Olaf (once humiliated)
repeated tirelessly:
"I'm used to everything, including shit,
But I won’t take yours in my mouth!”
Edward Estlin Cummings.
Song of the Great Olaf
On morphine
Two and a half months after superbly trained North Korean divisions, equipped with Soviet and Chinese weapons, crossed the 38th parallel, invading South Korea - and, therefore, the last and most painful stage of the war in Korea began (and this happened on 25 June 1950), I attended Robert Treat College, a small institution in downtown Newark named after the city's founding father. In our family, I was the first to whom the prospect of higher education loomed. None of my cousins went beyond high school, and my father and his three brothers limited themselves to elementary school. “I’ve been making money since I was ten,” my father once told me. He was a butcher and owned a shop that sold kosher meat, and while I was in school, I rode my bicycle after school to deliver orders to his customers, except during the baseball season when I had to participate in district competitions as an outfielder for the school team. And literally from the day I left my father's butcher shop, where I worked a sixty-hour week from high school until I started college, that is, from January to September, literally from the day I began my studies at Treat College, my father began to panic about my supposedly inevitable death. Perhaps his fear had something to do with the war that the United States military, under a UN mandate, had just begun, rushing to support the efforts of the poorly trained and haphazardly armed South Korean army; Perhaps he was embarrassed by the heavy losses that our troops suffered under the onslaught of the communist aggressor, and the thought that if the war in Korea dragged on like World War II, I would be drafted into the army and I would certainly fall on the Korean battlefield, as my cousins did brothers Abe and Dave in battles against Nazism. But it is also possible that his fear had a purely economic reason: a year earlier, the first supermarket in the entire area had opened just a couple of blocks from us, and sales at our kosher store had dropped significantly - partly because the meat department of the supermarket was clearly dumping, and partly and due to the fact that the general post-war decline in morals has led many families to abandon kosher housekeeping, and therefore from purchasing beef and chickens from a shop certified by the Board of Rabbis, the owner of which is a full member of the Butchers and Kosher Meat Dealers Association of New Jersey . Or, which is quite possible, he developed fear for me out of fear for himself, because at fifty, this stocky little man, who had been in excellent health all his life, began to cough desperately, which, although quite alarming to my mother, nevertheless did not motivate him to give up smoking cigarette after cigarette almost around the clock. Whatever the reason (or combination of reasons) for the fear that gripped him, my father, who had until then been a more than indulgent parent, suddenly began to pursue me day and night with questions about my whereabouts and pastimes. Where have you been? Why weren't you at home? How do I know where you hang out if you're not at home? There are such wonderful prospects opening up before you, so how do I know that you haven’t taken it into your head to go somewhere where you will certainly be killed?
The questions were laughable because, while in high school, I had proven myself to be an intelligent, responsible, even cautious, and hard-working young man. A high school student who only hangs out with the most decent girls; passionate member of the Argumentative Club; a more than useful outfielder for the school's baseball team; a young man who happily exists within the boundaries of the norms prescribed for someone like him by school, home and the entire community. The questions were at the same time insulting: it looked as if the father whom I loved and under whose supervision I grew up in the shop suddenly ceased to understand who - or what - he gave birth to. And let the customers amuse his (and his wife’s) ears with conversations about how lucky it was that the same little boy to whom they once certainly brought a piece of pie from home, and he, a little shooter, played with his parents’ blessing at “a real butcher” , spreading out bars of beef fat with a dull knife - what a blessing that this same boy, who grew up before their eyes, has now turned into a well-mannered young man who speaks impeccable English, who minces the meat, and sweeps the floor, and is not lazy to pluck out the last feathers from the chickens hanging on hooks, as soon as the father orders him: “Pick up, Marik, a couple of good chickens for Mrs. So-and-so!” And in the seven months that remained at the meat shop before I went to college, I learned more than just the meat grinder and plucking the last feathers. My father taught me how to cut up a lamb and chop the chops on the bone so that there was leftover for lamb on the ribs, and when I learned this wisdom, it came to meat trimmings. And he taught me kindly and naturally. “Just make sure you don’t cut yourself,” he told me, “and everything will be fine.” He told me how to properly behave with the most picky customers - especially those who, before making a purchase, inspect and sniff the meat from all sides and, for example, force you to hold a chicken so that a nice woman could literally look into her tail - look in and make sure that it is, of course, clean. “It’s hard to even imagine what a seller has to go through before such a person decides to buy a chicken,” he told me. And then he mimicked the customer: “Turn her over!” I said: turn it over! Let me look in the tail!” My daily duties included not only plucking the chicken, but also gutting it: splitting its tail, inserting my hand into the cut, hooking the giblets and pulling them out; and I couldn’t stand this. A disgusting task, truly nauseating, but, alas, inevitable. This was my father’s main lesson (and I liked it): do what you must, and come what may.
