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The Ruined House
Andrew P. Cohen, a professor of comparative culture at New York University, is at the zenith of his life. Adored by his classes, published in prestigious literary magazines, he is about to receive a coveted promotion—the crowning achievement of an envious career. He is on excellent terms with Linda, his ex-wife, and his two grown children admire and adore him. His girlfriend, Ann Lee, a former student half is age, offers lively companionship. A man of elevated taste, education, and culture, he is a model of urbanity and success.
But the manicured surface of his world begins to crack when he is visited by a series of strange and inexplicable visions, involving an ancient religious ritual, that will upend his comfortable life.
Beautiful, mesmerizing, and unsettling, The Ruined House unfolds over the course of one year, as Andrew’s world unravels and he is forced to question all of his beliefs. Ruby Namdar’s brilliant novel embraces the themes of the American Jewish literary canon as it captures the privilege and pedantry of New York intellectual life in the opening years of the twenty-first century.
But the manicured surface of his world begins to crack when he is visited by a series of strange and inexplicable visions, involving an ancient religious ritual, that will upend his comfortable life.
Beautiful, mesmerizing, and unsettling, The Ruined House unfolds over the course of one year, as Andrew’s world unravels and he is forced to question all of his beliefs. Ruby Namdar’s brilliant novel embraces the themes of the American Jewish literary canon as it captures the privilege and pedantry of New York intellectual life in the opening years of the twenty-first century.
528 pages, Hardcover
First published November 7, 2017
About the author
Ruby Namdar
1 book23 followersA native of Israel, Ruby Namdar lives in New York City with his wife and two daughters. THE RUINED HOUSE is his first novel.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 75 reviews
May 13, 2018
I'm thinking of Ruby Namdar as the Jewish Stephen King--maybe a little more literary and definitely more scholarly, but nevertheless having that same dark pull.
Does it matter if you know what he's talking about? When I read Foucault's Pendulum I didn't know half what Umberto Eco was talking about, yet that didn't interfere with the pull. Sometimes the author him- or herself may not know (exactly) what's going on. Confusion can reign, as in Donna Tartt's The Secret History, or--Stephen King again--the second edition of The Stand, where the times are out of joint, and yet that just adds to the atmospheric mystery and darkness.
So, maybe it doesn't matter. The book is addictive.
But, I did know a little. Something to do with a mysterious High Priest back in biblical times, seeping into the present-day life of Professor Andrew Cohen, whose last name means that he himself, theoretically, is descended from priests.
Actually not biblical times though. Something to do with the destruction of the Temple, which came after the time of the Hebrew Bible.
But, actually, not exactly history; rather the rendition of those times in subsequent centuries:
Well, that's clear as mud, right?
As with King (who actually gets a mention at one point in the action), Namdar has a little trouble with endings. And I'm not sure the overall mystery lives up to its emergence at the book's beginning. But it's dark and addictive. I couldn't put it down.
This book at bottom is a morality tale about pride goeth before a fall, about no one being too big to fail. The clues are in the parts you might be tempted to skip over. Okay, read those parts fast but don't skip over them.
I found one review that explained (almost) everything. Read it after the book, not before.
In 2014 this book won Ruby Namdar a literary prize that's said to be the Israeli equivalent of the British Man Booker prize. But Namdar is an Israeli expat living in New York City. After he won the awards committee changed the rules to disallow expats in the future. But at any rate Namdar is looking at NYC with the eye of an outsider. I think he does a good job; he put in part of Central Park where I took pictures of my children as adolescents. But I'd enjoy hearing from someone who's lived there!
Does it matter if you know what he's talking about? When I read Foucault's Pendulum I didn't know half what Umberto Eco was talking about, yet that didn't interfere with the pull. Sometimes the author him- or herself may not know (exactly) what's going on. Confusion can reign, as in Donna Tartt's The Secret History, or--Stephen King again--the second edition of The Stand, where the times are out of joint, and yet that just adds to the atmospheric mystery and darkness.
So, maybe it doesn't matter. The book is addictive.
But, I did know a little. Something to do with a mysterious High Priest back in biblical times, seeping into the present-day life of Professor Andrew Cohen, whose last name means that he himself, theoretically, is descended from priests.
Actually not biblical times though. Something to do with the destruction of the Temple, which came after the time of the Hebrew Bible.
But, actually, not exactly history; rather the rendition of those times in subsequent centuries:
Rabbi Silver waited another second or two. Then, despairing of any rational explanation for Andrew's strange question, he launched into an orderly elucidation of the symbolic status of the Temple as an organizing metaphor for the post-Second Temple period of Jewish experience. It was a lecture he had obviously given before--under more propitious circumstances, it was to be hoped. The neutral scholarly tone of his remarks soothed Andrew's frayed nerves. He listened to them without understanding a word, allowing their familiar, buttery monotone to numb his tormented mind.
Well, that's clear as mud, right?
As with King (who actually gets a mention at one point in the action), Namdar has a little trouble with endings. And I'm not sure the overall mystery lives up to its emergence at the book's beginning. But it's dark and addictive. I couldn't put it down.
This book at bottom is a morality tale about pride goeth before a fall, about no one being too big to fail. The clues are in the parts you might be tempted to skip over. Okay, read those parts fast but don't skip over them.
I found one review that explained (almost) everything. Read it after the book, not before.
In 2014 this book won Ruby Namdar a literary prize that's said to be the Israeli equivalent of the British Man Booker prize. But Namdar is an Israeli expat living in New York City. After he won the awards committee changed the rules to disallow expats in the future. But at any rate Namdar is looking at NYC with the eye of an outsider. I think he does a good job; he put in part of Central Park where I took pictures of my children as adolescents. But I'd enjoy hearing from someone who's lived there!
July 31, 2017
Middle-aged academic Andrew Cohen has it all; his girlfriend is half his age, his academic reputations is great, he has flawless style. He and his ex get along; he has a good relationship with his daughters; his students love him; his girlfriend asks nothing of him. He’s got everything designed and choreographed. Everything he has is the best quality. No human frailty stirs the still surface of his life.
Until it does.
