The Perils of Biblical Inspiration

Would you believe that writing biblically inspired books is a risky proposition? Let me suggest to you that it is. Why? 

Because some of your readers may have only a vague recollection of the reference material, back from their days in Sunday school. Others may be totally unfamiliar with it, because they may come from a different culture altogether. So you have to introduce enough of the original story to the readers, and you better do it in a fresh way, one that highlights the immediacy of its meaning. Here, for example, is the voice of Yankle (based on the biblical Jacob) in my book A Favorite Son:

“When I sprinkle my secret blend of spices; here, take a sniff, can you smell it? When I chop these mouthwatering sun-dried tomatoes, add a few cloves of garlic for good measure, and let it all sizzle with lentils and meat—it becomes so scrumptious, so lipsmacking, finger-licking, melt-in-your-mouth good!

There is a certain ratio of flavors, a balance that creates a feast for the tongue and a delight for the mind; and having mastered that balance, with a pinch of imported cumin from the north of Persia, a dash of Saffron from the south of Egypt, I can tell you one thing: When the pot comes to a full bubbling point, and the aroma of the stew rises up in the air—it would make you dribble! Drive you to madness! For a single bite, you would sell your brother, if only you had one!”

By design, his voice is a direct and intimate one, letting you get close enough to taste, or at least to smell the aroma of his lentil soup. Not only that, but the ‘you’ in this passage is not just the preverbial you. Rather (as is revealed later) it is a character with a complex emotional relationship to the main character: his firstborn, who at the conclusion of the story is just about to fool Yankle in a most devastating way, by letting him believe that Joseph, his favorite son, has been devoured by a wild beast.

No wonder Yankle has a dark side. Here he is, pondering the bitterness of sibling rivalry, and the abuse of an elderly father by his son, which perpetuate themselves here from one generation to the next:

“It is an odd feeling. Have you ever faced it? Being dead to someone you envy; someone you miss, too; someone who knows you intimately and, even worse, has the chutzpa to occupy your thoughts day in, day out. It grinds down on your nerves; doesn’t it? Trust me, being dead to your brother is not all that it is cracked up to be, but it does set you free—oh, don’t act so surprised! It frees you from any lingering sense of obligation. Brother, you say to yourself. What does it mean, Brother? Nothing more than a pang, a dull pang in your heart.
You have betrayed him. Accept his hate. You need not talk to him ever again. For the rest of your life, you are free! A stranger— that is what you are. A stranger, visited from time to time by dreams: Dreams about the mother you will never see again, and the father you left behind, on his deathbed. Dreams of waiting, waiting so eagerly for the next day, to meet your brother at the end of an endless exile. Dreams of grappling with him all night long, until the crack of dawn. Until your ankles give way. Until you lose your footing on the ground.
Then, rising up to take you is the darkness of the earth; which is where you wake up at sunrise to find yourself alone.”

Some of your readers may be well versed with the reference material, and for them, you better offer an extra layer of meaning. For example, in the passage above, the sentence “Dreams of grappling with him all night long, until the crack of dawn. Until your ankles give way“ is an allusion to Jacob grappling with the angel, the night before he meets his brother after years of estrangement. In the biblical story, this is symbolic of Jacob struggling with God. But in my modern interpretation, this is symbolic of Yankle struggling with his curse, the loneliness in which is he is stranded, now that his brother is his enemy.

A Favorite Son does not amplify what the bible says. In fact, it offers a secular point of view, and a mirror to our souls. To me, the bible is rife with drama, sex, and violence, which makes it a rich source, a place to explore the truth about ourselves, about our struggle between the angels and demons inside all of us. My Yankle is no hero, no one you might want to revere. Instead, he is a rebellious teenager, a sly smart-ass about to cheat his father. Which may well offend some readers, especially those who make the mistake to expect nothing more that an expansion of the original story. To such readers, my book may be seen as nothing less than blasphemy.

What do you think? Is writing biblically-inspired books is a risky proposition?

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David commits adultery

I want to wait, wait for her to give herself to me—but in the end I cannot fight my passion any longer, and I take her. She sighs softly and arches against me, rising on the fervor of my caress, higher and higher into ecstasy.

What wakes us up when the glow goes out of the stars, when they hang over us like stones, and the hills around us take a faint, still uncertain shape, is a sound. 

Dazed, we look up at the heavens as if we were underwater, sunken and floating with the stream, and what startles us out of our dream is the march of soldiers out of the courtyard below, and the clinking of swords.

In alarm Bathsheba opens her eyes. 