Our store overlooked Lyons Avenue in Newark, just one block from the Jewish Hospital, and the window was lined with crushed ice, which the local ice cream man sold to us from his van. We laid out the meat on ice, so that passers-by, even those not going to the meat shop, could admire our product right from the sidewalk. In seven months of a sixty-hour work week, I had to do that too. “Mark is a real artist,” my father said to people who were interested in the meat exhibition I created. I approached this with my soul. I laid out steaks, laid out chickens, I laid out whole legs of lamb - the entire assortment of our shop became material for the embodiment of my “creative” impulses. I decorated the meat and poultry in the display case with ferns, which I bought at the flower shop across the street from the hospital. And I not only cut, minced and sold meat and not only put it on display; During these seven months, while I was replacing my mother as a junior salesman, my father and I went early in the morning to the wholesale market, where he taught me not to sell, but to buy. My father went there once a week - at five in the morning, at the latest at half past five - because this way we saved on delivery. We bought a quarter of beef, a forequarter of a lamb for chops, a whole calf, a certain amount of beef liver, chickens and chicken livers, and even brains, since our regular clientele included a couple of brain hunters. Our shop opened at seven in the morning, and we worked until seven, or even eight in the evening. I was seventeen years old, I had a lot of strength and energy, but by five in the evening I was already falling off my feet. And my father tirelessly hoisted hundred-pound quarters onto his shoulders, dragged them into the refrigerated room and hooked them on hooks. And he immediately began to wield different-sized knives and an ax, fulfilling orders until seven in the evening, when I was already half dead from fatigue. But before leaving home, I still had to wash the cutting tables, sprinkle them with sawdust, polish them with an iron brush and, with the last of my strength, wipe and scrape off the blood stains so that our shop would remain kosher.
Outrage Philip Roth
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Title: Outrage
"Indignation" is a novel about the young idealist Marcus Messner. The hero of the book is a modest young man from a Jewish family. As he enters college, he struggles with anti-Semitism, inequality, and sexual repression. The struggle for ideals bears fruit, but a series of mistakes cancel out all the efforts of the hero.
The author of the novel is the classic of American literature Philip Roth. The famous writer created more than 25 works, many of which became bestsellers. The author received several prestigious awards for his work. He is the first writer to be awarded the William Faulkner Prize three times. Victory over his rivals was ensured by his books “Operation Shylock”, “The Human Brand” and “An Ordinary Man”.
In 1998, Philip Roth won the Pulitzer Prize. In 2013, the writer was awarded the most prestigious award in France - the Order of the Legion of Honor. In addition, one of the squares in the writer’s hometown is named in his honor.
The novel "Indignation" takes place around Marcus Messner in 1951. The hero grew up in a simple Jewish family. He is a modest, quiet and smart guy - an excellent student who never gets into a fight. Like all his relatives, his father works as a butcher. Marcus's dad is worried about the fate of his son, because the Korean War is in full swing. To prevent a young man from being drafted into the service, he needs to enroll in a university. Fortunately, Marcus was selected to one of America's conservative colleges.
