your ear.
The scarlet draperies have been pulled shut, allowing only a single ray of sun to wander in, and reach for the pillow. There lies Amnon, having dropped his hand limply, and perhaps a bit theatrically, over the edge of the mattress.
As if threatening to cross him off, the blade of light rests there, barely stirring across his cheek, which brings back the old grief. Tears well in my eyes, stinging me. I blink them off and try to find Amnon’s eyes, but they are obscure to me, completely hidden in the deepest shadow. Perhaps I have yet to adjust to the dark.
“I’m so hot,” he sighs, his voice husky. “Oh, am I in fever!”
Taking it a step further, as I reviewed these three books, one of the major things that struck me was the wide spectrum that was used by the various artists to illustrate a given scene; e.g., David killing Goliath. My question is when writing your books, were you persuaded by a specific artist that "this" was what looks like what happened? Or did you use just scripture? or a broader research base? David for instance, was portrayed as a young man in some paintings but others showed him much older and muscular... What age and physical description did you decide to use in your first, opening book? Was it important to you to stay as close as possible to history or did you allow your creative imagination considerable latitude?
When you see how artists look at these events from different viewpoints, you realize there is no ‘absolute’ way to view it. The life of David is, in a way, a mystery, which invites us into a journey of exploration.
I am often inspired by the art when writing a specific scene. For example, the execution of Amnon, as orchestrated by his brother, Absalom, is imagined here by his father, David:
This was no murder. There is no other name for it but execution.
I stare at the darkness of the palms of my hands and at once, images of that feast—for lack of a better term—light up in my mind. I hear every sound in that place, and take in every smell, as if I have witnessed the entire affair myself, as if I own the senses of the killer and of the victim at once, as if I am possessed by them, because they are, both of them, my own flesh and blood.
I shudder to see so many daggers drawn out of metal holsters. Their harsh grating noise penetrates me. A gasp, a last gurgle of surprise escapes from Amnon’s throat, as many hands grip him, and twist his arms forcefully behind his back.
The bleating of sheep is heard faintly in the background as blades rise, flashing in the air. Then they plunge upon his throat, clinking against each other, and the first of them slashes the vein.
His bloodied corpse is thrown, like leftover meat, by the side of the bench where he has sat. Overhead, birds of prey start hovering. Flies are buzzing, buzzing all around, sensing the sweet taste of blood, which is spurting from his neck.
His eyes turn. They go on turning in their sockets, nearly flipping over in an unnatural way, as if to see the man standing directly behind him. Absalom. There, there he is, striking a victorious pose: legs wide apart, arms crossed, giving him what he has wanted: a nod, a final nod of recognition.
Oh, my son, Absalom.
By the third book, David has been King for many years, has a large family, and has written much of his literary contributions, is that correct? For me, he seemed a man who had grown old enough to look back and concern himself with the past as opposed to what he was doing to rule at that time. In fact, he seemed a rather weak, disheartened man. You've mentioned that the books are created from his words. And, in fact, I found the artwork created for this period a much more provocative presentation. How do you see from your research that King David had come to this point in his life?
Indeed, in The Edge of Revolt David has passed the prime of his life. He has gone from an age of action into an age of reflection, so in my mind I see him as the psalmist and poet more so than ever. There is great beauty in that, but in addition, great pain, because is finds himself unable to make decisions, especially when Amnon his son rapes Tamar his daughter, and when Absalom his second son executes Amnon.
Still, I would not call David weak, but rather, profoundly torn between his love for his children, whom he adores, and the need to restrain and punish them them when they commit crimes against each other and against him. Such a choice is daunting, so I fully understand how disheartened he becomes. How ironic is it that while his palace is being designed with the greatest of splendors, a destruction comes from within his family, threatening to undermine the foundations of the House of David.
In many paintings describing him at this age, a sense of darkness is depicted. For example, in this painting depicting him as a psalmist, wearing an elaborate head scarf and readying himself to play his musical instrument. But notice the head of Goliath at his feet. It is a trophy from years past, which must have been preserved to survive decades after the famous battle... It is at once a reminder of glory and of death. This painting gave me the idea to have David stare into the eye-holes of the mummified head of Goliath:
Amnon winks again, which enrages me, in a flash, into dragging him by the ear, all the way to the opposite side of the court, to the central glass display, where the head of goliath, preserved by Egyptian experts, is encased.
Its eyebrows are bushier than I remember, and so is the serpentine hair twisting upon itself. It seems to be hissing, creeping towards us, pressing against the glass as if to burst it open, which makes me wonder if there is still a remnant of life inside this scalp. I have to remind myself that nearly three decades have passes since the day I killed him.