“Stay awhile longer,” I whisper to her. 

“And live here with you,” she counters, “happily ever after?”

Before I can think of an answer Bathsheba rises to her feet and walks to the edge of the roof. Peering out through the lattice, “Nay,” she says. “Both of us know that’s not going to happen.”

It is sunrise. Sprawled around us is the city, its hills drifting in and out of grayness. Sudden gusts of wind press against newly erected scaffoldings, near and far. The tent of God can be seen below, its tissues alive, blowing like a mouth, a huge mouth swelling and puffing in unspoken anger. 

It brings to mind what my first in command, Joav, said to me. “Standing here,” he said, “I would feel above God.”

The troops march around the tabernacle, snap to attention when they reach its front, and bow deeply. Then they file out onto the road, heading east to the faraway city of Rabbah. 

I unlock the chamber door, glance left, right, and into the stoney shadow of the stairwell. To my relief my scribe, Nathan, is nowhere in sight. I give my hand to Bathsheba. First we move on our tiptoes, slowly, carefully, like little children playing hide and seek. Then, in leaps and bounds, we run down the stairs.

Near the bottom, where the staircase twists onto the landing, I am feeling particularly reckless. When she sets her little foot—a bit precariously—on the last triangular stair, I pull her to me. Wild and carefree I hope we can both slip. 

I find myself loving risk of all things—even more than her—and not minding anymore if a glimpse of us can be caught through the opening, as we lie there one last time before it is over, before both of us are forced to come out and lie, lie to ourselves, lie to everyone else, pretending that last night never happened. 

“This,” I say, closing my eyes, “Is happiness.” 

“Yes,” says Bathsheba. “For one night, it is. With the power you have, be sure not to make it the cause of mourning.”

For some reason I hold myself back from asking her what she means. 

All too soon Bathsheba gets up, dusts herself off, and straightens the folds of fabric about her. Then she walks out into the blindingly bright sunrise, her eyes clouded with some thought, perhaps worry. 

There is one thing, one nagging notion I am beginning to form in my mind as I watch her going, and it is this: yesterday, when I wrote her that note, I knew I was tempting Providence. What I failed to consider was the fact that she would be the one to suffer the consequences, more so than me.

David Commits Adultery, Maciejowski bible

Bathsheba Bathing by Paolo Veronese

My trilogy, and this moment in the second volume in particular, are greatly inspired by art of all ages. Her are two examples, where the artists viewed the love between David and Bathsheba in two different ways: 

The first image, titled in the most unveiled way, David Commits Adultery, is taken from Maciejowski bible, a medieval picture bible of 46 folios, thought to have been created under the direction of Louis IX of France in the mid-1240s. It is symmetrically framed by a distant view of the City of David and the raised curtains over the bed, where David makes love to Bathsheba. The most prominent graphical element is David's sword, erected in the center of the image, hinting, perhaps with a measure of humor, at the sexual vigor of the king. 

The second image is mush less explicit, despite its title Bathsheba Bathing she is shown fully clothed, or rather wrapped with silky fabrics. Drawn by Paolo Veronese, this is a sensual painting even without showing naked skin. The artist captures the king's little gesture of invitation, almost as if he was asking Bathsheba for a dance, and her surprise finding him so close to her.

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Still Life with Memories

Lenny appears as a ‘supporting character’ in two of my novels-- My Own Voice  and The White Piano -- bundled together in Apart from Love. In 1980, his predicament--watching his wife, Natasha, slipping away from him due to her early-onset Alzheimer’s--is heart-rending to me. It fascinates me to such a degree that I find myself compelled to build an entire series surrounding what happens to this family. It will be titled Still Life with Memories. I am writing a new novel as we speak, which gives both Lenny and Natasha center stage, and takes them first to 1970 and then a full generation back, to 1941, to the beginning of their love story. Three volumes of the series-- The Music of Us,  Dancing with Air, and Marriage before Death -- are bundled together in Apart from War.

In 1970, there is only one thing more difficult in Lenny’s mind than talking to his son, who has left home, and that is writing to him. Amazingly, having to conceal what Natasha is going through makes every word—even on subjects unrelated to her condition—that much harder. Lenny finds himself oppressed by his own self-imposed discipline, the discipline of silence.

These are his thoughts:

And what can I tell him, really? That I keep digging into the past, mining its moments, trying to piece them together this way and that, dusting off each memory of Natasha, of how we were, the highs and lows of the music of us, to find out where the problem may have started? 