Little things start going wrong. He gets ill. He gets dirty. He develops a paunch. His girlfriend and ex both get cranky. The article he is writing just won’t gel, no matter how many tries he makes at it. He even takes delivery of a nine pound piece of tenderloin that looks like an uncircumcised penis and he sees as some albatross he can’t get rid of. He starts to have powerful visions that leave him shaken to the core. The surface of his life- and he’s all surface, he’s not real with anyone- is not just rippled but shattered.
It’s a story about a midlife crisis. It’s also a story about academic life. But is it a story about mystical visions, as the sections between chapters (pseudo Talmudic pages) hint at (he is a Cohen, after all, and the visions have a priest possibly making a terrible mistake during a ritual), or is he having a nervous breakdown or even a psychotic break? Whatever it is, it takes a hard toll on him, and help is a long time coming. The isolation of modern people is another theme in the book.
The writing is very nice, but the book is slow going. I really couldn’t work up much care for Andrew, although I did find myself compelled to keep reading to find out what the devil was happening to him. The other characters have no depth to them at all; we never see them except in relation to Andrew. It’s like they just stop existing when not in contact with him. It’s an odd book; I didn’t particularly enjoy it while I was reading, but in the end I *did* feel it was good, as I think about it and tease bits of it out from the mass of prose. It’s grown on me. Four stars out of five.
Until it does.
Little things start going wrong. He gets ill. He gets dirty. He develops a paunch. His girlfriend and ex both get cranky. The article he is writing just won’t gel, no matter how many tries he makes at it. He even takes delivery of a nine pound piece of tenderloin that looks like an uncircumcised penis and he sees as some albatross he can’t get rid of. He starts to have powerful visions that leave him shaken to the core. The surface of his life- and he’s all surface, he’s not real with anyone- is not just rippled but shattered.
It’s a story about a midlife crisis. It’s also a story about academic life. But is it a story about mystical visions, as the sections between chapters (pseudo Talmudic pages) hint at (he is a Cohen, after all, and the visions have a priest possibly making a terrible mistake during a ritual), or is he having a nervous breakdown or even a psychotic break? Whatever it is, it takes a hard toll on him, and help is a long time coming. The isolation of modern people is another theme in the book.
The writing is very nice, but the book is slow going. I really couldn’t work up much care for Andrew, although I did find myself compelled to keep reading to find out what the devil was happening to him. The other characters have no depth to them at all; we never see them except in relation to Andrew. It’s like they just stop existing when not in contact with him. It’s an odd book; I didn’t particularly enjoy it while I was reading, but in the end I *did* feel it was good, as I think about it and tease bits of it out from the mass of prose. It’s grown on me. Four stars out of five.
July 29, 2017
The Ruined House is the type of book that may leave some readers wondering if they should write a review or not. While for many the novel will obviously be seen as a Jewish literary masterpiece, for others it will simply be seen as a 500-page story of a Jewish college professor in New York having a midlife crisis. I can only review it as someone in that latter group. So much, if not most, of the symbolism and visions in the story were beyond me. I don’t have the background to recognize their relevance or importance, and unfortunately was left with no desire whatsoever to understand their relevance and importance.
Moreover, exactly halfway through the book, my interest in protagonist Andrew Cohen began to dangerously wane. Who cared what happened to him? Being so self-absorbed made him a not particularly interesting person, at least not for 500 pages. Just as he was accused of using others as props in his life story, it often seemed to me all the other characters in this book were exactly that–-props in his life story. In addition, throughout the story were too many vivid descriptions of body parts and activities, as well as descriptions of pornography, and horridly graphic deaths in dreams, including children’s deaths. It was gross, disturbing and morbid. Looking back, I wish I had simply stopped reading.
Yet I read the story to the end and slept on it. My feelings the next day were even less positive than they were the night I finished the book. In many ways the novel just seemed to be reinforcing stereotypical ideas from the past; such as individuals who choose to live alone can’t actually be happy, and may even be at least a bit unbalanced; or that men need women to keep them in line, to save them, to nurse them when they are sick, to do their cleaning. Goodbye, Andrew Cohen. I can’t say it’s been fun or even enlightening. I will remember you, though, for some days to come, but look forward to the day I totally forget you.
(Note: I received a free ARC of this book from Amazon Vine.)
Moreover, exactly halfway through the book, my interest in protagonist Andrew Cohen began to dangerously wane. Who cared what happened to him? Being so self-absorbed made him a not particularly interesting person, at least not for 500 pages. Just as he was accused of using others as props in his life story, it often seemed to me all the other characters in this book were exactly that–-props in his life story. In addition, throughout the story were too many vivid descriptions of body parts and activities, as well as descriptions of pornography, and horridly graphic deaths in dreams, including children’s deaths. It was gross, disturbing and morbid. Looking back, I wish I had simply stopped reading.
Yet I read the story to the end and slept on it. My feelings the next day were even less positive than they were the night I finished the book. In many ways the novel just seemed to be reinforcing stereotypical ideas from the past; such as individuals who choose to live alone can’t actually be happy, and may even be at least a bit unbalanced; or that men need women to keep them in line, to save them, to nurse them when they are sick, to do their cleaning. Goodbye, Andrew Cohen. I can’t say it’s been fun or even enlightening. I will remember you, though, for some days to come, but look forward to the day I totally forget you.
(Note: I received a free ARC of this book from Amazon Vine.)
September 8, 2017
Ruined House is an excellent debut that balances internal struggles, religion, and isolation within contemporary life with lush language and delightful dialogue.
What I loved most about the novel is the intersection of religion and modern-day identity crisis. The novel is divided into seven sections; each are prefaced by parts of the Talmud. Each preface sets the reader up for the upcoming chapter and has subtle nods throughout the preceding passages. As a Harvard Divinity School graduate, I love when authors explore the intersection of religion and identity; religion is deeply entrenched in who we are, whether we acknowledge this presence or not-- the map is never the territory. While Andrew has led a largely secular life, it is fascinating to go through his journey of learning and confronting the inherent, religious part of his self.
At the heart of academic religious discourse, one must privilege another's religious experience, no matter how uncomfortable or strange this may seem to the outside party. When Andrew starts seeing visions of ancient Jews performing and celebrating rituals, it helps as a reader to take these visions at face value; it makes for a great ride throughout the book. The descriptions of Jewish mysticism, both noetic and ineffable, made my heart sing.