Meanwhile Amnon cannot help but shudder, perhaps because of the darkness crawling out of those empty eye sockets, and even more than that, because he can see his own reflection right there, in between the huge jaws, over the sheet of glass that separates him from that thing, that memento of my earliest battle.
I let go of his ear, not before breathing into it, “Ever think of death?”
There was definitely a struggle that David did not want to give up his Kingdom, but that His sons and even his army were discontented with the good life they now had, with nothing to do. Given my personal thoughts on war and how it gets started, I found it unacceptable, the only word I can use, that David had become lackadaisical and sad that David was not doing more as their leader to establish other options for the citizens other than continuing in war... Noting that his own thoughts were more self-serving, am I correct in being disenchanted with the man he'd become?
I would beg to differ. When his son Absalom, whom he adores, tries to topple him from the throne, David does not stay in Jerusalem to mount a battle against his son. Instead, he escapes the city and goes into exile. And when Absalom’s army chases him down, David, who has grown to hate the violence of war, instructs his generals and soldiers not to hurt his son, to be gentle with the man who wants to kill him.
Having been to so many wars in the past, I cannot help but imagine the soundless spread of wings, as birds of prey hover in the air, as they descend upon lifeless figures and peck at their wounds. I hear groans of pain even as I watch these young, fresh faces, many of whom are smiling at me, waving farewell.
All of them hear me loud and clear when I bellow, “Halt! One more thing, before you go!”
Joav, Abishai and Ittai stop marching, and all the men behind them come to attention. The last thing they expect of me, as they head for a crucial battle, is a plea for restraint.
“Be gentle with the young man Absalom,” I tell them, “for my sake.”
He had ensured he had Bathsheba by getting her husband killed, had wives and his harem...yet it seemed that Bathsheba was the only female that stood by him at that time. What's more, when his son, who had quite a reputation for mishandling women, sought his sister, David, perhaps not willing to see the potential danger, sent her into his home and directly into a situation she could handle... She was raped. and David did nothing.
Is there any historical background that you can provide that would explain David's lack of action, even to comfort his daughter?
You know, most women described in the bible with a single sentence that immortalizes their beauty. Some of them are not even mentioned by name, because in those times they would be considered the property of their husband. Tamar presents the opposite case: her entire dialogue with her rapist has somehow been preserved for future generations, which is amazing not only by contrast to other women who were not given a voice but also because of the shameful circumstances. It got me thinking: How did it happen that the scribes agreed to include her conversation with Amnon is such a complete way?
Having realized that Tamar has been raped, David tries to protect her by making sure word does not get around.
Having failed to protect Tamar, I must shield her now in an entirely different way. No one should learn these sordid details of the assault. In public, the story should be denied, if at all possible. For certain, it should not make it into the official records of history, because that would be like violating my daughter all over again.
In The Edge of Revolt, I imagine David maturing into the opposite approach, that of giving a voice to the victim.
“Give her a voice,” says Bathsheba, in a tone that is intense, and full of pity for Tamar, and for all of us. “Let everyone hear how a woman does all she can, with such amazing courage, to resist a rape. Let her story be told!”
“That,” say I, “will take a change in the way things are.”
As often is the case, including today, men, leaders, fail to act when a woman is raped. Yet, many speak out when such an outrage does occur. In this case, another son of David was angry that his sister had been abused by a brother and arranged his death. Still David did not act... Do you think that protecting family members who commit crimes can be just ignored in the hope of it all going away?
It appears that lack of action by King David led directly to the revolt that came. It also seemed that some loyal followers cared more for their King than did his own family... I admit, I failed to see the lesson that could be learned...Is there one?
This story is about coming full circle to believe something that you did not recognize at the beginning of the journey. His generation believed in glorifying the victorious at the cost of silencing the downtrodden. But listen to David’s thoughts as he comes to his last hours:
Below, somewhere in the women’s quarters, children are starting to awaken. I hear their voices: some cry, others call for their mothers. One of them, a young girl, runs out to the courtyard, then stops and turns her head back.
I squint against the light, which allows me to recognize her: she is my grandchild, Absalom’s child.
Now she waves at me. Her laughter is so pure, so melodic. It is full of silvery notes, which reminds me of my own daughter, Tamar, and the way she used to laugh, before silence overtook her.
I want to go down to the child and put my arms around her to keep her safe, now and in the future—but I know that it is not in my power. Even so I murmur to her, across the distance, “Let you never surrender to silence, because if you do, it would leave you with the rusty, poisonous taste of shame.”
The child has opened the gate. Like me, she is watching the sunrise. I wonder what it means for her. Perhaps, hope.