Marcus may become the first in his family to receive a higher education. The average working-class person sees college as a long-awaited freedom. Here he can become independent and choose his own path without parental pressure.
But the hopes of the hero of the novel “Indignation” were not justified. His roommates turned out to be overly religious young men. In addition, he is forced to join the Jewish community. The character faces intolerance and emotional pressure. At college his freedom is even more limited than at home.
Olivia Hutton becomes Marcus's salvation. A beautiful, smart and freedom-loving girl gives him hope again. She shares his views, even if they seem abnormal to others. Although the hero's family does not maintain a relationship with Olivia, Marcus is not going to back down. He is madly in love and confident in his choice.
Together the characters fight against the fading conservatism of the 50s. Their ideals become the engine of progress that will change the destiny of America forever. In parallel, Philip Roth reveals the theme of war and peace. "Indignation" talks about the fighting in Korea and the role of the Americans during this difficult period.
Philip Roth
Disturbance
Olaf (once humiliated)
repeated tirelessly:
"I'm used to everything, including shit,
But I won’t take yours in my mouth!”
Edward Estlin Cummings. Song of the Great Olaf
On morphine
Two and a half months after superbly trained North Korean divisions, equipped with Soviet and Chinese weapons, crossed the 38th parallel, invading South Korea - and, therefore, the last and most painful stage of the war in Korea began (and this happened on 25 June 1950), I attended Robert Treat College, a small institution in downtown Newark named after the city's founding father. In our family, I was the first to whom the prospect of higher education loomed. None of my cousins went beyond high school, and my father and his three brothers limited themselves to elementary school. “I’ve been making money since I was ten,” my father once told me. He was a butcher and owned a shop that sold kosher meat, and while I was in school, I rode my bicycle after school to deliver orders to his customers, except during the baseball season when I had to participate in district competitions as an outfielder for the school team. And literally from the day I left my father's butcher shop, where I worked a sixty-hour week from high school until I started college, that is, from January to September, literally from the day I began my studies at Treat College, my father began to panic about my supposedly inevitable death. Perhaps his fear had something to do with the war that the United States military, under a UN mandate, had just begun, rushing to support the efforts of the poorly trained and haphazardly armed South Korean army; Perhaps he was embarrassed by the heavy losses that our troops suffered under the onslaught of the communist aggressor, and the thought that if the war in Korea dragged on like World War II, I would be drafted into the army and I would certainly fall on the Korean battlefield, as my cousins did brothers Abe and Dave in battles against Nazism. But it is also possible that his fear had a purely economic reason: a year earlier, the first supermarket in the entire area had opened just a couple of blocks from us, and sales at our kosher store had dropped significantly - partly because the meat department of the supermarket was clearly dumping, and partly and due to the fact that the general post-war decline in morals has led many families to abandon kosher housekeeping, and therefore from purchasing beef and chickens from a shop certified by the Board of Rabbis, the owner of which is a full member of the Butchers and Kosher Meat Dealers Association of New Jersey . Or, which is quite possible, he developed fear for me out of fear for himself, because at fifty, this stocky little man, who had been in excellent health all his life, began to cough desperately, which, although quite alarming to my mother, nevertheless did not motivate him to give up smoking cigarette after cigarette almost around the clock. Whatever the reason (or combination of reasons) for the fear that gripped him, my father, who had until then been a more than indulgent parent, suddenly began to pursue me day and night with questions about my whereabouts and pastimes. Where have you been? Why weren't you at home? How do I know where you hang out if you're not at home? There are such wonderful prospects opening up before you, so how do I know that you haven’t taken it into your head to go somewhere where you will certainly be killed?