Like any existential crisis, this novel piles up slowly. Give this book time! It can be slow moving, but that is the beauty of the book. You get to revel in the loveliness of the prose, while questioning Andrew P. Cohen's character and journey. I highly suggest this book for fans of Nicole Krauss and Philip Roth.
A side note: as a language-nerd, the translation from Hebrew into English is beautifully done.
What I loved most about the novel is the intersection of religion and modern-day identity crisis. The novel is divided into seven sections; each are prefaced by parts of the Talmud. Each preface sets the reader up for the upcoming chapter and has subtle nods throughout the preceding passages. As a Harvard Divinity School graduate, I love when authors explore the intersection of religion and identity; religion is deeply entrenched in who we are, whether we acknowledge this presence or not-- the map is never the territory. While Andrew has led a largely secular life, it is fascinating to go through his journey of learning and confronting the inherent, religious part of his self.
At the heart of academic religious discourse, one must privilege another's religious experience, no matter how uncomfortable or strange this may seem to the outside party. When Andrew starts seeing visions of ancient Jews performing and celebrating rituals, it helps as a reader to take these visions at face value; it makes for a great ride throughout the book. The descriptions of Jewish mysticism, both noetic and ineffable, made my heart sing.
Like any existential crisis, this novel piles up slowly. Give this book time! It can be slow moving, but that is the beauty of the book. You get to revel in the loveliness of the prose, while questioning Andrew P. Cohen's character and journey. I highly suggest this book for fans of Nicole Krauss and Philip Roth.
A side note: as a language-nerd, the translation from Hebrew into English is beautifully done.
December 24, 2017
Probably more like 2 1/2 stars - In 2015, Namdar, who now resides in New York, became the first writer living outside Israel to receive the Sapir Prize, Israel’s top literary award. Shortly thereafter, however, the government passed a new law restricting the prize to writers living in Israel full time. I wanted to like this book. In fact, I really wanted to love this book. The audio-book was narrated by Paul Boehmer who skillfully narrated Waking Lions and My Promised Lane and was also one of the narrators for The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. The narrator was not the problem. The writing is incredible. It is what I like to call Literature with a capital L - rich, descriptive, intelligent, sophisticated, deep and intense. So the writing wasn't the problem. I certainly appreciated it. But a 21 hour audio-book that centers around an arrogant, selfish, vain, snobby 50+ year old NYU professor who has abandoned his wife and two daughters, without barely a thought or clue as to the damage he's done, and who is sleeping with a former student half his age, just doesn't appeal to me. I couldn't relate to Andrew Cohen, I had no sympathy for him, I really didn't care that he was experiencing a mid-life crisis and was being tortured by strange and disturbing nightmares and hallucinations about the destruction of the Temple, and I certainly wasn't rooting for him to live happily ever after with the 26-year-old. I felt like I would complete my 45 minute commute to work and Andrew still hadn't decided if he should get out of bed or not - I found myself almost screaming at him in my car! Plus, the vivid descriptions of violent internet porn scenes really bothered me and I couldn't connect their relevance or purpose. So while this is obviously an important book that has received critical acclaim, and I'm glad it was translated into English, it just wasn't my cup of tea.
November 21, 2017
Engrossing, feverish and uncomfortable, Namdar draws us into perfect Andrew's middle aged, fragile psyche with deft skill and a thrumming sort of prose that has an incredible elegance even in it's most painful and explosive moments.
December 13, 2017
Four and one-half stars. I was loving this book until the last few dozen pages. I felt Namdar missed an opportunity with Cohen's identity with the Second Temple Kohen, the smoke enveloping the City on the 8th of Av, etc. I felt the dénouement gave Cohen a pass, to sink back into his spiritually emptiness.
And I wonder: Who were this book's intended audiences? Secular NYC intellectual Literati are Jewishly illiterate. Can Observant Jews fathom the depths and layers of satire that are Cohen's world?
As it was written in Hebrew, who did Israeli readers make of it?
Then there was the typical Israeli tempest in a teapot: Should an Israeli not residing in Israel be eligible for a literary prize, never mind the Sapir Prize, Israel's version of the National Book Award.
Halkin's translation is brilliant, capturing the many historical layers of Modern Hebrew. Biblical, postbiblical, rabbinic, and colloquial all "rub their elbows and shoulders."
My knowledge of Hebrew is more than adequate, but I wish I had the Sprachgefühl to appreciate Namdar's linguistic and literary richness.
And I wonder: Who were this book's intended audiences? Secular NYC intellectual Literati are Jewishly illiterate. Can Observant Jews fathom the depths and layers of satire that are Cohen's world?
As it was written in Hebrew, who did Israeli readers make of it?
Then there was the typical Israeli tempest in a teapot: Should an Israeli not residing in Israel be eligible for a literary prize, never mind the Sapir Prize, Israel's version of the National Book Award.
Halkin's translation is brilliant, capturing the many historical layers of Modern Hebrew. Biblical, postbiblical, rabbinic, and colloquial all "rub their elbows and shoulders."
My knowledge of Hebrew is more than adequate, but I wish I had the Sprachgefühl to appreciate Namdar's linguistic and literary richness.
February 15, 2018
One of the worst books I’ve read in a very long time. I’m 22% through it and I give up. Nothing has happened except a lot of purple prose. Did I say “a lot?” I meant to say a ton. Moving on to something worth my time.
February 3, 2018
I have no idea if that was the most pretentious or most brilliant novel I have ever read...but I was riveted. Not for the faint of heart...
February 6, 2018
What a book. The Ruined House is a complex, allegorical, deeply powerful story about the relationship between ancient faith and the agony and ecstasy of modern life. Throughout the course of reading this book, I remained thoroughly under Ruby Namdar's grasp, pausing after every chapter to excitedly ponder its deep implications and lying awake at night to decipher the book's hidden truths. If I had to describe this book by comparison, I'd liken it to a cross between American Psycho and a Tale of Love and Darkness, taking Ellis's talent for portraying unreliable narration and the profound triumphs and despairs of modern life and mixing it with the stirring sexual and religious revelations of Oz's work.