Here is a phone conversation between Lenny and Natasha in 1941, when he was a young soldier and she--a rising star. This is the beginning of their love story. Note not only how chatty she is with him, but also the mechanics of a long distance call through the switchboard:

The Bell phone operator came on. I could hear her fumbling about at the switchboard, which I imagined as a high back panel, consisting of rows of front and back keys, front and back lamps, and cords all about, extending every which way, connecting the entire mess into circuits.

At the other end, “Hello,” said Natasha. Her voice sounded intermittent. 

“She said Hello,” said the operator.

“Oh, Hi,” said I.

“He said Hi,” said the operator.

We laughed. I could barely hear what I thought were giggles, as they were breaking off, coming back on. After a while the connection got better, but at the risk of it deteriorating again, we found ourselves talking rather fast. 

I asked Natasha if she got my photograph, the one I had sent earlier that month. It showed me amongst others in a group of Marines, all of us dressed in uniforms, looking exactly alike. 

She said yes, and was I the Marine second from the left, squatting, and in return I should expect a photograph of hers, which I’d better treat with extreme care, not the way I had treated her first envelope, which meant placing it in a dry, safe place, preferably close to my heart, because this is the earliest picture she had with her papa, so it was dear to her, and she’s giving it to me as a special gift, and on an entirely different note, what would I say if she told me that this summer she plans to take some time off from performances, which would give us an opportunity to meet, and even if her Mama would object to this idea, because she protects her only daughter from dates with soldiers in general, because in her opinion they’re good-for-nothing low-lives who sleep who-knows-where with God-knows-who, she, Natasha, would love to see me if, and that’s a big if,  I could arrange a visit. 

Compare this with another phone conversation between them, 40 years later, described by their son in my novel Apart From Love. Here Lenny calls Natasha, who can no longer understand him, let alone respond, because by now she is afflicted with the disease. 

Stopping for a moment by the console table he dials, listens, and redials. His ear is pressed to the handset, which is connected by a long, spiral cord to the phone, which is nearly buried by various papers, and hidden behind an old alarm clock. The cord is stretching tensely in midair, or slithering behind his back as he goes back to hobbling to and fro across the floor.  

There he goes, reaching the wall, banging it accidentally with the bottom of the crutch and then, somehow, turning around, aiming to reach the opposite wall and bang, turning around again, while listening intently to the earphone. With each footfall, my father attempts to cut through some stutter. He tries, it seems, to restart a conversation. 

He pays no attention to me. Still, his voice is deliberately lowered, which tells me this is private. I should turn away, really, and keep myself far out of earshot—but for some reason I make no move, and no sound either. Why is the connection so bad, I wonder, and who is it, who could it be at the other end of the line?

My father swallows his breath several times, his face turning pale, his eyes—miserable, until finally he bursts out shouting, “Listen, it’s Lenny! Can you hear me, dear? In God’s name, Natasha, it’s me—” 

Perhaps you have figured out by now why I call the series Still Life with Memories. Think about the haircut style of a soldier in this era, the woman’s fashion in hats and dresses, The design of cars, the gadgets (such as here, the telephone), the furniture, the stamps and envelopes--these are the details that give a solid background to the story and allow it to harken back to an earlier era in history.

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“Liberally salted with buttery smooth prose & fascinating insights”

Begin the journey, see where it takes you

The David Chronicles is the journey of a lifetime. The way I wrote it is greatly inspired by painting and sculpture throughout the history of art, depicting the story of David, who is an exceptional historical figure with great gifts, facing great temptations in love and war. You can easily read each one of the three volumes as a standalone novel, yet the themes of power and love run through the entire trilogy, allowing you to witness the drastic change in the main character from youth to old age. I find this transformation fascinating and hope you will too.

As an artist and writer, I believe that my mission is to let the characters speak to you through me. David is flesh and blood, he lives in my mind, and so does Bathsheba. This story is happening here and now. I invite you to step into the skin of the characters, and look yourself in the mirror.

Here is the first time David lays eyes on Bathsheba in volume I of the trilogy, Rise to Power:

Then, on a whim, she plunges underwater nearly all the way, so all that remains above the foamy surface is the little embroidered towel wrapped around her head. 

After several evenings of watching her from afar I still have no idea if her hair is curled or straight, red or brown. I have painted her in my mind several different ways already, each time more beautiful than the other. By now it matters little to me. She is so sexy, she might as well be bald. 

When she comes back up, “What,” she says. “You still here?”

“What’s the point of going up there,” I say, hearing a slight tone of complaint in my voice. I hope she does not think me childish. That would be devastating. 

