having guided them, I persuaded myself that language was omnipotent as the link between man and his Creator.
So as not to break my oath, I told all sorts of stories but my own. Inventing them, I gave my imagination free rein: to wit, the one about the pickpocket who decided to steal no more. And to stop living in fear and shame. Not so easy to rebuild a life, an image; not so easy to inspire respect after having aroused contempt: he becomes the community’s laughingstock; even the floor-sweeper at the synagogue guffaws: “You here? What are you doing among these honest people? Changing victims, are you? What brings you to this holy place? Say, is it God you are going to rob from now on?”
“I want to repent,” says the thief weakly. And the faithful begin to sneer: “That’s a good one! Not so stupid, that fellow! Now that he’s getting old, he’s putting his affairs in order! Shrewd, that fellow!” The former thief, a sincere though naïve penitent, protests that his motives are pure and honorable: “I have truly decided to give up stealing; I truly wish to please heaven. I swear it. Trust me. I have but one wish—to be one of you.” And they all laugh and applaud: “Perfect, perfect! Thethief has seen the light, bravo! He is retiring, bravo! Only he has neglected to settle his accounts! Let him return what he has pinched since the day of his birth. How many rings? How many snuffboxes? How many wallets …?” They tear at his clothes, first in jest, then in earnest. Bewildered, he thinks: And I wanted to deserve them, imitate them! How foolish I was! A spring inside him snaps. He distinctly feels it. And so he offers no resistance; too late to turn back, to open another door. A thought crosses his mind: I am going to die, in this very spot, a few steps from the Holy Ark. And he begins to run; he runs, he runs until he is out of breath, he runs toward the light, toward the darkness beyond the light, he is expected there, they are calling him. Then a shout: “He has stopped moving!” And a reply: “He is dead. The thief remains a thief to the end; he has just robbed us of our dignity!”
Or the one about the sleeping man who awakes with a start. Standing in the wide-open doorway there is a stranger who asks him: “Are you afraid?”
“Yes, I am afraid.”
“Of me? You are afraid of me?”
“Yes, of you.”
“Do you wish me to go?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’ll stop being afraid?”
“Yes, if you leave me alone, I won’t be afraid.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Not I,” says the visitor, withdrawing.
And then the sleeper is overcome by panic. He realizes that he has just met, for the first time, the stranger who has always lived inside him.
Or the one about the dreamy-eyed young man whose path Icrossed one autumn morning on the embankment of the Vltava in Prague.
“What do you want of me?” I asked him.
“I know who you are,” he said in a solemn voice. “I recognize you by the scar on your forehead.”
“But I don’t have a scar on my forehead!” I protested.
“That proves nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I recognized you. That is the best proof. I know who you are. Admit that I know.”
I shrugged my shoulders and wanted to be on my way, but the dreamy-eyed young man blocked my path. “Don’t go away, I am hungry. Come and share my meal. I am poor, but surely you like the company of the poor. Don’t turn me down. If you go away, my curse will accompany you, do you hear?”
One may not offend the insane; their voices rise to heaven, straight to the Throne. And then, they all remind me of my holy friend, my mad friend, Moshe. And so I sat down next to the young man, in the middle of the street, and was preparing myself to break bread by reciting the customary blessing, when suddenly he seized the pocketknife and with a swift move, wounded me, marking my forehead with a scar.
“May I ask you a favor?”
“Go ahead, try.”
“Promise not
So as not to break my oath, I told all sorts of stories but my own. Inventing them, I gave my imagination free rein: to wit, the one about the pickpocket who decided to steal no more. And to stop living in fear and shame. Not so easy to rebuild a life, an image; not so easy to inspire respect after having aroused contempt: he becomes the community’s laughingstock; even the floor-sweeper at the synagogue guffaws: “You here? What are you doing among these honest people? Changing victims, are you? What brings you to this holy place? Say, is it God you are going to rob from now on?”
“I want to repent,” says the thief weakly. And the faithful begin to sneer: “That’s a good one! Not so stupid, that fellow! Now that he’s getting old, he’s putting his affairs in order! Shrewd, that fellow!” The former thief, a sincere though naïve penitent, protests that his motives are pure and honorable: “I have truly decided to give up stealing; I truly wish to please heaven. I swear it. Trust me. I have but one wish—to be one of you.” And they all laugh and applaud: “Perfect, perfect! Thethief has seen the light, bravo! He is retiring, bravo! Only he has neglected to settle his accounts! Let him return what he has pinched since the day of his birth. How many rings? How many snuffboxes? How many wallets …?” They tear at his clothes, first in jest, then in earnest. Bewildered, he thinks: And I wanted to deserve them, imitate them! How foolish I was! A spring inside him snaps. He distinctly feels it. And so he offers no resistance; too late to turn back, to open another door. A thought crosses his mind: I am going to die, in this very spot, a few steps from the Holy Ark. And he begins to run; he runs, he runs until he is out of breath, he runs toward the light, toward the darkness beyond the light, he is expected there, they are calling him. Then a shout: “He has stopped moving!” And a reply: “He is dead. The thief remains a thief to the end; he has just robbed us of our dignity!”
Or the one about the sleeping man who awakes with a start. Standing in the wide-open doorway there is a stranger who asks him: “Are you afraid?”
“Yes, I am afraid.”
“Of me? You are afraid of me?”
“Yes, of you.”
“Do you wish me to go?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’ll stop being afraid?”
“Yes, if you leave me alone, I won’t be afraid.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Not I,” says the visitor, withdrawing.
And then the sleeper is overcome by panic. He realizes that he has just met, for the first time, the stranger who has always lived inside him.
Or the one about the dreamy-eyed young man whose path Icrossed one autumn morning on the embankment of the Vltava in Prague.
“What do you want of me?” I asked him.
“I know who you are,” he said in a solemn voice. “I recognize you by the scar on your forehead.”
“But I don’t have a scar on my forehead!” I protested.
“That proves nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I recognized you. That is the best proof. I know who you are. Admit that I know.”
I shrugged my shoulders and wanted to be on my way, but the dreamy-eyed young man blocked my path. “Don’t go away, I am hungry. Come and share my meal. I am poor, but surely you like the company of the poor. Don’t turn me down. If you go away, my curse will accompany you, do you hear?”
One may not offend the insane; their voices rise to heaven, straight to the Throne. And then, they all remind me of my holy friend, my mad friend, Moshe. And so I sat down next to the young man, in the middle of the street, and was preparing myself to break bread by reciting the customary blessing, when suddenly he seized the pocketknife and with a swift move, wounded me, marking my forehead with a scar.
“May I ask you a favor?”
“Go ahead, try.”
“Promise not
Similar Books
