The Yiddish Policemen's Union

I'm devoting a whole blog to this, because it was a most unusual book, with wonderful language full of metaphor and sentences I sometimes read twice over. Stop now if you don't want to come across some plot spoilers.

My family didn’t speak Yiddish, but words filtered through, and I was surprised at how much I could recognise. Nevertheless, I still had to guess at some words, just as I did with A Clockwork Orange. and, in fact, as I do with any references I don’t understand, for example when it comes to chess, which is as much a mystery to me as Yiddish might be to others.

One of the reading circle compared it to Shakespeare - that is to say, stopping to clarify every word spoils it, whereas reading on and getting the idea is, in my view, (and in his view) a much better way to read it. However, another of our group did say that he investigated a number of the points, on the Internet, in order to understand.

I like to be able to empathise with a character, and I very soon became very comfortable with Meyer, the world weary copy and his partner, Berko. Plot is normally important to me too, and this case, I sometimes got lost in the plot. But by the time I’d finished, I felt it wasn’t all that important for me to understand it, because the journey itself was enjoyable. I very much liked Michael Chabon’s language (English, that is), in spite of the excessive use of 4-letter words - and found myself laughing frequently. He has a wonderful way with words.

Because I read it twice, I did understand it more second time around, and notice that Chabon cleverly puts in a lot of seemingly irrelevant details, which are actually important after all. For example the potential coming of the Messiah, which is crucial to the plot is mentioned in the second chapter.

The Plot:

In a parallel universe, during the Second World War, about 3 million Jews were rescued from Europe and given shelter in Alaska. After the Middle East war in 1947-8, which Israel did not win, these displaced Jews were granted a temporary home, for sixty years, in Sitka, Alaska. The occupants speak Yiddish with occasional American

Now it’s 2006, and the lease is coming to an end. Orthodox sects want to return to the Holy Land, and a plot is constructed by a right wing American government. With their backing, the Verbover sect, who are orthodox Jews, but nevertheless a criminal organisation, are involved in a plot to genetically engineer a red heifer, which will convince other Jews, by virtue of biblical text, that this is a portent of the coming of the Messiah and that they should return to Israel. The Verbovers are also involved in a further plot, led by a ex army commander, to dynamite the Dome of the Rock. This will prompt an invasion of the middle east, help to distract the Jews of Sitka from the end of their lease, and encourage them to return to Israel, themselves.

This is all funded by the government, who have promised the land back to the original Alaskan population, when the Jews go, and who are assisting in creating a conflict in the middle east, either for religious reasons, or for oil, or for some other reason we don’t understand.

Mendel Shpilman, alias Emanual Lasker (a famous chess player,) a man who can perform miracles, is selected to be the reluctant Messiah. He finds himself pushed into a corner, from which there is seemingly no escape.

Detective Meyer Lasssman, a broken man since the death of his sister and divorce from his wife, needs to solve the case, and finds it much more complex than the death of one man. Although I got lost in the plot, I felt that, in the end, it is Meyer’s personal story that needs to be resolved satisfactorily, and to me it was.

Seein a novel through different eyes

Everything’s falling apart at the moment. Apart from bits of me below the equator, upon which I will not elaborate, I paid my second visit to Orthoptics on Friday. I was fifteen minutes early and as I settled down in the waiting area, surrounded by children’s books and toys (because normally squints are problems which occur when you are a child), I had nothing to allay boredom. I went to the receptionist and asked if she had some scrap paper, and before I could explain my purpose, she gave me an oblong piece about 4” x 6”. I couldn’t write a novel, but I might just squeeze on a blog.

When I eventually saw the orthoptician (at least, I suppose that’s what she’s called), having filled one side of my paper, we talked again about the possibility of an operation to shorten a muscle in one eye. This hopefully would reduce the effect of double vision, which I increasingly get, even when I have not been imbibing. It would not be a major operation, unlike the other one on the horizon, and it seems like a sensible thing to do. I need to programme it in, somewhere, where it will not affect the other events in the diary.

The previous night, at the book circle, we discussed The Yiddish Policemen’s Union – my suggestion, following my son’s recommendation to me. I originally bought it for him for his birthday, having seen a review which sang its praises in Writers’ News. Because of the snow in January, we had two book discussions rolled into one. The result of this was to demonstrate how different people want different things from books. In both cases, some people loved the book, whilst others couldn’t get into it, or in one case, didn’t finish it (in the case of Note from an Exhibition.)

