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To the End of the Land Hardcover – Deckle Edge, September 21, 2010
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Ora, a middle-aged Israeli mother, is on the verge of celebrating her son Ofer’s release from army service when he returns to the front for a major offensive. In a fit of preemptive grief and magical thinking, she sets out for a hike in the Galilee, leaving no forwarding information for the “notifiers” who might darken her door with the worst possible news. Recently estranged from her husband, Ilan, she drags along an unlikely companion: their former best friend and her former lover Avram, once a brilliant artistic spirit. Avram served in the army alongside Ilan when they were young, but their lives were forever changed one weekend when the two jokingly had Ora draw lots to see which of them would get the few days’ leave being offered by their commander—a chance act that sent Avram into Egpyt and the Yom Kippur War, where he was brutally tortured as POW. In the aftermath, a virtual hermit, he refused to keep in touch with the family and has never met the boy. Now, as Ora and Avram sleep out in the hills, ford rivers, and cross valleys, avoiding all news from the front, she gives him the gift of Ofer, word by word; she supplies the whole story of her motherhood, a retelling that keeps Ofer very much alive for Ora and for the reader, and opens Avram to human bonds undreamed of in his broken world. Their walk has a “war and peace” rhythm, as their conversation places the most hideous trials of war next to the joys and anguish of raising children. Never have we seen so clearly the reality and surreality of daily life in Israel, the currents of ambivalence about war within one household, and the burdens that fall on each generation anew.
Grossman’s rich imagining of a family in love and crisis makes for one of the great antiwar novels of our time.
- Print length592 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherKnopf
- Publication dateSeptember 21, 2010
- Dimensions6.61 x 1.47 x 9.58 inches
- ISBN-100307592979
- ISBN-13978-0307592972
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“Very rarely, a few times in a lifetime, you open a book and when you close it again nothing can ever be the same. Walls have been pulled down, barriers broken, a dimension of feeling, of existence itself, has opened in you that was not there before. To the End of the Land is a book of this magnitude. David Grossman may be the most gifted writer I've ever read; gifted not just because of his imagination, his energy, his originality, but because he has access to the unutterable, because he can look inside a person and discover the unique essence of her humanity. For twenty-six years he has been writing novels about what it means to defend this essence, this unique light, against a world designed to extinguish it. To the End of the Land is his most powerful, shattering, and unflinching story of this defense. To read it is to have yourself taken apart, undone, touched at the place of your own essence; it is to be turned back, as if after a long absence, into a human being.” —Nicole Krauss
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The convoy twists along, a stammering band of civilian cars, jeeps, military ambulances, tanks, and huge bulldozers on the backs of transporters. Her taxi driver is quiet and gloomy. His hand rests on the Mercedes’s gear shift and his thick neck does not move. For several long minutes he has looked neither at her nor at Ofer.
As soon as Ofer sat down in the cab, he let out an angry breath and flashed a look that said: Not the smartest idea, Mom, asking this particular driver to come along on a trip like this. Only then did she realize what she’d done. At seven that morning she had called Sami and asked him to come pick her up for a long drive to the Gilboa region. Now she remembers that for some reason she hadn’t given him any details or explained the purpose of the trip, the way she usually did. Sami had asked when she wanted him, and she’d hesitated and then said, “Come at three.” “Ora,” he’d said, “maybe we should leave earlier, ’cause traffic will be a mess.” That was his only acknowledgment of the day’s madness, but even then she didn’t get it and just said there was no way she could leave before three. She wanted to spend these hours with Ofer, and although Ofer agreed, she could tell how much effort his concession took. Seven or eight hours were all that was left of the weeklong trip she’d planned for the two of them, and now she realizes she hadn’t even told Sami on the phone that Ofer was part of the ride. Had she told him, he might have asked her to let him off today, just this one time, or he might have sent one of the Jewish drivers who worked for him—“my Jewish sector,” he called them. But when she’d called him she’d been in a state of complete frenzy, and it simply had not occurred to her—the unease slowly rises in her chest—that for this sort of drive, on a day like this, it was better not to call an Arab driver.