The writing style of this book was incredible. From page 1, I found the book an easy page-turner while also engrossing me in the vivid descriptions, powerful emotional content, and sophisticated allusions. With motifs such as Oedipal desire, Yeats's The Second Coming, and the uncircumcised penis, the book constantly leaves you grasping at the connections between each component of the book; it's like the literary version of a movie such as Inception.
If anything was to dampen my appreciation of the book, it'd be my perception of Namdar's ultimate theme, or thesis. While I can't claim to truly understand his motivations, as this book was particularly complex and subjective, I suspect that Namdar sought to illustrate the following: whether we know it or not, our cultural history and faith define us in powerful, yet often unseen ways. Even beyond that, it is essential that we, in the course of our own lives, never dwell on our own power or magnificence, and instead always focus on what matters: family, love, belonging, and both religious and nonreligious faith. Particularly toward the end of the book, I worried that he would focus on an overly orthodox religious conclusion or leave Cohen in a state of permanent displacement, but the book's conclusion alleviated my fears while confirming what I believe to be an excellent, powerful, and completely true theme.
Along those lines, I found this book deeply relatable. As a generally nonreligious person of Jewish descent, with even the same thread of the "Cohen" name, much of Andrew's religious background was remarkably similar to my own. By the same token, Andrew's inability to escape the cultural legacy of his Jewishness, even when immersed in a thoroughly atheistic, materialistic New York society, matches a sense that I've had in my own life, that perhaps my distant Jewishness defines me in some unknown way. Perhaps my relatives were also truly ancient priests or proud Israelites. I don't want to get to into my own life, but to me, this proves that this book strikes powerfully at what it really means to be of Jewish heritage in the modern world.
As a final note, I particularly enjoyed the Jewish religious allegory featured as frequent interlude. The story, though I'm not sure of its real existence, is notably backed by dense, but powerful lines of Jewish doctrine, and the story serves as a mysterious, yet effective allegory of Andrew's own story. It's an interesting idea, framed in an interesting way, and it helped me to connect the religious line of the story with the material.
I don't mean to be a reviewer who spends all day espousing every good thing about a book without ever mentioning the bad, so I'll say what I didn't like. It can be a difficult book to read, since each chapter is so dense in information and symbolism. Most of the last "book" or two focused on a plot development that I found excess, rather like the final parts of American Psycho. Most importantly, I think Namdar's intense focus on the Jewish faith, and its connection to ancient beliefs even in the modern realms of sexuality or circumcision, can be controversial and alienating to many people. It's a difficult topic to truly process and accept. Finally, as a general note, the book is in many parts quite vulgar, which I found strikingly realistic but may alienate others.
My review is probably too glowing, but the fact of the matter is that I loved this book. One of the most intellectually challenging, remarkably relatable, and generally engrossing books that I've read in a long time.
The writing style of this book was incredible. From page 1, I found the book an easy page-turner while also engrossing me in the vivid descriptions, powerful emotional content, and sophisticated allusions. With motifs such as Oedipal desire, Yeats's The Second Coming, and the uncircumcised penis, the book constantly leaves you grasping at the connections between each component of the book; it's like the literary version of a movie such as Inception.
If anything was to dampen my appreciation of the book, it'd be my perception of Namdar's ultimate theme, or thesis. While I can't claim to truly understand his motivations, as this book was particularly complex and subjective, I suspect that Namdar sought to illustrate the following: whether we know it or not, our cultural history and faith define us in powerful, yet often unseen ways. Even beyond that, it is essential that we, in the course of our own lives, never dwell on our own power or magnificence, and instead always focus on what matters: family, love, belonging, and both religious and nonreligious faith. Particularly toward the end of the book, I worried that he would focus on an overly orthodox religious conclusion or leave Cohen in a state of permanent displacement, but the book's conclusion alleviated my fears while confirming what I believe to be an excellent, powerful, and completely true theme.
Along those lines, I found this book deeply relatable. As a generally nonreligious person of Jewish descent, with even the same thread of the "Cohen" name, much of Andrew's religious background was remarkably similar to my own. By the same token, Andrew's inability to escape the cultural legacy of his Jewishness, even when immersed in a thoroughly atheistic, materialistic New York society, matches a sense that I've had in my own life, that perhaps my distant Jewishness defines me in some unknown way. Perhaps my relatives were also truly ancient priests or proud Israelites. I don't want to get to into my own life, but to me, this proves that this book strikes powerfully at what it really means to be of Jewish heritage in the modern world.
As a final note, I particularly enjoyed the Jewish religious allegory featured as frequent interlude. The story, though I'm not sure of its real existence, is notably backed by dense, but powerful lines of Jewish doctrine, and the story serves as a mysterious, yet effective allegory of Andrew's own story. It's an interesting idea, framed in an interesting way, and it helped me to connect the religious line of the story with the material.
I don't mean to be a reviewer who spends all day espousing every good thing about a book without ever mentioning the bad, so I'll say what I didn't like. It can be a difficult book to read, since each chapter is so dense in information and symbolism. Most of the last "book" or two focused on a plot development that I found excess, rather like the final parts of American Psycho. Most importantly, I think Namdar's intense focus on the Jewish faith, and its connection to ancient beliefs even in the modern realms of sexuality or circumcision, can be controversial and alienating to many people. It's a difficult topic to truly process and accept. Finally, as a general note, the book is in many parts quite vulgar, which I found strikingly realistic but may alienate others.
My review is probably too glowing, but the fact of the matter is that I loved this book. One of the most intellectually challenging, remarkably relatable, and generally engrossing books that I've read in a long time.
July 31, 2017
Andrew Cohen is a professor of comparative culture at NYU. He has been divorced for six years and remains on good terms with his ex-wife. His classes are popular and he is happy in his relationship with a former graduate student who is twenty years his junior. His self-esteem is high and his colleagues all hope to be invited to one of his elaborate dinner parties. I found Andrew to be lacking in depth and lacking any real passion. Though he loves his daughters, he rarely sees them. He plays the academic game of politics very well and has advanced steadily in his career.
As the novel opens, Andrew is visited by a strange vision, one which occurs repeatedly. Though he doesn't know quite what to make of these unexplained visions, they impact his life greatly. The chapters about Andrew's life are interspersed with a back story about Jewish lore, from which the visions originate.
