Fishman, Sylvia Barrack. Friedman, Lawrence Jacob. Cambridge: Harvard UP, Terry Honess and Krysia Yardley. New York: Routledge, Marica, James. Milowitz, Steven. New York: Garland, Rabin, G. Connecticut: Praeger, Shaheen, Naseeb. Shostak, Deborah B. Philip Roth—Countertexts, Counterlives. Columbia, U of South Carolina P, Wirth-Nesher, Hana.
rothsociety | Biography
Cohen, Sarah Blacher. Jewish Wry: Essays on Jewish Humour.
- Penn State University Libraries.
- Way of the Weirdo.
- No More Holes in My Shoes.
Indiana, Indiana UP, Halio, Jay L. And Ben Siegel. New Jersey: Rosemont, Howe, Irving and Kenneth Libo. London: Routledge, Pinsker, Sanford. Web 01 Dec. Illinois: Southern Illinois UP, Posnock, Ross. New Jersey: Princeton UP, Schechner, Mark. Wisconsin: U of Wisconsin P, Wade, Stephen.
Jewish American Literature sine An Introduction. Edinburgh, Edinburgh UP, Hana Wirth-Nesher and Michael P. New York: Cambridge UP, Wohlgelernter, Maurice. New Jersey: Transaction, Here are some videos I find interesting:. You are commenting using your WordPress.
You are commenting using your Google account. You are commenting using your Twitter account. You are commenting using your Facebook account. Notify me of new comments via email. Notify me of new posts via email. Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. But they took that city and now they are going to take that business and everything I built up a day at a time, an inch at a time, and they are going to leave it all in ruins! The biggest men in the country work hard. Roth began as a young writer satirizing—sometimes savagely—nearly everyone from his youth.
He depicted parents and older relatives as suffocating and hopelessly out of date, while simultaneously deprecating the younger generation as grasping and shallow. For that harsh portrayal, he faced consider- able criticism from the Jewish community—even finding himself denounced by rabbis in weekly sermons. Early in his career, the anger grew so intense that Roth said that he was done writing about the old neighborhood.
The job they had was to stand between the European family of their immigrant parents and the American realities of their younger children. They were a generation of negotiators, of constructors. Their little thoroughfare of shops and shopkeepers was dead. But at the end of the novel, he reveals that his wife, Doris, was murdered in the city. Klugman anticipates the decline, wondering even in the s where the new Newarkers would come from. No one, I thought, and someday these streets, where my grandmother drank hot tea from the old jahrzeit glass, would be empty.
I t would be wrong to reduce Roth to being a mere ethnographer or historian of urban decline. Immigrant shoe- maker Emidio Russomanno kept a canary named Jimmy in his shop for years. Send a question or comment using the form below. This message may be routed through support staff. More detailed message would go here to provide context for the user and how to proceed. City Journal search.
City Journal is a publication of Manhattan Institute. Search search. Experts Hea ther Mac Donald. Topics Hea lth Care. Wobbly-heeled girls revolved through the doors of the telephone building across the way, traffic honked desperately, policeman barked, whistled, and waved motorists to and fro. Over at St. Vincent's Church the huge dark portals swung back and those bleary-eyes that had risen early for Mass now blinked at the light.
Then the worshipers had stepped off the church steps and were racing down the streets towards desks, filing cabinets, secretaries, bosses, and — if the Lord had seen fit to remove a mite of harshness from their lives — to the comfort of air-conditioners pumping at their windows. I got up and crossed over to the library, wondering if Brenda was awake yet. The pale cement lions stood unconvincing guard on the library steps, suffering their usual combination of elephantiasis and arteriosclerosis, and I was prepared to pay them as little attention as I had for the past eight months were it not for a small colored boy who stood in front of one of them.
The lion had lost all of its toes the summer before to a safari of juvenile delinquents, and now a new tormentor stood before him, sagging a little in his knees, and growling. He would growl, low and long, drop back, wait, then growl again. Then he would straighten up, and, shaking his head, he would say to the lion, "Man, you's a coward The day began the same as any other. From behind the desk on the main floor, I watched the hot high-breasted teen-age girls walk twitchingly up the wide flight of marble stairs that led to the main reading room.
The stairs were an imitation of a staircase somewhere in Versailles, though in their toreador pants and sweaters these young daughters of Italian leatherworkers, Polish brewery hands, and Jewish furriers were hardly duchesses. They were not Brenda either, and any lust that sparked inside me through the dreary day was academic and time-passing.
I looked at my watch occasionally, thought of Brenda, and waited for lunch and then for after lunch, when I would take over the Information Desk upstairs and John McKee, who was only twenty-one but wore elastic bands around his sleeves, would march starchily down the stairs to work assiduously at stamping books in and out. The library was not going to be my lifework, I knew it. Yet, there had been some talk — from Mr. Scapello, an old eunuch who had learned somehow to disguise his voice as a man's — that when I returned from my summer vacation I would be put in charge of the Reference Room, a position that had been empty ever since that morning when Martha Winney had fallen off a high stool in the Encyclopedia Room and shattered all those frail bones that come together to form what in a woman half her age we would call the hips.
Task 2: Presentation
I had strange fellows at the library and, in truth, there were many hours when I never quite knew how I'd gotten there or why I stayed. But I did stay and after a while waited patiently for that day when I would go into the men's room on the main floor for a cigarette and, studying myself as I expelled smoke into the mirror, would see that at some moment during the morning I had gone pale, and that under my skin, as under McKee's and Scapello's and Miss Winney's, there was a thin cushion of air separating the blood from the flesh.
Someone had pumped it there while I was stamping out a book, and so life from now on would be not a throwing off, as it was for Aunt Gladys, and not a gathering in, as it was for Brenda, but a bouncing off, a numbness.