Even if he is an Arab from here, one of ours, Ilan prods at her brain as she tries to justify her own behavior. Even if it’s Sami, who’s almost one of the family, who’s been driving everyone—the people who work for Ilan, her estranged husband, and the whole family—for more than twenty years. They are his main livelihood, his regular monthly income, and he, in return, is obliged to be at their service around the clock, whenever they need him. They have been to his home in Abu Ghosh for family celebrations, they know his wife, Inaam, and they helped out with connections and money when his two older sons wanted to emigrate to Argentina. They’ve racked up hundreds of driving hours together, and she cannot recall his ever being this silent. With him, every drive is a stand-up show. He’s witty and sly, a political dodger who shoots in all directions with decoys and double-edged swords, and besides, she cannot imagine calling another driver. Driving herself is out of the question for the next year: she’s had three accidents and six moving violations in the past twelve months, an excessive crop even by her standards, and the loathsome judge who revoked her license had hissed that he was doing her a favor and that she really owed him her life. It would have all been so easy if she herself were driving Ofer. At least she’d have had another ninety minutes alone with him, and maybe she’d even have tempted him to stop on the way—there are some good restaurants in Wadi Ara. After all, one hour more, one hour less, what’s the rush? Why are you in such a hurry? Tell me, what is it that’s waiting for you there?
A trip alone with him will not happen anytime soon, nor alone with herself, and she has to get used to this constraint. She has to let it go, stop grieving every day for her robbed independence. She should be happy that at least she has Sami, who kept driving her even after the separation from Ilan. She hadn’t been capable of thinking about those kinds of details at the time, but Ilan had put his foot down. Sami was an explicit clause in their separation agreement, and he himself said he was divvied up between them like the furniture and the rugs and the silverware. “Us Arabs,” he would laugh, revealing a mouth full of huge teeth, “ever since the partition plan we’re used to you dividing us up.” The memory of his joke makes her cringe with the shame of what has happened today, of having somehow, in the general commotion, completely erased that part of him, his Arabness.
Since seeing Ofer this morning with the phone in his hand and the guilty look on his face, someone had come along and gently but firmly taken the management of her own affairs out of her hands. She had been dismissed, relegated to observer status, a gawking witness. Her thoughts were no more than flashes of emotion. She hovered through the rooms of the house with angular, truncated motions. Later they went to the mall to buy clothes and candy and CDs—there was a new Johnny Cash collection out—and all morning she walked beside him in a daze and giggled like a girl at everything he said. She devoured him with gaping wide looks, stocking up unabashedly for the endless years of hunger to come—of course they would come. From the moment he told her he was going, she had no doubt. Three times that morning she excused herself and went to the public restrooms, where she had diarrhea. Ofer laughed: “What’s up with you? What did you eat?” She stared at him and smiled feebly, engraving in her mind the sound of his laughter, the slight tilt of his head when he laughed.
The young cashier at the clothing store blushed as she watched him try on a shirt, and Ora thought proudly, My beloved is like a young hart. The girl working at the music store was one year behind him at school, and when she heard where he was going in three hours, she went over and hugged him, held him close with her tall, ample body, and insisted that he call her as soon as he got back. Seeing how blind her son was to these displays of emotion, it occurred to Ora that his heart was still bound to Talia. It had been a year since she’d left him, and she was still all he could see. She thought sadly that he was a loyal person, like her, and far more monogamous than she, and who knew how many years would pass before he got over Talia—if he even had any years left, she thought. She quickly erased the notion, scrubbing it furiously from her brain with both hands, but still a picture slipped through: Talia coming to visit them, to condole, perhaps to seek a sort of retroactive forgiveness from Ora, and she felt her face strain with anger. How could you hurt him like that? she thought, and she must have mumbled something out loud, because Ofer leaned down and asked softly, “What is it, Mom?” For a moment she did not see his face before her eyes—he had no face, her eyes stared into a void, pure terror. “Nothing. I was thinking about Talia. Have you talked to her recently?” Ofer waved his hand and said, “Forget that, it’s over.”
