A Literary Life

My Name is Asher Lev (Chaim Potok)

I closed this book with tears in my eyes and with gratitude in my heart for Maren McEuen of the Book Trail, though I’ve never met her and probably never will. Doesn’t matter: She introduced me to the achingly honest, painfully gifted and sharply *real* character of Asher Lev. Aches, pains and sharpness — it’s not a novel for those of who think Bridget Jones was heart-rending. But the finished book is a work of art as surely as the paintings produced by the main character are, a duality that, while obvious, strikes to the heart of the book’s … I won’t say “moral” or “message.” It reveals the book’s purpose for existence — it’s destiny — through the quest of Asher to find his.

You see, Asher is not an ordinary boy walking the well-worn rut of self-exploration. He’s an Orthodox Jew in a sheltered Brooklyn community who wears ear locks, eats kosher and believes that everyone has a purpose, a role to play in the world, a mission bestowed upon his by the “Master of the Universe.” And this purpose is communal, for the good of all. So when Asher exhibits a talent for drawing from the time he can hold a pen, this talent is seen as child’s play, something to dabble in, but also something that could grow to be dangerous, a manifestation of evil instead of good.

Asher doesn’t draw pretty pictures. “The world is not a pretty place,” says Asher. Eccentric to the point of near autism (did anyone else see that?), the boy is able to reveal emotion and meaning with the stroke of a pen or the swish of a brush. Unless he is able to release it, this meaning wells up inside of him and threatens to burst through the dam of his flesh. But when he releases that meaning, it can often hurt his mother and father and his community, the people he holds dearest to his heart.

Is art selfish? Can we thwart our destinies, the talents given us at birth? Is it better to be a great man or a great artist? Is it possible to be both? The words stream across the page like paint across Asher’s canvas, as if the writer is also battling these concepts in his head, reaching within himself for the story only he can tell, no matter how painful it is. Reaching inside for his truth as Asher finds his — a truth that may shock his community, wound his mother and turn his father against him forever.

A powerful tragedy, this book left me with an aching in my own intestines and an urge to search my own soul for my artistic destiny, my purpose, my art. It reminds me that creation is simultaneously an act of destruction, that we cannot have one without the other. And it makes me want to make that sacrifice, even while my tears for Asher are still on my cheeks.

I thank the “Master of the Universe” for this book, for giving us the raw material and raw talent in the human plane to create it in all its stark beauty, and I thank Chaim Potok for channeling this creative truth — this *art* — onto the page where I could devour it. Oh, and one more thanks, again, to Maren, who gave me a book that I spent an entire Sunday reading. I haven’t found one of those books in quite a while.

Rating: 5 out of 5 stars — Buy the hardcover

5 out of 5 Star Books, Book Trail |