The questions were laughable because, while in high school, I had proven myself to be an intelligent, responsible, even cautious, and hard-working young man. A high school student who only hangs out with the most decent girls; passionate member of the Argumentative Club; a more than useful outfielder for the school's baseball team; a young man who happily exists within the boundaries of the norms prescribed for someone like him by school, home and the entire community. The questions were at the same time insulting: it looked as if the father whom I loved and under whose supervision I grew up in the shop suddenly ceased to understand who - or what - he gave birth to. And let the customers amuse his (and his wife’s) ears with conversations about how lucky it was that the same little boy to whom they once certainly brought a piece of pie from home, and he, a little shooter, played with his parents’ blessing at “a real butcher” , spreading out bars of beef fat with a dull knife - what a blessing that this same boy, who grew up before their eyes, has now turned into a well-mannered young man who speaks impeccable English, who minces the meat, and sweeps the floor, and is not lazy to pluck out the last feathers from the chickens hanging on hooks, as soon as the father orders him: “Pick up, Marik, a couple of good chickens for Mrs. So-and-so!” And in the seven months that remained at the meat shop before I went to college, I learned more than just the meat grinder and plucking the last feathers. My father taught me how to cut up a lamb and chop the chops on the bone so that there was leftover for lamb on the ribs, and when I learned this wisdom, it came to meat trimmings. And he taught me kindly and naturally. “Just make sure you don’t cut yourself,” he told me, “and everything will be fine.” He told me how to properly behave with the most picky customers - especially those who, before making a purchase, inspect and sniff the meat from all sides and, for example, force you to hold a chicken so that a nice woman could literally look into her tail - look in and make sure that it is, of course, clean. “It’s hard to even imagine what a seller has to go through before such a person decides to buy a chicken,” he told me. And then he mimicked the customer: “Turn her over!” I said: turn it over! Let me look in the tail!” My daily duties included not only plucking the chicken, but also gutting it: splitting its tail, inserting my hand into the cut, hooking the giblets and pulling them out; and I couldn’t stand this. A disgusting task, truly nauseating, but, alas, inevitable. This was my father’s main lesson (and I liked it): do what you must, and come what may.
Our store overlooked Lyons Avenue in Newark, just one block from the Jewish Hospital, and the window was lined with crushed ice, which the local ice cream man sold to us from his van. We laid out the meat on ice, so that passers-by, even those not going to the meat shop, could admire our product right from the sidewalk. In seven months of a sixty-hour work week, I had to do that too. “Mark is a real artist,” my father said to people who were interested in the meat exhibition I created. I approached this with my soul. I laid out steaks, laid out chickens, I laid out whole legs of lamb - the entire assortment of our shop became material for the embodiment of my “creative” impulses. I decorated the meat and poultry in the display case with ferns, which I bought at the flower shop across the street from the hospital. And I not only cut, minced and sold meat and not only put it on display; During these seven months, while I was replacing my mother as a junior salesman, my father and I went early in the morning to the wholesale market, where he taught me not to sell, but to buy. My father went there once a week - at five in the morning, at the latest at half past five - because this way we saved on delivery. We bought a quarter of beef, a forequarter of a lamb for chops, a whole calf, a certain amount of beef liver, chickens and chicken livers, and even brains, since our regular clientele included a couple of brain hunters. Our shop opened at seven in the morning, and we worked until seven, or even eight in the evening. I was seventeen years old, I had a lot of strength and energy, but by five in the evening I was already falling off my feet. And my father tirelessly hoisted hundred-pound quarters onto his shoulders, dragged them into the refrigerated room and hooked them on hooks. And he immediately began to wield different-sized knives and an ax, fulfilling orders until seven in the evening, when I was already half dead from fatigue. But before leaving home, I still had to wash the cutting tables, sprinkle them with sawdust, polish them with an iron brush and, with the last of my strength, wipe and scrape off the blood stains so that our shop would remain kosher.