She kept checking the time. On her watch, on his, on the big clocks in the mall, on the television screens in appliance stores. Time was behaving strangely, sometimes flying, at other times crawling or coming to a complete standstill. It seemed to her that it might not even require much effort to roll it back, not too far, just thirty minutes or an hour at a time would be fine. The big things—time, destiny, God—could sometimes be worn down by petty haggling. They drove downtown to have lunch at a restaurant in the shuk, where they ordered lots of dishes although neither of them had an appetite. He tried to amuse her with stories from the checkpoint near Tapuach, where he’d served for seven months, and it was the first time she discovered that he would scan the thousands of Palestinians who passed through the checkpoint with a simple metal detector, like the one they used when you walked into the mall. “That’s all you had?” she whispered. He laughed: “What did you think I had?” “I didn’t think,” she said. He asked, “But didn’t you wonder how it’s done there?” There was a note of childish disappointment in his voice. She said, “But you never told me about it.” He presented a profile that said, You know exactly why, but before she could say anything he reached out and covered her hand with his—his broad, tanned, rough hand—and that simple rare touch almost stunned her and she fell silent. Ofer seemed to want, at the very last minute, to fill in what he had left out, and he told her hurriedly about the pillbox he’d lived in for four months, facing the northern neighborhood of Jenin, and how every morning at five he used to open the gate in the fence around the pillbox and make sure the Palestinians hadn’t booby-trapped it overnight. “You just walked over there like that, alone?” she asked. “Usually someone from the pillbox would cover me—I mean, if anyone was awake.” She wanted to ask more but her throat was dry, and Ofer shrugged and said in an elderly Palestinian man’s voice, “Kulo min Allah”—it’s all from God. She whispered, “I didn’t know,” and he laughed without any bitterness, as if he had understood that she could not be expected to know, and he told her about the kasbah in Nablus, which he said was the most interesting of all the kasbahs, the most ancient. “There are houses there from the Roman era and houses built like bridges over alleyways, and underneath the whole city there’s an aqueduct that goes from east to west, with canals and tunnels running in all directions, and the fugitives live there because they know we’ll never dare follow them down.” He spoke enthusiastically, as if he were telling her about a new video game, a...
Product details
- Publisher : Knopf; First Edition (September 21, 2010)
- Language : English
- Hardcover : 592 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0307592979
- ISBN-13 : 978-0307592972
- Item Weight : 2.1 pounds
- Dimensions : 6.61 x 1.47 x 9.58 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #1,299,726 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #60,806 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the authors
David Grossman, geboren 1954 in Jerusalem, studierte Philosophie und Theater an der Hebräischen Universität in Jerusalem. Er gehört zu den bedeutendsten Erzählern der israelischen Gegenwartsliteratur. Seine Romane, Sach- und Kinderbücher wurden mit zahlreichen Preisen ausgezeichnet und in viele Sprachen übersetzt.
Jessica Cohen is an independent translator born in England, raised in Israel, and currently living in Denver. She translates contemporary Hebrew prose and other creative work. In 2017, she shared the Man Booker International Prize with David Grossman, for her translation of "A Horse Walks Into a Bar." She has translated works by other major Israeli writers including Etgar Keret, Amos Oz, Ronit Matalon and Nir Baram. She is the recipient of Guggenheim and NEA fellowships, and a past board member of the American Literary Translators Association.
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Having just returned from Israel, guided for nine days by an Israeli Army Major...through the locales of this narrative....especially the Lola Valley, Jaffa, south Tel Aviv, and Jerusalem....I can say that the author's elucidates and dramatizes, something of that part of Israeli life that can not be gained from touring. After all, it is human beings who must organize themselves for unwavering defense. The book is about the effects of the strategic picture upon ordinary lives...of individual hopes, of happiness and peace of mind.
I found the author's writing technique and style to be superb. It takes very little effort...and only a little patience, for the reader to understand and link the narratives. Low and behold, this book rises to the level of literature. Some might complain that the book does not conform to a more minimalist approach, but I found the degree of detail, richness, insight, and sensitivity of this author is very high. For me at least, it enhanced the story.
And Grossman's narrative structure itself, logically arises out of the personal reality of a tortured and wounded character, whose soul was thought to have been laid waste. It is the effort to restore him, on the part of his best friend and lover, which reveals the hearts of all his interrelated characters. And it is this heart, of the book's central character, Ora, which creates the emotional context of the whole novel. I found it, a clever, fascinating, and most effective form of exposition.
The author's own son was killed in south Lebanon in 2006. It's well to recall that the voices raised in this novel are a cries from the heart against further bloodshed. The main character, Ora, is a mother who raises the timeless question of all mothers, whose sons go to war, with a high risk of being wounded or killed. Ora speaks for Grossman, when she asks why she should carry a child, who then, as a matter of course, will become absorbed into the machinery of interminable war preparation. The novel's poignancy is all the more powerful, because, even as a fiction, it is quite demonstrably real....quite real that is, on both sides of the political and cultural divide, that is the middle east.
It's not for me to rate it against great literature, but it suffices to say, that this is the writing of a major author.
