By Bruce Bauman
Whilst the tragic demise of his son compels Dr. Neil Downs to escape manhattan urban for India, he's taking a role because the resident doctor on the American Embassy, the place he's brought to the paradoxes of Indian social and political existence. not able to mourn, and indignant a couple of betrayal at the a part of his spouse, Sarah, Neil seeks philosophical safe haven within the writings of Levi Furstenblum, whose paintings grapples with the character of language and god after Auschwitz. even as, he turns into concerned with a prestigious Indian kinfolk and types a bond with Holika, the rebellious, activist niece of the family's commercial and political doyen. With this dating, Neil discovers the intrigues and the horrors that plague a society no longer assorted to the only he left at the back of. via a fancy interaction among the exterior and inner, overseas and family, the guarantees of religion and the ineluctability of evil, Neil slowly unravels the lies and misrepresentations that had woven the feel of his existence.
This tightly plotted novel may be impossible to resist to a person who yearns for confirmation in spirituality and concerns of the center. a gorgeous reinterpretation of the Abraham and Isaac sacrifice fable, And the notice used to be is bound to go away readers profoundly moved.
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Additional info for And the Word Was
He is sitting up now, reaching for his turn at the pipe. Some go back to the whites and betray us. You did not betray us. William the Hat looks into his smoke. I am not half. You are half changed by your time with them, says the Indian. We should have stoned you. William pretends to snore, his smoke escaping his nose. After arranging the chips in the fire, the girl stands quickly and then stands too long, waiting for the word Go. The Indian takes her by the arm and feels its strength. My ankles hurt, says the girl.
I will pass through this country the way we used to, coming upon this and that, and then I will see Pa or at least a sister in the furs they surely still trade, and I will walk right up to them without the ado you are always having when you are away and there those bushes of blue will be. I will say that is all I am looking for, not them. The ground keeping up all that blue sky has about as much grass thick on it as the whiskers a young boy could shave. Or so it appears to me. My eyes still water from the thick smoke night after night inside the Indian’s sleeping house—my place was close to the fire, good for the heat, yes, but hard on the eyes.
Both start off close but split in the distance. I don’t try the soldiers’. You don’t night-steal and threaten a girl when the lazy life of a fort is your aim. I choose the old track and stop a few steps on, crane around and pull my skirt forward for a look. There is all this blood on the back. I am not cut or hurt. I find where it flows and wipe it with weed and wipe it again. I mind the blood but what am I to do? No one has shed it but myself. Going along way past the river, a heavy wagon gets involved in the old tracks and though I fear it is one that carries cannonballs the tracks run so deep, I lay my belief in it carrying cream, very heavy cream, and I follow it.