One day my daughter, Tamar, will stop listening to the dictates of those who wished to hush her. She will no longer obey the words, ‘Shut up,’ which she must still be hearing in her mind, in the voice of Amnon, who raped her. Nor will she obey the words, “Be silent for now,” in the voice of Absalom, who sought to protect her.
The real shame—now I know—is to consent to silence. A day will come when she will transform her suffering into meaning, into words.
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Tuesday, December 26, 2017
The girl opened the door and called out, “Mama?”
We heard the clap, clap, clap sound of slippers as Mrs. Horowitz came down the stairs. Having removed her square-shouldered jacket, the woman looked rumpled. Her brown shirt hung limply over a hunched back, and the front was equally ill tailored. It drew attention to the way her breasts dangled down, which reminded me of rumpled balloons with the air gone out of them, bouncing against each other as they hover in midair the day after a party is over.
Mrs. Horowitz stomped over and looked me in the eye. I thought she would say something about the car rolling downhill, or ask if it got damaged, but all she said instead was, “You again?”
I said not a thing and smiled at her as charmingly as I knew how, which must have done something to disarm her, at least for a moment. She let me in and asked Natasha to make coffee for our dear guest and a cup of tea for her, and on second thought no, not tea but hot, boiling hot water with a heaping teaspoon of honey, and on second thought no, just half a teaspoon, and not to forget, a squeeze of lemon, too.
I took a step over the threshold. The living room was huge, and the furniture—highly decorative, giving you the impression that you were transported, somehow, around the other side of the world and back in time, to a palace built in the second half of the eighteenth century in Russia. Every piece was gilded in a variety of hues: red-gold, green-gold, even silver. Here and there, some of the gold leaf was damaged, but that did not detract from the richness of the decor.
I was especially overwhelmed by the eclectic combinations of ornamental motifs. There were carved garlands of flowers and foliage, rosettes, shells, urns, harps, even sphinxes.
And yet there was something about the place that made it look not only in disrepair but also about to be deserted.
It felt—oh, how would I put it in words?—as if it didn’t belong to this family anymore, as if they had stopped caring for it, for some reason. The floor was covered with dust. The iron chandelier hanging above the staircase had half of its light bulbs missing.
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Monday, December 25, 2017
Having climbed out of the vault, we followed Monsieur Antoine and his daughter out of Notre Dame Collegiate Church, down the sleepy streets of Vernon. At last, we reached the outskirts of the city. There, fields spread out around an old, deserted farmhouse. The land had not been tilled for a long while, except at one edge, where the girl finally stopped.
“Here?” she asked.
“Here,” said her father, cryptically. He fell to his knees and out of the earth he dug bottle after bottle of Champagne.
“Now that’s a strange place to be keeping it,” I noted.
“Indeed,” he said. “A local farmer, a friend of mine, buried the bubbly bottles here, so they do not fall into the hands of the ennemi.”
“They were kept in the dark—
“You mean, the Germans?”
“No, the bottles.”
“Yes, they were kept cool, till we’re ready to celebrate victory, or at least, the coming of it.”
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Sunday, December 24, 2017
The first tribe to accept me back as their ruler is my own. The women of Judea love me, which I already know—but now I win over the hearts of the men, so that now they are all of one mind.
The elders send word to me, “Return, you and all your men.”
So I lead my men as far as the Jordan. On the opposite bank is a place called Gilgal, which is known in our history for forging a bond between our tribes. It was here that Joshua, the leader who succeeded our legendary Moses, ordered the Israelites to take twelve stones from the river, one for each tribe, and place them there, to celebrate crossing it into the land of Canaan.
And it is beyond that circle of stones that I spot two large groups of people, awaiting to greet me: on the right, a group comprised of the men of Judah, and on the left—a group of Benjamite men, well known for keeping a grudge against me, because I was serving the Philistines while my predecessor, Saul, was fighting his last battle against them. To this day, they wish to resurrect his dynasty.
These Benjemites are lead by none other than Shimei son of Gera, the man who cursed me with such remarkable enthusiasm, chased me out of my own city, and spat on me only a few days ago, when I fell from power.
At seeing him I brace myself, thinking that his presence here must mean trouble, because clearly, there is nothing better he enjoys than throwing mud, stones, and vile expressions at me. Shimei hurries down with the rest of the men who are crossing the ford to escort me back. To my surprise, he outdoes everyone else, hailing me at the top of his voice and bouncing about like a lame grasshopper. Feigning the most joyful of joys, he comes forward, cheering me loudly.
When he comes near, Shimei falls prostrate before me and cries, “May my lord not hold me guilty!”
And I say, “Why not?”