For 650 pages Grossman meanders slowly through the inner life of his main character. As Ora hikes up and down, over, and around the mountains of northern Israel, we become entangled in her complex emotional life. Even more than Avram, who is privy only to her spoken words, we are her confidants as she contemplates her relationships with her sons and lovers. By the time we reach the end of the novel we know more about Ora, what she thinks about, and what she feels, than we do about even our most intimate associates. And yet, there is nothing extraordinary or even particularly compelling about her. Neurotic, annoying, malignantly insecure, self-centered, and bereft of insight and perspective, Ora's failings, obsessions and vulnerabilities are the substance of this psychological novel. Why should the inner life of this imperfect heroine interest us? For many it won't, but for me, it was precisely Ora's flaws that made her so interesting, so real, so Human, and in the end so appealing. For this reader at least, Human weakness is ever so much more interesting than its opposite.
To wander so deeply into the emotional wilderness of a female character, especially one as flawed as Ora, is dangerous terrain for a male author. With his preoccupation with emotional nuance and interpersonal detail, Grossman writes with a feminine sensibility that, depending on one's perspective, the reader will find either courageous or audacious. As a male reader, I am perhaps a suspect judge, but I felt that, after my walk with Ora, I not only understand her, but had new insights into the flesh and blood women in my own life.
While never polemical, To the End of the Land is without a question a political novel. Israeli politics are more than a backdrop; they are the novel's subject. Curiously, Grossman has chosen to show us Israel through the eyes of a character for whom politics is at best a peripheral concern. Ora certainly doesn't dwell much on geo-political questions except where they affect her directly. We never learn what her views are--most likely they are too nebulous to be put into words. Ora is not ignorant, she is all too aware of how political forces beyond her control have shaped her life. But for her it is all an intrusion; she would prefer to be left alone. As much as she is a woman, mother, wife and lover, Ora is an Israeli--and for Israelis escaping from politics is more or less impossible. Ora is as much a part of the land she is walking through as the stones she steps over. She can no more escape political realities than she can learn to fly. In a sense she is Israel. Her imperfections and her pain echo those of her country. Like Israel, Ora's troubles are largely of her own making. And like Israel, the degree to which we embrace her has to do with our willingness to forgive her her many mistakes. Ora senses the contradictions, suffers the guilt, and struggles to make sense of the tragedy playing out in her homeland, and yet she doesn't quite have the insight to put it all together into a coherent picture. This, too, echoes her more personal struggle to understand herself--she see the pieces but can't quite put them together. This artful weaving together of the political and the personal is perhaps the novel's greatest strength.
Like its main character, the novel has its imperfections. Where the novel is weakest is when it makes forays away from Ora's inner life into the minds of the other characters. The novel would feel less unbounded if told exclusively from Ora's perspective. We should only know what Ora knows and feel what Ora feels. At times, Grossman seems torn between wanting to follow this artistic constraint and his desire to show us things beyond Ora's periphery. He attempts to resolve this by having her know things that seem improbable. The long section when Ora relates the story of Ilan's attempted rescue of Avram feels contrived because it is unbelievable that she could relate this story with such detail having heard it only once over twenty years ago. In this section the author has strayed from Ora's inner life into Ilan's, and this lack of artistic discipline weakens the novel. I also think that, given the breadth of detail about Ora's relationship with her sons and their fathers, the lack of detail about her family of origin is wanting. I can't help but think that if I knew more about her past I might understand her better. It seems likely that during her long introspective trek she would have reflected on the dynamics of the home she grew up in. However, these flaws are minor, compared to the novel's strengths. What Grossman has pulled off is rare in contemporary literature: a novel that works on both a microcosmic, personal level and a macrocosmic, societal level. Its scope is much broader than much of contemporary literature and yet he does this without sacrificing the intimate. I appreciated its slow, meticulous cadence and highly recommend this worthy read.
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At the heart of the book is a mother’s anxiety about her son in the Army – a feeling with which most Israelis identify as there is compulsory military service of three years in Israel. In an interview David Grossman remarked that in Israel most families plan for three children so that even if one is killed in the Army, they have another two.