When I look back on these seven months, they seem simply wonderful to me, if you forget, of course, about the duty associated with gutting the chickens. And she was, in her own way, wonderful, like any thing that needs to be done, and done well, and then come what may. So this work served as a kind of lesson for me. But I loved to study, and learning was never enough for me! And I also loved my father, and he loved me; both me and him - like never before. In the shop I cooked for two people - for him and for myself. Yes, we not only ate in the shop, we also cooked in it: in the utility room next to Myasnitskaya we had a small brazier. I cooked chicken livers on it, cooked flank steaks, and never before have we had so much fun together. But very little time passed, and we entered into a sluggish war of complete extermination. Where have you been? Why weren't you at home? How do I know where you hang around if you're not at home? There are such wonderful prospects opening up before you, so how do I know that you haven’t taken it into your head to go somewhere where you will certainly be killed?
| Author | Book | Description | Year | Price | Book type |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Philip Roth | Philip Roth is a recognized classic of American literature. He is the only writer to have been awarded the William Faulkner Prize three times, he is also the winner of the Pulitzer Prize and many others... - Amphora, (format: 75x100/32, 224 pp.) Lenizdat-classics | 2012 | 89 | paper book | |
| Philip Roth | Philip Roth is a recognized classic of American literature. He is the only writer to have been awarded the William Faulkner Prize three times, he is also the winner of the Pulitzer Prize and many others... - AMPHORA, (format: 75x100/32, 223 pp.) More than 20 | 2012 | 74 | paper book | |
| Roth F. | Philip Roth is a recognized classic of American literature. He is the only writer to have been awarded the William Faulkner Prize three times; he is also the winner of the Pulitzer Prize and many others... - Leningrad Publishing House (Lenizdat), Lenizdat-classics | 2012 | 109 | paper book | |
| Philip Roth | The most absurd and insignificant accident can give a tragic turn to human destiny. So, a series of mistakes, imperceptible at first glance, plunged young Mark into the bloody chaos of the Korean War... - Amphora, (format: 84x108/32, 240 pp.) | 2008 | 230 | paper book | |
| Roth Philip | 2008 | 378 | paper book | ||
| Roth Philip | Philip Roth (b. 1933) is a recognized classic of American literature. This is the only writer to be awarded the William Faulkner Prize three times: in 1994 - for Operation Shylock, in 2001 - for Human... - Amphora, | 2008 | 428 | paper book | |
| Philip Roth | From the publisher: Philip Roth is a recognized classic of American literature. He is the only writer to have been awarded the William Faulkner Prize three times, he is also a Pulitzer Prize winner and... - (format: 75x100/32 (120x185mm), 224pp.) Lenizdat-classics | 2012 | 60 | paper book | |
| Nal Podolsky | Disturbance of the ashes | The novel "Disturbance of the Ashes" is written in the form of an action-packed fantasy detective story. The main character of the novel, a former detective fired from the criminal investigation department, is invited to work as the head of the service... - ABC, Terra-Book Club, (format: 84x104/32, 480 pp.) ABC Thriller | 1996 | 140 | paper book |
| Syrtsov | The indignation of the Solovetsky Old Believers monks in the 17th century / [Oc.] I. Ya. Syrtsova U 271/155 801-86/11063-7: Kazan: type. Univ., 1880 (reg. 1881): [Op.] I. Ya. Syrtsova Reproduced in the original ... - Book on Demand, | 1880 | 2036 | paper book | |
| Percy Shelley | Outrage of Islam | “The Outrage of Islam” is a work by one of the greatest English romantic poets of the 19th century, P. Shelley (1792 - 1822).*** The poem was written in 1817. It was translated into Russian by K. Balmont. The genre of the poem... - Strelbitsky Multimedia Publishing House, (format: 84x104/32, 480 pp.) e-book | 59.9 | eBook | |
| Syrtsov | The indignation of the Solovetsky Old Believers monks in the 17th century | The indignation of the Solovetsky Old Believers monks in the 17th century / Op. I. Ya. Syrtsova U 271/155 801-86/11063-7: Kazan: typ. Univ., 1880 (reg. 1881): Op. I. Ya. Syrtsova Reproduced in the original author... - Book on Demand, (format: 75x100/32, 223 pp.) | 2634 | paper book | |
| Syrtsov I.Ya. | The indignation of the Solovetsky Old Believers monks in the 17th century. 2nd revision ed. | The book is a reprint of 1889. Despite the fact that serious work has been done to restore the original quality of the publication, some pages may... - Book on Demand, | 1889 | 2003 | paper book |