I normally want a plot in a book, and I missed it in Notes. I normally want to empathise with the characters, and yet despite being in all the viewpoints in Notes, I eventually found myself with an empathy overload. I couldn’t care about all these characters. The opposite was true of Yiddish Policeman. We were more or less exclusively in one viewpoint, that of Meyer Landsman, and I cared what happened to him, to his wife, to his partner, Berko, and his wife – I cared because I loved his wise-cracking voice and the knowledge of his pain. As for the plot, it was so complicated, I read the book twice, in order to make a presentation to the book circle, but before I had finished, first time around, I had already realised I was enjoying the book because of the language, (including some of Yiddish which I understood,) not necessarily the frequent use of 4-letter words, but the English – the use of metaphor and the descriptions, as well as the humour. It is very rare for me to enjoy a book because of the style, but this time, I did. It made me aware of my own plain writing style and, whereas I’ve sometimes read a book and thought, mine’s as good as this, on this occasion, I thought – I could never write like this – with much regret.

I might do a more detailed review later on. Shortly I am expecting the ProdigalD and family. It is some time since we last saw them, and I am looking forward to seeing my newest granddaughter, who is now five months old, as well as big sister.

No prizes for rambling

The last couple of weeks have allowed me to escape from the originally snow-bound prison, much more. We have even seen some sunshine, which has allowed us to reside in a fool’s paradise, since I hear that yet more snow is forecast in the coming week.

However, during the last couple of weeks, I have been to a regular meeting at Guildford Writers, during which I read a first draft of part of my latest story. The lack of enthusiasm sent me back to the drawing board, and I’ve rewritten it a further three times, each time allowing a day’s grace, to look at it afresh. I think it’s improved now, and will take it once again on this coming Tuesday, when the intrepid travellers returned from India (Irene and Jennifer) will hopefully be in attendance again, with tales of their holiday.

Other social events included a visit from bro-in-law, a visit to the OM’s aunt, last Sunday, and a wedding, yesterday, to Eltham Palace, not far from Greenwich, the childhood home of king Henry VIII, although, to quote from the website, all that remains of the vast original palace is the Great Hall, which is where the ceremony and dinner took place.

In the 1930s, the remains of Eltham Palace were bought by the wealthy artistic couple Stephen and Virginia Courtauld, who designed and built a mansion in art deco style at the site that incorporated the Great Hall. We took a tour around the building, which added an extra dimension to the wedding of our young friends – the groom, known to us since he was a year old baby, just a month older than our daughter. We didn’t get to bed till past 1.00 a. m., so are somewhat shattered today.

With the other Goldenford members home again, we carried out a presentation at Bramley Library for one of their two reading circles, at which we were made very welcome, and were happy to sell copies of our books to them. Because two meetings had to be condensed into one, as a previous one had been postponed because of the January weather, we kept our talk to a mere ten minutes each, and in this were far more restrained than the host, groom and others during the wedding speeches. Speeches, like articles, I feel, should be edited and all ramblings excluded. We have another Bramley talk in a few weeks, though we may be a little more self indulgent, with another five minutes each, to play with.

My copy of Writers’ News arrived during the week, with a piece about Irene, in it, and also a surprise for me, in that a letter I sent, criticising the way Amazon deals with small and mid-list publishers, was their ‘Star Letter’. I look forward to receiving from the a copy of Writers’ Market 2010, as my prize. Needless to say, it was carefully written and reread before being sent off. Spontaneity doesn’t always win prizes.

Pearls of Wisdom from Fay Weldon

It was interesting to hear novelist, Fay Weldon, on the Radio Four programme With great pleasure this morning. As a writer, she’s very individual, and it was quite a surprise to hear some of her traditional choices. I was very cheered by her remark that her father paid her to learn poetry when she was a child, because we have so discarded ideas of learning poetry – in fact, anything by rote - and yet having something firmly filed in your brain, whether it be poetry, or times tables can be so useful. Decades ago, when I did GCE in English Literature, I learned by heart as much of the WW1 poetry as I could. When the exam came, it was like having the book in front of me; I was able to quote from whichever was appropriate and words simply streamed out. I got the top mark in my class, and that was despite my answers on Shakespeare and Dickens probably not being as good as the poetry question.