I found the book dull and the story was unable to capture my interest. By page 230, I gave up on it.
As the novel opens, Andrew is visited by a strange vision, one which occurs repeatedly. Though he doesn't know quite what to make of these unexplained visions, they impact his life greatly. The chapters about Andrew's life are interspersed with a back story about Jewish lore, from which the visions originate.
I found the book dull and the story was unable to capture my interest. By page 230, I gave up on it.
October 24, 2018
Steele yourself for reading about a middle aged dude spending a lot of time in the bathroom washing various parts of his slowly deteriorating body.
What would happen if a stereotypical middle aged white dude had a stereotypical middle aged breakdown, but it was actually being caused by a literal angel? Andrew Cohen, a celebrated professor of comparative culture at NYU, starts seeing increasingly intrusive visions of the Temple in Jerusalem. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, his apparently perfect life starts unraveling. In this book, Namdar weaves together the familiar Rothian/Malamudian trope of male sexual/intellectual angst with myth. But not myth in an abstract sense - myth that becomes embodied, visceral, and malevolent.
I appreciate this book for its ambitiousness, complexities of form, and the level of Jewish literacy it requires to be read on the deeper levels. It's interesting. But not particularly pleasant. Though Namdar is playing with the cliches of the middle aged Jewish intellectual having a crisis rather than wholesale partaking in them, a middle aged Jewish intellectual having a crisis is still the book's subject matter. This is doleful, annoying stuff; replete in body fluids and endless trips to the bathroom, Andrew's shallow concerns grate and disturb, even as he actively ignores the essence of what's happening. He is beset by visions, rocked by strange revulsions, his routine in shambles; yet he makes only one hapless attempt to understand why. No matter though. Deeper forces are there to meet, and subdue him nonetheless.
Not that the central character is being endorsed by the book - we're invited to sort of loathe him. And loathe him you will. In the end though, I do wonder why we went through all this. Since none of the other characters take real form, we're still stuck with Andrew. Has he changed and become somehow more spiritually and emotionally mature? There's no real evidence of that. He seems subdued into a sort of infantile state of acceptance and filial comfort at the end. Perhaps it's the blank and tender beginning of a fuller, more authentic life? That would be the most optimistic interpretation.
If Namdar's narrative goals fall short, I think his cultural message is more successful (or at least I sympathize with it): this book contains an implicit critique of a cultural Jewishness that is so divorced from the fundamentals and depths of Jewish knowledge, text and spirituality that it's reduced to emptiness. Roth's and Malamud's protagonists exemplify this emptiness through their mal-adjusted state of assimilation, misanthropy, and misogyny. Namdar's maneuver is interesting in that while he writes a character that utterly fits the Rothian mold, he demands something better of his readers, asking them to engage with Jewish texts on a level that's non-existent in contemporary, secular Jewish literature (Israeli or diasporic). In this book's quasi-talmudic interludes, Namdar up-cycles Jewish historical and religious texts as artistic raw materials. These curated collections of mishnaic, talmudic, and kabbalistic texts relate to the story in ways that Andrew (and most readers tbh) are totally oblivious to. While understanding their full significance would require closer exegesis than what I devoted, I think those parts could be fun to go back to.
I've heard Ruby Namdar say in an interview that these ancient texts are our Shakespeare, our Chaucer, the roots of our culture, and yet that they are terra incognita to most of us. I think changing this is a valid cultural mission, even if the narrative results fall short in this ambitious first novel.
What would happen if a stereotypical middle aged white dude had a stereotypical middle aged breakdown, but it was actually being caused by a literal angel? Andrew Cohen, a celebrated professor of comparative culture at NYU, starts seeing increasingly intrusive visions of the Temple in Jerusalem. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, his apparently perfect life starts unraveling. In this book, Namdar weaves together the familiar Rothian/Malamudian trope of male sexual/intellectual angst with myth. But not myth in an abstract sense - myth that becomes embodied, visceral, and malevolent.
I appreciate this book for its ambitiousness, complexities of form, and the level of Jewish literacy it requires to be read on the deeper levels. It's interesting. But not particularly pleasant. Though Namdar is playing with the cliches of the middle aged Jewish intellectual having a crisis rather than wholesale partaking in them, a middle aged Jewish intellectual having a crisis is still the book's subject matter. This is doleful, annoying stuff; replete in body fluids and endless trips to the bathroom, Andrew's shallow concerns grate and disturb, even as he actively ignores the essence of what's happening. He is beset by visions, rocked by strange revulsions, his routine in shambles; yet he makes only one hapless attempt to understand why. No matter though. Deeper forces are there to meet, and subdue him nonetheless.
Not that the central character is being endorsed by the book - we're invited to sort of loathe him. And loathe him you will. In the end though, I do wonder why we went through all this. Since none of the other characters take real form, we're still stuck with Andrew. Has he changed and become somehow more spiritually and emotionally mature? There's no real evidence of that. He seems subdued into a sort of infantile state of acceptance and filial comfort at the end. Perhaps it's the blank and tender beginning of a fuller, more authentic life? That would be the most optimistic interpretation.
If Namdar's narrative goals fall short, I think his cultural message is more successful (or at least I sympathize with it): this book contains an implicit critique of a cultural Jewishness that is so divorced from the fundamentals and depths of Jewish knowledge, text and spirituality that it's reduced to emptiness. Roth's and Malamud's protagonists exemplify this emptiness through their mal-adjusted state of assimilation, misanthropy, and misogyny. Namdar's maneuver is interesting in that while he writes a character that utterly fits the Rothian mold, he demands something better of his readers, asking them to engage with Jewish texts on a level that's non-existent in contemporary, secular Jewish literature (Israeli or diasporic). In this book's quasi-talmudic interludes, Namdar up-cycles Jewish historical and religious texts as artistic raw materials. These curated collections of mishnaic, talmudic, and kabbalistic texts relate to the story in ways that Andrew (and most readers tbh) are totally oblivious to. While understanding their full significance would require closer exegesis than what I devoted, I think those parts could be fun to go back to.
I've heard Ruby Namdar say in an interview that these ancient texts are our Shakespeare, our Chaucer, the roots of our culture, and yet that they are terra incognita to most of us. I think changing this is a valid cultural mission, even if the narrative results fall short in this ambitious first novel.
