And the Sea Is Never Full (17 page)

I give biblical, midrashic, Hasidic lectures. I teach the Book of Job: the Jewishness and non-Jewishness of the character. The role played by Satan. The tragedy of Job’s wife, his children’s death, his betrayal by his friends. Where is God in all this? And the absurd, inconceivable end: Job, once again, the head of a large family? Are we to believe that he will regain his happiness? And what about his children: How do they cope with their predicament? Do they know that they are but successors, surrogates?

The Besht and his disciples. The place Hasidism assigns to exuberance, to friendship, to stories. The Besht or the value of simplicity in human relations. The Besht and the victory over anonymity. The Besht and the quest for meaning.

The great Masters: the wisdom of Rebbe Pinhas of Koretz, the wrath of Rebbe Mendel of Kotzk, the anguish of Rebbe Bunam of Pshiskhe. Every student has his favorite Master. As for me, I love them all.

We embark on the comparative study of ancient texts describing the deaths of the great Masters—of Moses, Socrates, Buddha, Jesus, Muhammad, as well as Giordano Bruno. Might Sylvia Plath be right? Is there an art to preparing oneself for death? Is there a death that is anything but solitary?

There are countless other themes: friendship in ancient and modern times, fervor and madness, faith and rebellion in literature, the complex relationships between Masters and disciples from antiquity on, attitudes toward evil and suffering: indifference or empathy, resignation or rebellion, active despair or passive despondency, the dehumanization of the executioner as opposed to the humanity of the victim. Can evil ever be transformed into virtue? Does suffering ever
lead to redemption? We delve into ancient and modern texts. We explore Babylonian literature and the Book of Proverbs.

And then there is my passion for Kafka: Kafka and Aesop, Kafka and theology, Kafka and psychology, Kafka and politics, Kafka the literary figure, Kafka the philosopher, Kafka and women, Kafka and the Jews. An unexpected consequence of my passion for Kafka: The Saudi daily
Al sharq al-Awsat
accuses me—in 1993—of taking part in a conspiracy with Max Brod, who, sadly but unbeknownst to them, has been dead for quite a few decades, a conspiracy that, it claims, aims to conceal the alleged anti-Zionist leanings of the Prague author and to portray him as a fervent Jewish nationalist.

We explore suicide in literature. We evoke King Saul, a man as obsessed by death as David is by life, and Seneca, who understood, as he watched the procession of Jewish warriors, prisoners of Rome, that the spirits of the defeated were higher than those of the victors. We study
Anna Karenina
, works by Stefan Zweig, Anne Sexton, Arthur Koestler, and Primo Levi. We probe the subject of death as temptation, seduction, or escape.

We find enchantment in the universe of Rebbe Nahman of Bratzlav. Enthralled we read his stories, follow him in his journeys. Princes and madmen, lost princesses and raving beggars: How is one to resist them? Each tale contains others, creating concentric circles whose fixed center is the deepest core of man, the individual self at the heart of the collective self, the memory of memory. In all these tales we deal with human beings, not specifically with Jews—haunted creatures looking for one another, for themselves in others; survivors of disasters; messengers and beggars; vagrant children with princely pasts. All of them are searching for love.

In his tale “The Seven Beggars,” we find this beautiful passage:

Rebbe Nahman becomes our friend, our support, our Master. Sometimes we take an entire semester to analyze a single tale. That is because I am still influenced by Shushani.
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Rebbe Nathan of Nemirov’s account of Rebbe Nahman’s death moves us to tears. At the end of the school year I invoke Rebbe Nahman’s protection for my students. On a trip to Uman in the Ukraine to visit his tomb, I implore his intercession for my family and for the people of Israel, with, again, a special plea on behalf of my students.

