Motti by Asaf Schurr Page A

proof).
    And this, now, is the question: Is it possible to accuse Motti of clinging to his diamonds in this way? That he avoids (as a way of life, properly speaking) ever standing in the hall and looking upward, negating his memory, feeling some dim contempt for anyone who believes there are really diamonds like that in the world?
    It’s clear that Motti must be accused of something. And there is certainly something to accuse him of. The question is if it’s this. Which is one of the central questions of this book, even if not one of the more interesting ones in it. We have to ask if the freedom he’s suckling at is real, valid. And then, if there’s anything we can learn from his behavior. Or is it just the opposite, is it that you actually need to get dirty in the world, to immerse yourself in the neon light of the actual, in disappointment, in trudging forward and then sprinting ahead all of a sudden, through doors slammed shut.

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    (And he’s wrong, that much is clear. There’s no comfort inside one’s head. Not like there is in one body with another, in that warmth, in the touch.)

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    You’ve certainly already noticed that I haven’t in any way emphasized the idea of Ariella’s innocence, her actual childhood, her childish innocence, etc. Moreover: I almost haven’t talked about her at all. About her personality, her likes and dislikes. She’s here most of the time as a sort of tabula rasa, a potentiality upon which it’s possible to hang anything. And it’s this way not only for literary reasons, but also because I don’t believe in innocence, that is, in discussions about it, that is, in those speaking about it. Maybe only Patti Smith. Or maybe not even her. If there’s any innocence at all, it comes out of choice and hard work. And I don’t say this to be a smart ass. Not at all. Only in order to be understood. Because anything else would be overblown. Really too much. Because storytelling itself, this craft, well, it’s a very dubious enterprise. To sit and invent things that never were for others to sit and strain to believe in them for a moment, maybe to learn from them, maybe to get emotional. So it’s hard for me to commit to a story. To this suspicious craft. To devote myself to it, to a single, closed plot, to its characters. If I may be allowed to say so (and certainly I may, this is my book), it’s just like in life, in life too it’s hard sometimes to devote oneself to something without reservation, to touch skin with our own skin, with everything that will be lost to us eventually, will be lost to us in death or even before. On the other hand (again, like in life, sorry), what’s all this worth if we don’t give in and hug and love and so on? There’s something to be said for distancing ourselves, true, but the rewards are very bitter. And I already know how all this will end, how my characters will end up and the book as a whole (I even budgeted its word count). Hence these games of distancing and drawing near, again and again: with all due respect, I think it’s up to my characters to make the effort and come closer to me. Then we’ll see. In American movies they say this attitude also works with women. But American movies, you know.

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    But nevertheless, something happens.
    So out they went, drinking again.
    Again Menachem drank a bit too much, drank till he became rude; he pressured the waitress to be nice to Motti, who sat there in despair, and to give him her telephone number—while Motti sat there reserved—and maybe go out and have a drink with them later, when her shift was over. She gave Motti a friendly smile, to Menachem her smile was less friendly and she declined as she always did (she wanted to go home too, to study for her test; she wants to be a veterinarian, to take care of hurt and abandoned animals; after doing it for years, she’ll grow a little duller, she’ll nurse