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I.
This book will discuss the people of Israel (the name by which the Jewish people were known), showing the history of their joys and…
This episode occurred on Deribasov Street, about two years after the beginning of our story.
At that time our editorial office was located at the upper end of the street, in the…
Savitsky, the commander of the Sixth Division, rose when he saw me, and I was taken aback by the beauty of his gigantic body. He rose—his breeches purple, his crimson cap cocked to the side, his…
The shtetl, lost here among Polish fields and groves, might be called Turek or Przasnysz, Konin or Maków, yet what one remembers is not the name but the old marketplace reeking of tar and dung where a…
Morning flew by in the usual way,
Up and down streets, it raced,
Unwinding the spring of an ongoing watch
That the night would wind up again.
A coat was fastened over the chest
With a clasp and a…
The death of an artist is never a random event, but a last act of creation that seems to illuminate the whole of his life under a powerful ray of light. [ . . . ] Why are people surprised when poets…
This morning I met Vaclav on the street.
“God himself has arranged our meeting,” he continued after the usual greetings and inquiries about health. “Walking here, I thought of you.”
“Might I be able…
A few days after receiving your precious letter of 5 November 1854, I began collating [the pages of my book], which took me until New Year’s eve to finish. But what a chasm in between! I began the…
You, my dear, will survive me and remember.
How could it be otherwise?
—From a letter
Old people? What can you write about old people?
They barely feel anything!
—From a conversation
When will he come? When? When?
Zelda Fradkina is sitting at the piano and playing a Bach fugue. There is no one at home other than the Osherova widow Golda, the cook and housecleaner. Father does not…