Fay Weldon also commented on the wealth of adjectives in one of her choice of poems. I think it was The Ancient Mariner – and then said that, at the creative writing class where she teaches, they normally discourage the use of adjectives. I got the impression she was saying that possibly it wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Well, I’ll go along with that. Creative writing groups do come out with a lot of rulings that change with fashion. Cut out the adverbs, adjectives. Why should we, I’d like to know. Why did we invent them, if we weren’t going to use them? And another rule was, ‘Write what you know,’ and Fay Weldon wasn’t an enthusiast of that one, either. Not when applied to Jane Austen, at any rate. Jane Austen, it seems, tried to do just that, when actually, she had a lot more adventurous ideas under her bonnet. And what’s more, said Fay Weldon, she read her work out to her family. Another bad idea. They’re bound to inhibit your writing.

Back to my short story, in a moment, which, if I manage to complete it, might be directed at Writers’ News. Or at least, I might be able to read it out, tonight, at the first 2010 meeting of Guildford Writers’ Circle.

On the non-writing front it looks as if I’m going to have to schedule in an operation in the next few months. The consultant would prefer to deal with me in the summer, so that during my six weeks’ recovery period, I can take strolls in the sunshine. The prospect does not fill me with joy.

An Ed Reardon moment

It’s almost enough to make me kick the cat – if I had a cat, that is, which I don’t, unlike Ed Reardon, the wonderful fictional hack writer, whom I heard yesterday on Radio 4. (http://www.comedy.co.uk/guide/radio/ed_reardons_week)

Having waited patiently for my PLR statement – which used to earn me quite a few pounds in the days when my self help book was in print – I finally decided to register on line. Having already been ‘on the books’ so to speak, for many years, since the days of postal deliveries, in fact, before the internet was invented, I hadn’t bothered to update myself to new technology.

Tainted Tree has been borrowed a great deal from Surrey Libraries, recently, and I had been eagerly waiting my payment. But when I finally got through the password and favourite pet stage (perhaps I should have pinched Ed’s cat’s name, Elgar) and waited a day for my registration to go through, I found to my dismay that I had somehow failed to register Tainted Tree. A year and a half’s worth of loans have been wasted, as far as I’m concerned.

Note to all novelists. Please remember (as I obviously did not) that, unlike the Authors’ Licensing and Collecting Society Ltd, where it is the author who is registered for photocopying, library loans in other countries, etc., it is not the author who is registered for Public Lending Right, but the book itself. Please friends in Surrey, carry on borrowing Tainted Tree. I’m sure you’ll find it’s worth a read – have a look a Readers’ Comments on my website, if you don’t believe me. That’s at: http://freespace.virgin.net/jackie.luben/ and scroll down to ‘Tainted Tree.’

As if this was not enough angst for an Ed Reardon-like curmudgeon, the day continued to frustrate. As if it were not enough to have to fight a continuous daily battle to get the recycling and food waste collected by a team that is very reluctant to visit us, a man from gas services appeared and cheerfully informed me that he was going to disconnect us. Water in with the gas, or something. ‘How long?’ I queried. ‘A couple of hours,’ he said – well, this afternoon.’ So some four or five hours later, my neighbours and myself were on the blower again, this time chasing the gas reinstatement team.

When the OM arrived home, we were still waiting. By this time, I’d installed a fan heater in the hall, and set the oven to ‘self-clean’, and it was blasting out smelly fumes and lots of heat. The OM, who bought a chain saw last year, which alas failed to last out the season, lit the fire and started sawing at some timber outside with an angle grinder. The gas team, when they arrived at 7.00 p.m. thought this was hilarious. However, to their credit, they did get us going again, having arrived in an enormous tanker, which makes a nonsense of the excuses given to us by the recycling team, about us not being very accessible.

Of Shoes and Ships and Shopping Trips

The big thrill of the week was leaving the house to go to Sainsbury’s. Other than two short walks in my wellies, this is the only time I’ve been out of the house since my last shopping trip. This time, the OH didn’t have to push me out. I managed with a bit of revving to surmount the deep grooves in the snow in our drive, which was a bit like a train driving over points; then on to the already made tracks, courtesy of the milkman or the refuse collectors – not sure which. Once I’d travelled the 250 yards along two tracks carved into the snow, to the main road, it was all right.

The thaw of the last couple of days brought a rash of telephone calls for the OM. Having been exceedingly quiet for the last month, three calls came in on Friday and he will be racing out on Monday to deal with them all. If that sounds a bit stressful, I can assure you that the OM was like a gleeful child. There's nothing he likes more than being busy, and he's been extremely bored recently. Never have so many repeats of Poirrot been watched in such a short time.