I find great satisfaction in being there for the graduate students whose doctoral theses I supervise. Among them are Rabbi Nehemia Polen’s work on the “holy fire” of a Hasidic Master killed by the Nazis; Alan Rosen’s essay on “The Theme of Catastrophe” in Shakespeare; Janet McCord’s thesis on the suicides of writers who were Holocaust survivors; the Jesuit priest Jean-François Thomas’s analysis of the work of Edith Stein; Joe Kanofsky’s analysis of Rebbe Nahman’s influence on Kafka; Yosef Wosk’s work on the Midrash; Marilyn Feingold’s study of problems in contemporary education. And my longtime friend Yossi Ciechanover’s “Suicide in Rabbinical Law,” which he started under Saul Lieberman and finished under my aegis.

Shortly after my arrival in Boston, I learned that Dr. Silber was controversial among certain members of the faculty who resented his “authoritarian” methods. I deliberately stayed out of this conflict. My attitude was a result of my New York experience: To please Yitz Greenberg, I had agreed to chair the executive committee of our department, though I had warned him that I would never vote against anyone. If any candidate hoped to obtain a post or a promotion, at least one vote—mine—would be his from the outset. Yitz thought I was joking, but by year’s end he released me from this duty, to the great joy of the other committee members.

In the more than twenty years I have spent at Boston University, I have attended only one plenary meeting of the academic body. I did so at Silber’s request: “My opponents,” he told me, “are going to propose a motion of censure against me. And it will pass. Their arguments will be in bad faith, lies. That doesn’t bother me: My position is not in jeopardy, I have the Board’s support. What does upset me, what revolts me, is that they are also accusing me of anti-Semitism.”

The meeting was stormy, spiteful. It may have been academic, but it was hardly intellectual. One after the other, professors took the microphone to accuse their president of being, in turn, Genghis Khan, Torquemada, and Stalin. When my turn came, I told them: “I left City College for this university because John Silber is its president. Today I learn from rumors that he stands accused of anti-Semitism. If that is true, let someone prove it, and I shall hand in my resignation on the spot. I shall never serve here or anywhere under the authority of an anti-Semite.” The faculty did vote on a motion of censure, but there were no more references to John as an anti-Semite.

When John Silber retired as president, he was succeeded by Jon Westling, a Rhodes Scholar who shares his passion for excellence. As chancellor, Dr. Silber continues to be actively involved in the affairs of the university.

In early 1980 I am invited to Yale as a visiting professor by its legendary president, Bart Giamatti. I suspect he knows nothing of my misadventure with his institution some fifteen years before. But I remember. And so I accept his offer. First of all, Yale tempts me for the old reason: How many yeshiva students from Sighet … Secondly, I still feel guilty toward Yale; I remember that as I accepted a doctorate
honoris causa
from the university, the then president had said to me: “Come join us, help us learn.”

Together with the dean of humanities, Peter Brooks, and his colleague Geoffrey Hartman, both professors of English literature, we establish my program: a weekly course per semester—twenty students at most—and a monthly course for faculty members.

For the first course I choose the topic: “Faith and Rebellion in Ancient and Modern Literature.” For the second I decide on the Book of Job. I know this book inside out. After all, I expounded on it for two years on French television.

Peter and his colleagues try to convince me to admit at least fifty students to the first course. Stubbornly I refuse, telling them that in
order to work seriously it is vital for the students and their professor to keep the class small.

On the eve of my first class at Yale, I spend the night in New Haven, to take in the ambiance. At the suggestion of Peter Brooks, Geoffrey Hartman makes a final plea. Why turn away students who want to learn? I hold to my refusal.

The next day I visit the hall where my lecture is to take place. It is huge, frightening, profoundly empty. My assistant, a young doctoral student, reassures me: “It’s always like this: The students come in large groups to do their ‘shopping,’ to size things up. Then they may go elsewhere.”

I go out for coffee and come back five minutes before the hour. I almost faint; the hall is still empty. Anxious, I run to the bathroom to wet my face. I think of how ridiculous I will look. After all my talk about wanting “only” twenty students, I will be left with one: my assistant. I linger at the sink and hesitantly return to the big room. Did I take a wrong turn? The room is packed. It is impossible to get in. I ask a student: “What course is this?” He bursts out laughing, “Why it’s yours.”