With a hint of a smile, she asks, “What does that mean, What’s the point?”

So I say, “You would seem too small from above.”

“Really,” says Bathsheba. “I thought I spotted you standing by your window, with your sword aimed at me.”

To which I explain, “I could not see a thing through the glass. It became cloudy, or something. At this time of day, even though it is only the beginning of summer, it’s much too steamy in the office.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ve had it with men.”

I can find nothing to say, and perhaps there is no need to. She can tell, can’t she, how desperately I ache for her.

“My life is scandal-free at the moment,” she says. “It feels nice for a change.”

David’s love affair with Bathsheba is, arguably, the most torrid love affair ever told, and the love scenes could not be less than arousing, yet they must be delivered with lyricism and be no more explicit than the biblical Song of Songs. Here, then, is an excerpt from A Peek at Bathsheba:

Separated from her by the thought of a kiss I sense her heat, and the gust of air scented by roses and by her flesh—but I cannot tell if the breath between us is hers or mine. Which is when I know, for one perfect moment, that she is part of my essence. 

I am part of hers.

Bathsheba holds me in a tender embrace as I lay her down. Scattered petals fly off, swirling in the air around her long, silky hair that starts cascading here, over the pillows and onto the tile floor. 

Accidentally the goblet, which she has set down next to her, tips over and some of the wine spills over her hip. I dip a finger in the red puddle beside her, and paint countless grapes around her waist. 

Intoxicated I murmur to her, “Your graceful legs are like jewels, the work of an artist’s hands. Your navel is a rounded goblet that never lacks blended wine.” 

I want to wait, wait for her to give herself to me—but in the end I cannot fight my passion any longer, and I take her. She sighs softly and arches herself against me, rising on the fervor of my caress, higher and higher into ecstasy.

Here is the way he thinks of Bathsheba towards the end of his life, in volume 3, The Edge of Revolt: 

Overhead, a cloud breaks off from the others and moves in a new direction. Its wooly, dim grays are drifting across. I squint, rub my eyes. Now, in a separate layer, another image starts floating past: the way she looked, right here on this roof, when we came out of these doors the very first time. 

I remember: scattered petals flew off, swirling in the glow around her long, silky hair that started cascading under her, onto the tile floor. In the background, a vine of roses twisted over the wooden lattice and into it. Between its diagonal slats I saw a diamond here, a diamond there of the heavens. I wondered then about the black void that was gaping upon us, dotted by a magical glint of starlight.

Separated from her by the thought of a kiss I sensed her heat, and the gust of air, which was sweetly scented by roses and by her flesh—but I could not tell if the breath between us was hers or mine. Which is when I knew, for the first time in my life, that she would always be part of my essence. I would be part of hers.

Accidentally the goblet, which she had set down next to her, tipped over and some of the wine spilled over her hip. The crisp sound of breaking glass rang in my ear. It marked the moment, from which I could not turn back. Never would I be able to put it out of my mind.

Yes, this was my fault: taking a woman that belonged to another. Soon after came the blunder: bringing her husband, Uriah, back from the front, that he may sleep with her, which would have explained her pregnancy ever so conveniently. 

And when that did not go as planned, then came another mistake, the worst of all: sending him back to the battlefield, with my sealed letter in hand, arranging for his death. 

All the while, my boys were learning their own lessons—not from my psalms but from my deeds. One error begets another, each one bringing a new calamity over me, over my family, and over this entire land. Sin followed by execution, followed by revolt, escape, execution, revolt...

Had I known back then the results of the results of my mistake, the curse looming over my life ever since that time, would I still choose to do it? 

Bathsheba tries to raise me to my feet. Her fragrance brings back to me the sunny, warm hues of spring. The fears, the doubts flee away when we are that close. I adore the way she calls my name, the way she sighs. With every sweet word I fall deeper into her eyes. 

How can love be a mistake? In my passion for her—then as now—what choice do I have? 

I want to tell her, “Let me close my eyes. Let me remember.”

