By Isaac Bashevis Singer
Meshugah, Singer's 3rd posthumous novel, is a magnificent paintings which the writer released serially in 1981 - eighty three. It matters Holocaust survivors in ny within the early Nineteen Fifties. the tale is narrated by means of Aaron Greidinger, who reveals himself inextricably invloved with a gaggle of refugees at the higher West Side.
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Extra info for Meshugah
But she had apparently forgotten that she was holding something in it--a pencil that fell to the floor. Good-naturedly she scolded Max, "You didn't even introduce me! You are more rattled than I am. But I know who he is. " She spoke both to me and to herself. "I want you to know that I'm your greatest fan in the whole world. I read every word you write. In Warsaw I studied in a Yiddish school. We read every one of the Yiddish writers, every last one. They wanted me to speak a Lithuanian Yiddish, but I couldn't.
A whole world vanished forever, a rich culture," Max said. "Who will know a generation from now how the Jews of Eastern Europe lived, how they spoke, what they ate? " Priva asked. "I don't know," Max said. "I have a hundred things to do. " "Don't come back in the middle of the night. You wake me up and then I can't shut my eyes for the rest of the night. " "Maybe you'll think up a new invention. " "Don't joke, Max. " TWO WHEN THE ELEVATOR took us down, and as we walked along West End Avenue, Max took my arm.
Her mouth was too wide for her small face. She must have been in her late fifties, since she had survived the camps, but she looked younger. Her coal-black hair appeared to have been recently dyed. She wore a décolleté sleeveless black dress. She seemed to have dressed up for the occasion. She gave me a look of surprise and said, "Ah, you brought a guest. " She smiled and revealed a row of false teeth. In her left cheek a hint of a dimple showed. We walked through a long corridor. From the kitchen came the smell of roasted meat, garlic, fried onions, potatoes.