February 26, 2018
Andrew P. Cohen, the central character of this novel, is leading a charmed life. He holds a position of Comparative Literature at NYU, where he is esteemed by all, has received an ample inheritance from his father to supplement his full professor salary, is a brilliant cook and the center of a lively group of friends, and is in the midst of an affair with a beautiful woman half his age. In pursuing a happy, successful life, he has left much behind—most significantly, his wife and two daughters and, for the most part, his Jewish heritage. Quite unexpectedly, dreams and visions, many deeply distressing, begin to intrude into his consciousness and eventually undermine entirely his sense of self-satisfaction. It is as if patterns from the deep historical past are seeping into his life and literally turning him upside down. For those of us who worry whether the past is really past—and not just our personal past but that of our heritage as well—this is a powerful and disturbing read. Does it go too far, as some critics have suggested? Yes. Some of the sexualized violence, at least in this reader’s opinion, does seem excessive and gratuitous, but that is only a minor criticism. The overall impact of Namdar’s novel can be overwhelming, at least for those of us who have left much behind and wonder if it will stay there.
October 17, 2018
Holy cow, did I hate this book! I am gobsmacked that it was so terrible, given that it's opening sentence or two is among the most beautiful and intriguing I've ever read and given how persuasively in favor of it the hosts of the podcast Unorthodox are. I don't even know what to tell potential readers except to choose something else unless you like a book bursting with self important symbolism (and vomiting! LOTS of vomiting!) that adds up to absolutely nothing. Andrew starts off insufferable, loses his dang mind briefly, and winds up insufferable. I think I hate myself a little bit now for finishing this unbearably long piece of garbage. I can't believe I wasted hours reading about this guy's neuroses, digestive issues, and penis. Ew. Just ew, ew, ew to the whole thing.
And don't think I missed all the symbolism. I got it. He's freaked out about menstrual blood and semen and non kosher meat - all obvious traditional taboos/impurities - it's really not subtle. But given that [spoiler!] the character is apparently not, in the end, changed by anything that happens to him, what on earth is the point? He is just as dumb and overprivileged and religiously ignorant in the ridiculous epilogue as he was at the start of the book. I'm actually seething with anger that I devoted hours to this book. You owe me, Tablet Magazine!
And don't think I missed all the symbolism. I got it. He's freaked out about menstrual blood and semen and non kosher meat - all obvious traditional taboos/impurities - it's really not subtle. But given that [spoiler!] the character is apparently not, in the end, changed by anything that happens to him, what on earth is the point? He is just as dumb and overprivileged and religiously ignorant in the ridiculous epilogue as he was at the start of the book. I'm actually seething with anger that I devoted hours to this book. You owe me, Tablet Magazine!
April 1, 2018
I am very conflicted about this fiction. Andrew Cohen is an American Jew who is totally assimilated and quite sophisticated, erudite and trendy, a professor at NYU who is well regarded. Suddenly his world falls apart, I don't to say how for those who are planning to read this work. And just as suddenly his world comes back together for no explicit reason. The language is beautiful, the character interesting, if not likable but the denouement was too disjointed for me. Ms. Namdar is an excellent writer and would be interested to read something else by her in the future.
June 23, 2018
An extraordinarily ambitious novel by a fascinating author—a native Jerusalemite now living in New York who wrote what is effectively a major American Jewish novel in Hebrew (this translation is by Hillel Halkin). I am so pleased that I was invited to join in the publicity efforts for this work.
December 2, 2017
My review will appears in New York Journal of Books.
January 24, 2018
This will teach me, perhaps, not to pick up a book solely on the basis of one gushing review in the NY Times Book Review. What was I thinking. For those who are interested, you can read the review here: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/10/bo...
I was, I admit, quite thrilled to begin this book. Mysticism? Morality? Mind-bending, time-shifting allusions to antiquity. Blood and incense. Dare I hope for a bit of Kabbalah? Yes, please.
But alas, for me this was a book trying so hard to be IMPORTANT it became encysted in its own efforts. Not everyone feels this way, of course, and the book won Israel's most important literary award.
I think this review from Kirkus summed it up best for me:
"An elegant NYU professor at the peak of his powers and pleasures is reduced to a quivering puddle by a violent, unsought, yearlong spiritual awakening.
For 52-year-old academic superstar Andrew Cohen, the term charisma is a “cheap inadequacy.” “His dress and appearance, his speech and body language, his ideas and their expression—all had a refined aristocratic finish that splendidly gilded everything he touched.” He has a 26-year-old girlfriend, Ann Lee, and a stunning apartment overlooking the river; he publishes in the New Yorker; he even has a good relationship with his ex-wife. Was a character ever more cruelly set up for a fall? Namdar’s debut follows poor Andrew for a year beginning on the sixth day of the Hebrew month of Elul in 5760, or Sept. 6, 2000, when he has the first of many increasingly intense spiritual experiences which will ultimately destroy his sanity and his life. The myriad subsequent chapters are each identified by both a Hebrew and a regular date and grouped into seven “books.” These books are separated by pages telling a second story set in ancient Israel and designed in the style of the Talmud, and this is just the tip of the iceberg vis-à-vis the self-importance of this apocalyptic, overwritten, bloated screed against assimilated American Judaism and self-satisfied elite academics. Between the fusillades of exclamatory prose, the innumerable dream sequences, hallucinations, and visions, the detailed and repetitive descriptions of vile pornography and disgusting physical phenomena, the tedious chunks of student papers and other quoted material, the clear hostility of the author toward the main character, the brutally slow pace and repetitive plot development, and the bizarre, ill-advised handling of 9/11, one begins to wonder if Namdar is intentionally punishing the reader. Is S&M a literary genre? Maybe in Israel, where this novel won the Sapir Prize, that country’s equivalent of the Man Booker.
Consider yourself warned."
Wish I'd read that review before I hacked and swam and stumbled and slogged my way through 500-odd pages.
I was, I admit, quite thrilled to begin this book. Mysticism? Morality? Mind-bending, time-shifting allusions to antiquity. Blood and incense. Dare I hope for a bit of Kabbalah? Yes, please.