I’ve finished the current book – Notes from an exhibition in which Patrick Gale uses the device of an exhibition of artist, Rachel Kelly’s various pieces to trigger off a chapter about an event or character in the book, related to her.

I felt he wrote in a very humane way about his characters, and one couldn’t help empathising with each of them, when one got under their skin. Since being able to feel for the character is an important element of a book to me, that was something that I liked about the book. I did begin to feel after a while, however, that there were just too many characters (each chapter told in his or her viewpoint) and I was losing track of what the first ones had contributed to the story. There were several chapters in which Rachel, both as an adult, and when young, featured. Also, Antony, her husband, as a young man, their four children and Rachel’s sister.

Since, as I said before, each of these extracts was like a snapshot of a particular time in a character’s life, and because these occasions were not chronological, I felt the story lost impetus, after a while. In fact you couldn’t really say the book had a strong plot. At the end, I felt somewhat unsatisfied. Possibly it is the sort of book that needs to be read a second time. I might find it more satisfactory, then, rather like Behind the Scenes at the Museum, which I enjoyed much more second time around, and which was constructed in a similar way.

We cancelled both the Reading Circle and Writers’ Circle meetings, because of the icy roads; so many side roads were still covered in snow – new snow on Wednesday – and iced over due to the very cold weather, so we will discuss our book in a month’s time at the reading circle.

I also finished listening to the serial – Six Suspects – which was totally far-fetched but I was nevertheless drawn back to find out who did it. Also the last part of Antonia Fraser’s memoir about her life with Harold Pinter – Must You Go? Who would have imagined that Harold Pinter would be such a romantic – filling the house with flowers when she first went to live with him. A non sequitur - I remember my father saying he went to the Pinters’ wedding – but that was Mr & Mrs Pinter senior, Harold’s parents.

The news of course has been filled with the earthquake in Haiti. Whatever wimpish statements we may make about our weather here, what a privilege it is to live in a country where there are no earthquakes or volcanoes or tsunamis to cause such devastation. We are indeed very fortunate here for many reasons.

Mrs Robinson - where will it lead?

Truth is stranger than fiction, as they say. All the ingredients for a novel are contained in the scandal of the First Minister for Northern Ireland, Peter Robinson, or to be more accurate, his wife, Iris. Infidelity, an affair with a much younger man, in the style of The Graduate even to the name of the female protagonist, or the damaged older woman of Zoe Heller’s Notes on a Scandal. Add into the mix, Mrs Robinson’s alleged attempt to embezzle funds for her young lover, and what more do you need? Did Mrs Robinson seduce the young man, or did he take her for a ride, seeing the strength of her emotions? After all, she subsequently tried to commit suicide. Doesn’t it show, though, that no matter how high up you go, how much power you have, and how much is at stake, basic human emotions will over-ride all that?

This is a personal tragedy, but has the potential to be a much greater tragedy. With the possibility of an end to Peter Robinson’s premiership, how will this affect the peace process in Northern Ireland? What will happen to the power sharing arrangement with Sinn Féin's Martin McGuinness? Surely, if the peace process is derailed by this, people will look back at these events for many years to come, with regret at how the antics of a couple of people can change things for a nation.

I am currently reading Notes from an Exhibition by Patrick Gale, and cannot help feeling that this novel is really a collection of events happening to different people – a snapshot of each of the main characters at a specific time in their lives. Although I would hesitate to compare them in terms of literary worth with my own work, in this respect, this and the current serial on Radio Four, Six Suspects written by Vikas Swarup, author of Q and A, which became the tremendously successful film, Slumdog Millionaire are not all that different from my novella A Bottle of Plonk (Have Wine will Travel). Although I’m somewhat laboriously ploughing on with the current novel, it seems to me that a novel of this kind does not require the detailed plotting that I did with Tainted Tree. You create your various incidents, each being an episode or a chapter, and then you link them with a central character. Perhaps this is the way that the post-modern novel is going. Perhaps this will provide me with ideas for a future novel.

Throughout the cold spell, I have been putting out water and bird food, very close to my garden door, and apart from some avaricious pigeons, which I’ve shushed away, I’ve been visited by a blackbird and a robin. The robin has called earlier; it’s now so tame that if I throw out food and say to it, ‘Stay there and I’ll get you a bit of cheese,’ it waits. Then when I throw out the cheese, it dives for it and removes it to the safety of the hedge. I've included today some photos of the robin, both yesterday and a couple of weeks ago, and more icy views from yesterday, when at one point the sun was shining, despite the cold.