There are now three hundred students waiting for me. I panic. What am I going to do? I beg them to leave. I spell out the details of my arrangement with the administration. In vain I warn them, I threaten them—the course will be difficult, demanding. They will have to read two books a week and write as many papers. They will have to write a major essay each semester. But they are not to be deterred.

Astonishingly, the Yale experience turns out to be one of the most stimulating and fruitful of my academic career.

The faculty seminar also provides a few surprises. I was counting on a simple run with no ambushes. After all, I know the Book of Job better than my own books. What I didn’t know was that Marvin Pope, one of the world’s greatest experts on Job, was teaching at Yale. As for Bill Hallo, another professor, he is well known for his work on Babylonian and Sumerian sources. In fact, he shows me the connections between Job and the texts on the “Suffering Righteous.” And so I find myself every month having to work harder than ever to lecture before this unreasonably talented, erudite audience.

I go on teaching—I’ll go on to the end. I have taught courses at Florida International University; at Eckerd College, also in Florida; and lectured at various American universities large and small. It is my
vocation just as much as writing. The writer in me is a teacher, the teacher in me a writer. What is important is the ability to transmit, to have something to transmit, to have someone to transmit to.

My major problem with teaching in Boston has to do with distance: an hour by plane. And the weather: In winter, flights are often affected by snow. Delays then become intolerable. The train? Five hours each way. Too much, too tiring. Perhaps I should try to find a position closer to home? Closer? Why not in New York? An incredible opportunity presents itself. John Sawhill, president of New York University, informs me that a mutual friend has offered to underwrite a chair if I agree to occupy it. The terms are excellent, better than those at Boston—higher compensation, fewer teaching hours. There will be no more grueling trips, no more worries about the weather. I could be in class in ten minutes. And best of all, the university would provide us with an extraordinary place to live, the kind Marion loves—a town-house in a Greenwich Village mews. A document is drawn up. All we have to do is sign it. But how am I going to tell John Silber?

We develop a strategy: I’ll see John and explain to him that, contrary to what we had anticipated, and in spite of my promise, family reasons prevent me from moving to Boston. Considering that I hold the Mellon Chair at Boston University, it would seem inappropriate for me to continue living in New York indefinitely. Surely he would agree that this was a problem. Rather than prolong the situation, shouldn’t we confront it now? Thus we would part as friends. What could he possibly say? At that point I would call Marion from the corner telephone booth to give her the green light. She would inform Sawhill, and then everything would fall into place.

The following Monday I knock at Silber’s door. Despite being busier than many heads of state, he has agreed to see me. I tell him that I have a serious problem and in a few words bring him up to date. As wily as the king of foxes, he eyes me silently and then, surely thinking he’ll please me, cuts me off: “No problem, I’ll rewrite our contract. If I must choose between one day a week and nothing at all, I’ll take one day a week.” Though he has just pulled the rug from under my feet, he is surely awaiting a sign of gratitude.

Calling from a telephone booth, I tell Marion: “I couldn’t disappoint him. You understand….” No house in the mews, no short commute—I am staying where I am.

To this day John Silber does not know what our friendship cost me.

But I hope he knows how much it has brought me.

On December 29, 1994, John’s son David dies of AIDS. I knew him. Earnest, delicate, a good listener, he spoke little and radiated tenderness. His parents adored him; his many sisters loved him. He worked in the theater, mostly off-Broadway. There was the promise of a luminous future.

His funeral draws a huge crowd. There are moving words from those who knew him well. His father gives the eulogy, and it is shattering. Every speaker adds an image, a shade to David’s portrait: the child, the adolescent, the dreamer. Nobody knew he had been so strong, nor so vulnerable. Even those who knew him best did not know him well enough. He had a gift for laughter—and love.