But alas, for me this was a book trying so hard to be IMPORTANT it became encysted in its own efforts. Not everyone feels this way, of course, and the book won Israel's most important literary award.
I think this review from Kirkus summed it up best for me:
"An elegant NYU professor at the peak of his powers and pleasures is reduced to a quivering puddle by a violent, unsought, yearlong spiritual awakening.
For 52-year-old academic superstar Andrew Cohen, the term charisma is a “cheap inadequacy.” “His dress and appearance, his speech and body language, his ideas and their expression—all had a refined aristocratic finish that splendidly gilded everything he touched.” He has a 26-year-old girlfriend, Ann Lee, and a stunning apartment overlooking the river; he publishes in the New Yorker; he even has a good relationship with his ex-wife. Was a character ever more cruelly set up for a fall? Namdar’s debut follows poor Andrew for a year beginning on the sixth day of the Hebrew month of Elul in 5760, or Sept. 6, 2000, when he has the first of many increasingly intense spiritual experiences which will ultimately destroy his sanity and his life. The myriad subsequent chapters are each identified by both a Hebrew and a regular date and grouped into seven “books.” These books are separated by pages telling a second story set in ancient Israel and designed in the style of the Talmud, and this is just the tip of the iceberg vis-à-vis the self-importance of this apocalyptic, overwritten, bloated screed against assimilated American Judaism and self-satisfied elite academics. Between the fusillades of exclamatory prose, the innumerable dream sequences, hallucinations, and visions, the detailed and repetitive descriptions of vile pornography and disgusting physical phenomena, the tedious chunks of student papers and other quoted material, the clear hostility of the author toward the main character, the brutally slow pace and repetitive plot development, and the bizarre, ill-advised handling of 9/11, one begins to wonder if Namdar is intentionally punishing the reader. Is S&M a literary genre? Maybe in Israel, where this novel won the Sapir Prize, that country’s equivalent of the Man Booker.
Consider yourself warned."
Wish I'd read that review before I hacked and swam and stumbled and slogged my way through 500-odd pages.
July 1, 2018
If you are interested in a novel where the main character is a narcissistic, self-absorbed, judgmental, arrogant, and disturbing creep, then this is a book for you.
If you want to read the illuminating story of a man undergoing mental and emotional disintegration, then, once again, this book is for you. The scenes are filled with madness, growing stronger with each passing day.
If you like vulgar, obscene, often disgusting and physically graphic imagery, this story engulfs all of that and so much more. I found myself skipping over large portions of the book, due to those issues.
My actual rating is 2-stars, but I gave it 3-stars due to the strong Judaic symbolism, and the analogies before each chapter/"story".
If you want to read the illuminating story of a man undergoing mental and emotional disintegration, then, once again, this book is for you. The scenes are filled with madness, growing stronger with each passing day.
If you like vulgar, obscene, often disgusting and physically graphic imagery, this story engulfs all of that and so much more. I found myself skipping over large portions of the book, due to those issues.
My actual rating is 2-stars, but I gave it 3-stars due to the strong Judaic symbolism, and the analogies before each chapter/"story".
April 24, 2019
I gave this book 4 stars, but am ambivalent about whether to recommend it to anyone. I read it, knowing it was a winner of the Sapir award in Israel, and after hearing the author speak. Although I loved the author's nuanced persepctive and style of speaking, which was densely filled with ideas, I can't say that I loved this book. It was EXTREMELY dense, and at times, I felt like I couldn't stand to read one more sentence about the agony the main character was experiencing. But I persisted--and I'm actually glad that I did. As the reviewer in the NYT said, the book is a masterpiece, just not to be lightly recommended.
June 2, 2018
Interesting concept but overwritten. Wasted my time
September 21, 2018
Ohhh this book was so bad.
From the book: "He stared at it in disgust, overwhelmed by the obvious metaphor."
Same.
From the book: "He stared at it in disgust, overwhelmed by the obvious metaphor."
Same.
March 23, 2018
I enjoyed this book very much, but I wonder what sense it would make to someone who isn't steeped in Jewish religion and culture. The book is chock full of it, from the central symbol (the Second Temple in Jerusalem -- the ruined House -- and the World Trade Center) to amusing anecdotes (a dinner of quail served on quail eggs referring to the incident of the quail during the wandering in the desert. But maybe the story of Andrew Cohen is moving on its own terms, without understanding the references? I don't know. But I enjoyed it.
December 24, 2017
The author is an Israel living in NYC. This book won Israel's Sapir prize for books written in Hebrew and prompted the prize committee to restrict the prize in future years to Israelis residing in Israel. Is this an Israeli book? It's the existential crisis of an Upper West Side Jewish man and does have a particularistic feel. But the story could have been placed in Tel Aviv with a professor from TAU. The advantage of locating the story in NYC was that the author didn't have to deal with Israeli/ Palestinian issues.
fascinating book - somewhat dense.
fascinating book - somewhat dense.
July 5, 2018
I read this book on a recommendation, I believe from a podcast I am fond of. That kind of pushed me to stick with it. It is not a boring read.... but it is a pointless read. The writing is all over the place: from superintellectual style, to old-fashioned expressions where they don't belong, alternating with very earthy language and a modicum of sex (and more than a modicum of talking and thinking about sex). Maybe part of the problem is that it is a translation, but I doubt that. The protagonist, who features in nearly every line of every page, doesn't arouse a bit of empathy from me. I don't dislike him; he's not a villain. But the whole book seems so random. Perhaps I'm not intellectual enough to see the value of this book, but after 500+ pages, honestly, I'd like to be paid back for the hours of my life spent reading it. Looking at other ratings, it seems to have done fairly well. Alas, not from me. If you take certain specific passages, you may find them well written and compelling; i don't argue vs. that. But when it is all put together, it is a navel-gazing pointless waste of time.
June 27, 2019
This was a very different book and I think? I'm glad I finished it. I read until the end because I wanted to see if it all came together and it did. A successful, contented New York man's slip into psychosis over a year's period of time before 9/11; or was it a fall into an ancient legacy and rituals of the
Holy Temple in Jerusalem in a golden age and then the destruction of the temple? The book was interspersed with pages from an ancient Talmadic text; it was quite interesting in that regard. (I think that the text was accurate, but I don't know that for sure.)The book was written by an Iranian-Jewish man who teaches Jewish literature in NYC, focusing on biblical and Talmudic texts. The book was awarded Israel's most important literary award in 2014.
