I keep trying to write a post about Chaim Potok's My Name is Asher Lev, which I finished over the weekend, but I don't know how to start. I make a lot of semi-witty, pseudo-charming, and meta-intelligent (huh?) comments about most things I read, but I've got nothing funny or anything even approaching funny to apply to this book.
He's born to be an artist but painting and drawing have no place in his parents', but especially his father's, plans for him and so the novel ends up reading like one long series of painful clashes between Asher and his parents as his gift and his desire to immerse himself in his gift develop.
I won't reveal too much more, but eventually Asher creates some art that truly mortifies his parents and his community and he's literally banished.
But I don't know if I'm up for being ground down and damaged by a fictional character's parents or family or community and their desires again any time soon. You'll understand why I chose my current uber-fluffy read when I finish it and post about it.
No comments:
Post a Comment