Wednesday’s newsletter cited Joseph Epstein’s view of that vexing and perennial question of what makes a work of literature Jewish, and his conclusion that Marcel Proust’s fiction meets the standard. But while no one can ask Proust what he thinks, it’s not necessary to ask the Romanian Jewish writer Norman Manea—whose most recent novel was recently published in English translation—since he has already expressed his opinion. Benjamin Balint writes:
Manea’s characters, like Dante’s shades in the Inferno, live a purgatorial existence—trapped between the twin tyrannies of Nazism and Communism. Their identities are fractured and reconstituted through memory, or more often, the impossibility of memory. . . .
Several of Manea’s friends had fled to Israel [by the time he came to the West in the 1980s], including the historian Leon Volovici (author of a searing account of Romanian anti-Semitism in the 1930s). “If you want to be a Jew, go to Israel,” Volovici advised his friend. “If you want to be a writer, don’t go to Israel.” Manea, ambivalent about his Jewishness, wanted to remain a writer. While still in Romania, he had expressed annoyance when Hebrew translations of his stories appeared in an Israeli anthology called Jewish Writers in Romanian. “I considered myself, quite simply, a Romanian writer.”
Only decades later, wondering whether the title of that anthology was “the correct assessment of my destiny,” did he come to a belated recognition: “I am a Jew. I may negate it. I may dislike it. But that’s it—because despite all my efforts to try to be different, to be, as I said, more universal, I am still also something quite specific.” For Manea, it turned out, Jewishness has been the hinge, if not the whole door.
Read more at Jewish Review of Books
More about: Communism, Jewish literature, Romania