Holy Temple in Jerusalem in a golden age and then the destruction of the temple? The book was interspersed with pages from an ancient Talmadic text; it was quite interesting in that regard. (I think that the text was accurate, but I don't know that for sure.)The book was written by an Iranian-Jewish man who teaches Jewish literature in NYC, focusing on biblical and Talmudic texts. The book was awarded Israel's most important literary award in 2014.
March 5, 2018
This book had great potential and interesting character development. I liked the Jewish themes and orientation around the calendar, but couldn’t help but feel like much of the symbolism passed me by. It was dense in the second half and the plot line of Andrew’s crisis never really resolves. May have enjoyed more if read alongside an English class to actually capture what was beneath the surface.
March 7, 2018
This was an exceedingly frustrating read for me. I tore through the first half expecting a "breakthrough" moment that never came. In the end, this was an okay book that could have been great and was written by a talented author.
April 26, 2018
did not like at all! male midlife crisis plus Jewish mysticism.
December 19, 2018
ok, this was ok...good...ok...i read it to the end, and wanted to, for what that's worth.
i wanted this to be a tragedy. we meet prof. andrew cohen. he's got his swimming life in new york, an admired teacher and scholar, divorced, but with a good relationship with his ex-wife and his daughters, and has the love of a (younger) woman. he's not "too" jewish. he's not very neurotic. he's sort of a more advanced version of the characters from the post-war american-jewish authors (and maybe mordecai richler?). not a lot of self doubt. and he seems like a boring character for this day in age, but i was ok with it because it becomes clear that the author is writing a tragic piece. and prof. cohen starts to falter; and it can be interesting.
cohen gets pulled towards the kohain. his psyche gets pulled back to the rites of the high priests in the temple in jerusalem. his hedonism, selfishness, and delusion contrasted with the discipline of the priests performing the rituals for the atonement of all of israel. while the unblemished livestock are diligently cared for and ritually slaughtered, cohen delights in his preparation of expensive meat, then becomes haunted by the grotesque slab of muscle writhing in his fridge. but the choreography of the priests cannot save the temple and the nation from destruction, and cohen gets driven to mental break on Tisha B'Av, in the summer of 2001.
the juxtaposition and use of Talmud is compelling. but cohen finds compassion from his older daughter, who nurses him. he begins to come to terms with his life, and starts to find his stride. the epilogue joins him a few weeks after his break--and after September 11, 2001--where andrew is turning a page, starting a new chapter.
this is where i lose patience. why does he get to learn, and start anew? the promise of the book is to see his oblivious failure. the book is written from his perspective, and he's only particularly sympathetic if you're (or aspire to be) a lot like him. if cohen, kohain, and new york, are meant to be sympathetic to one another, is the lesson fatalist? or cathartic? the hopeful denouement is incongruous of what i felt the promise of the narrative would be. maybe that's my own fault, but that sort of redemption belies the imagery that tortures cohen, and seems weak after alluding to the sack of jerusalem by the romans or the gloss over September 11th. honestly, i wanted cohen to be ground to dust, and i'm not sure i understand why he wasn't.
it is interesting to think of this book in its original hebrew, writen by an israeli living in new york. while the narrative is sort of "inside baseball", the author is actually a bit outside looking in, and by writing in hebrew, is writing for those either in his position, or in a more remote position, trying to understand these (ashkenazi) american jews, there for a couple of generations, walking the talk. that gives me a bit more sympathy for the story, and adds something more interesting to me. rather than drawing a line from saul bellow to ruby namdar, this is "foreign" (as a native english speaker). is it pandering to be a bit generous because of that?
i wanted this to be a tragedy. we meet prof. andrew cohen. he's got his swimming life in new york, an admired teacher and scholar, divorced, but with a good relationship with his ex-wife and his daughters, and has the love of a (younger) woman. he's not "too" jewish. he's not very neurotic. he's sort of a more advanced version of the characters from the post-war american-jewish authors (and maybe mordecai richler?). not a lot of self doubt. and he seems like a boring character for this day in age, but i was ok with it because it becomes clear that the author is writing a tragic piece. and prof. cohen starts to falter; and it can be interesting.
cohen gets pulled towards the kohain. his psyche gets pulled back to the rites of the high priests in the temple in jerusalem. his hedonism, selfishness, and delusion contrasted with the discipline of the priests performing the rituals for the atonement of all of israel. while the unblemished livestock are diligently cared for and ritually slaughtered, cohen delights in his preparation of expensive meat, then becomes haunted by the grotesque slab of muscle writhing in his fridge. but the choreography of the priests cannot save the temple and the nation from destruction, and cohen gets driven to mental break on Tisha B'Av, in the summer of 2001.
the juxtaposition and use of Talmud is compelling. but cohen finds compassion from his older daughter, who nurses him. he begins to come to terms with his life, and starts to find his stride. the epilogue joins him a few weeks after his break--and after September 11, 2001--where andrew is turning a page, starting a new chapter.
this is where i lose patience. why does he get to learn, and start anew? the promise of the book is to see his oblivious failure. the book is written from his perspective, and he's only particularly sympathetic if you're (or aspire to be) a lot like him. if cohen, kohain, and new york, are meant to be sympathetic to one another, is the lesson fatalist? or cathartic? the hopeful denouement is incongruous of what i felt the promise of the narrative would be. maybe that's my own fault, but that sort of redemption belies the imagery that tortures cohen, and seems weak after alluding to the sack of jerusalem by the romans or the gloss over September 11th. honestly, i wanted cohen to be ground to dust, and i'm not sure i understand why he wasn't.
it is interesting to think of this book in its original hebrew, writen by an israeli living in new york. while the narrative is sort of "inside baseball", the author is actually a bit outside looking in, and by writing in hebrew, is writing for those either in his position, or in a more remote position, trying to understand these (ashkenazi) american jews, there for a couple of generations, walking the talk. that gives me a bit more sympathy for the story, and adds something more interesting to me. rather than drawing a line from saul bellow to ruby namdar, this is "foreign" (as a native english speaker). is it pandering to be a bit generous because of that?
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