Ora is a 49-year old mother and her younger son Ofer has just finished his compulsory military service. Adam, her elder son, has already completed his Army tenure and is currently in Bolivia with his father Ilan, Ora’s estranged husband. Ora is well aware from her experience with Adam that it is not the same person who returns from the Army. She knows “…they don’t really come back. Not like they were before. And that the boy he used to be had been lost to her forever the moment he was nationalized- lost to himself, too.” [p 68]
Her motherhood wants to reclaim this boy to herself after his return from the Army. Towards that end, she has planned a hike in Galilee with him, all alone, so that the mother and son can be together and re-discover each other. However, unbeknownst to her, Ofer decides to volunteer for a new military campaign that leaves Ora utterly devastated. She is ravaged by the thought of his death and in one inspired moment of magical thinking comes to the conclusion that she can protect him from possible death by fleeing from the “notifiers” who the Army traditionally sends to the families who have suffered bereavement. She argues with herself that “…notification will never be given, because notification always takes two, Ora thinks – one to give and the one to receive - and there will be no one to receive this notification so it will not be delivered...” [p 94]
Ora escapes to Galilee without informing anyone, leaving no forwarding address, and abandoning her phone so that nobody can reach her. She takes Aviram with her who is her childhood friend, past lover, and Ofer’s biological father. Ora, Ilan, and Aviram had first met during 1967 war when they were teenagers. While Ilan is handsome, self-assured, and witty, Aviram is short-statured, inventive, and hugely imaginative. She loves them both, but ends up marrying Ilan. Both of them also served in the Army. But, Aviram returns from the Army a broken man - damaged in body and spirit because of the treatment that he received as a POW. Ora and Ilan help to rehabilitate him but Aviram has lost the spark that used to keep him going. Ora sleeps with him in order to revive his will to live, and Ofer is conceived. So close are these friends that Ilan knows about Ofer but still adopts and raises him as his own son along with their first born Adam. Aviram withdraws from the world, cuts himself off from everyone, and refuses to talk to Ora about their son Ofer. He is living in the squalid margins of the society when Ora whisks him away to Galilee.
During this 500 kilometer walk, Ora tells Ofer’s story to Aviram recalling every moment of his life – from the moment he was born to the first step that he took, from his feeding habits as an infant to his sweaty body odor after sports, and from his childhood dread of Arabs to his current girlfriend who has broken up with him. She believes that talking constantly about Ofer, and keeping him alive in the conversation, will protect her son from the death she is imagining.
This walk, then, becomes the central pillar around which David Grossman creates the narrative structure of a mother’s personal anguish and a nation’s tragedy. Slowly, flitting backward and forward in time, a pace that he controls brilliantly, a rich portrait emerges of not only a happy family but also of three men in Ora’s life who bond in their masculinity, witticism, and a world view that is increasingly divergent from Ora’s, especially concerning that nebulous Israeli “situation” made up of roadblocks, ambushes, suicide bombers, and violent deaths. She wonders whether she has actually been able to protect her son despite all her teachings to be good because in the fog of the “situation” that they are in; there is a dichotomy between being good and being alive.
While reading this book I found Ora’s character to be really majestic. Although her “flight from bad tidings” may appear to be a sign of an anxious, neurotic mother, the Ora that actually emerges is a nurturer who revives, shelters, and comforts as much the failed conscience of her son as that of a people uncomfortable with the destiny that they have inherited .
Amongst many other things that are simply outstanding in this book, I will like to highlight three very important aspects that make this book a great novel.
Firstly, the pace at which the story unfolds. David Grossman has used this literary technique brilliantly wherein he lets the story drip drop by drop through exquisite flash backs that meander through multiple timelines. After building a particular story strand to a crescendo, he takes the reader on a different track with a deft feint and then gently weaves in the original strand to gently complete the mosaic. The story often reads like a thriller.
Secondly, the lyrical prose that dots the entire book. I was giddy with joy to read passage after passage of exquisite beauty. There is a majestic rhythm to David Grossman’s prose that propels the plot, illuminates its characters, and shapes the book.
Finally, the emotional depths of motherhood that the narrative describes. Some of the passages are absolutely stunning. Considering that the book has been written by a male writer, it is a testimony to his aesthetic sensibilities as much to his powerful imagination to have succeeded in such a grand fashion. Let me leave you with a passage where Ora is describing the time when she was pregnant carrying Ofer:
“He was tearing her up from the inside, flailing around and beating his fists against the walls of her body. He claimed her for himself unconditionally, demanded that she vacate her own being and dedicate herself to him eternally, that she think about him all the time and talk about him incessantly, that she tell anyone she meet s about him, even the trees and the rocks and the thistles, and that she say his name out loud and silently over and over again so as not to forget him even for a moment, even for a second and that she not abandon him because he needed her now in order to exist - she suddenly knew that this was what his biting meant.” [p 150]
I will go with 5 stars.
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This book is for all of you who have lost or feared to lose their child/children, or even if you never have -The way this tale is woven and the language used is extraordinary and graceful. And the book lasts a long time as it is just so powerful, it needs breaks....
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