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"Rise to Power" waxes Shakespearean

Michael James Gallagher is an established author who began his writing journey with a gripping, post-cold-war espionage thriller: Tsunami Connection. I am thrilled to find his review for my novel Rise to Power:

5A Truly Jewish Story

ByAmazon Customer "Michael James Gallagher"on June 6, 2015

Format: Kindle Edition

Uvi Poznansky's "Rise to Power" waxes Shakespearean: "What a rogue and peasant slave..." is Saul and yet bursts out with an intriguing "I Claudius" tone at times as well.. The best of both worlds. Kingly pomp, drenched in battle blood, and stark raving, in-bred madness all painted together in a picture of David as a modern man. Why did choose At Odds with Destiny? Well, I love to get my history indirectly in fictional form and the 12 tribes of Israel have intrigued me since spending almost a year in Israel in my late 20's. I know. I know, that was 35 years ago. Life, work, raising two wonderful children didn't leave time to peruse history for interesting topics. Now I am retired and can take my curiosity wherever it wanders.
Now back to "Rise to Power". The story opens up with a Hamlet-like Saul suffering and lamenting, among other things, that he doomed his rise to power by showing mercy to a captured king. Almost like another of Shakespeare's characters, Lady Macbeth, he can't wash out the stain of this ill-fated decision. Enter the 'fool', a wise peasant in the person of David the musician trying his luck as court musician. Saul tries to dissuade the young man and sends him packing but he's persistent. So the story of the foundations of the House of David begins. No more spoilers here. Highly recommended. Five stars

Fascinating and entertaining

Short and sweet review for my novel, Rise to Power:

5five stars

ByBook Readson June 2, 2015

Format: Kindle EditionVerified Purchase

Rise to Power by Uvi Poznansky is a marvelous book! A great read with depth and emotion. It's an interesting twist on historical fiction with a modern flair, fascinating and entertaining. Very well written. This fictional tale uses biblical history as the backdrop. The focus of the book is in portraying David's rise from the shadows to power with the events and people along the way. Filled with action, romance, and humor. it's an enthralling read as you immerse yourself into the story. Looking forward to the next book in the series.

He plunged them into Absalom’s heart

“Oh, it was terrifying!” cries the soldier. “And yet, Absalom looked more magnificent than ever! He was beginning to look like a tree himself, with his hair pulling at its roots, branching out, twisting every which way in that light, that dim light that slipped here and there through the leaves, dappling him.”

Nathan utters a sigh, which is immediately echoed by the soldiers around him. 

Meanwhile, the soldier goes on to say, “Then I called Joav. I told him, ‘I just saw Absalom hanging in an oak tree.’ And Joav cried out, ‘What! You saw him? Why didn’t you strike him to the ground right there?’”

“And? What did you say to that?”

“At first, nothing. So he said, ‘Ha! If you had killed him I’d have had to give you ten shekels of silver and a warrior’s belt.’ To which I said, ‘Even if a thousand shekels were weighed out into my hands I wouldn’t lay a hand on the king’s son.’ Joav glanced at me shrewdly, as if to ask, ‘Why not?’ So I responded by asking, ‘Don’t you remember? As we headed out of town for this battle, the king made a point of asking you and everyone else, for his sake, to be gentle with the young man Absalom.’”

“Even so, weren’t you tempted?” asks the old scribe. “I mean, it’s not every day that a soldier gets a chance to win ten shekels of silver and a warrior’s belt!”

“For that I had to put my life in jeopardy,” says the soldier, “because nothing’s hidden from the king.”

“Come now, how would he find out?”

“To remove blame from himself, Joav would’ve pointed me out to him. Ignoring the fact that Joav gave me a direct order, he would’ve accused me of slaying Absalom.”

“So,” says the scribe, “When Joav saw that you wouldn’t do what he asked of you, what did he do then?”

“He shrugged, saying, ‘I’m not going to wait like this for you.’ Then he rode out to the oak tree, from which Absalom was dangling.”

“And when he got there, what happened?”
“Joav raised his eyes to the king’s son, who shuddered to see him, and asked, ‘Why should I spare you? Give me one good reason to do so!’ And Absalom said, in a husky voice, pleading for his life, ‘Because we’re family!’ To which Joav said, ‘Ha! I thought so too, until the day you dared touch what’s mine and burn it!’ And he took three javelins in his hand and plunged them into Absalom’s heart while he was still alive in the oak tree.”

Death of Absalom by Albert Weisgerber

Death of Absalom by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld 

This moment in his story is described by several artists. They put us in awe at their depiction of Absalom getting his hair caught in an oak tree, an easy prey for his assassins.

In the first piece, Death of Absalom by Albert Weisgerber, we happen upon Absalom in the uncertain, foggy light, seeping in through the trees of the forrest. At first glance he seems to be dancing like a clown, until we realize that he is falling desperately about, trying to find his footing. In the second piece, Death of Absalom by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, we face the drama head on, and there is little doubt that Absalom is doomed, because of the dramatic clarity of the artist's strokes.

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