| AND I. Syrtsov | The indignation of the Solovetsky Old Believers monks in the 17th century | - Library collection, e-book | 1888 | eBook |
I expected very, very much from my acquaintance with the work of Philip Roth. Judging by the reviews of people I highly respect, I was about to meet with a writer who was not just good, but outstanding, extraordinary. And perhaps because of this anticipation, because of my sky-high hopes, the beginning of the book somewhat discouraged me. Well, yes - not bad, colorful, tasty, but where is the catharsis, where is the promised moment of truth? As it turned out, my worries were in vain: Philip Roth turned out to be one of those writers who take a long time to harness, but go very quickly. And very far away. I began to lose my breath closer to the middle, and the appearance on stage of the brilliant Bertrand Russell simply amazed me. Everything against which the indignant mind of the author and his hero seethed, which ultimately led to the latter’s death - hypocrisy, vulgarity, hypocrisy, religious fanaticism - all this should not, cannot, leave any decent person indifferent. These ashes must knock on our hearts. Personally, I found the author’s views on war and peace, on human dignity, on life and death very, very close and sympathetic. And of course, how amazingly he presented everything, with what plasticity and grace he sculpted his text, with what living, poetic words he filled it with, cannot but delight and delight. Therefore, I partly disagree with previous reviews. Fate, fate? Undoubtedly. Freedom of choice? Yes too. But these are the details, the particulars that make up the whole. First of all, this book is a reservoir of inspiration, a magnificent artistic canvas on which everyone will find what their soul needs.
Pomerantsev Dmitry 0
As almost always with Roth - very passionate, very strong and very bitter. There is a lot of dirt and blood in this book, which, however, in no way means that the novel is bad; dirt and blood here are by no means an end in themselves, but only a background, only a starting point for understanding what human life can be - and how it will end. And, of course, it is worth noting the highest level of humanism. Tragic humanism, of course, but the most real, genuine one. It’s amazing that at 75 years old you can write like this. However, I allow myself to disagree with the author of the previous review on some points. “Indignation” is not a tragedy of true freedom of choice (however, this motive is also present here), but still, to a greater extent, it is a tragedy of fate; human tragedy in the arena of history. At first, apparently, there may even be a feeling that the novel is too straightforward: the correlation between the historical background (Korean War) and the private life of the main character declares itself literally from the first line; the madness of Mark's father, the haunting thoughts of his son's inevitable death - we understand that this is how it will all end. The main character himself is well aware that if he flies out of college and ends up in Korea, he will be killed. However, everything is moving exactly towards this. Rock - as in an ancient tragedy, inevitable, inescapable, albeit conscious. An archetypal motif for European literature, revealed by Roth with rare skill and relevance. And perhaps this is why the image of the snowfall that “provoked” riots in college, appearing at the end of the novel, is so fascinating - also an almost irrational manifestation of the forces that rule the world. And after reading it, you involuntarily think - in what style was “Indignation” written? What is this - realism? Modernism? Postmodernism? Don't know. Just not realism. And the masterstroke, when the main character - after a mortal wound, under morphine - remembers his life essentially from the other world and actually recognizes his own death (although it has not yet come) - only confirms this. However, it's not a matter of direction. Like any great writer, Roth is higher and more original than any conventions in literature.
Parfenov Alexander 0
Monstrous and inscrutable are the ways in which small, banal, often ridiculous actions and decisions turn into tragically disproportionate results. The life story of a young man who refuses to submit to hypocrisy and conformism, challenging hypocrisy and cowardice. Roth's favorite theme is true freedom of choice, which does not contradict the conscience and morality of the individual, but leads to fatal consequences. This book resonates with another work by Roth - “The Brand”, with an equally exciting and provocative plot. Masterfully written intellectual prose.
