What To Read This Fall

As I embark on this, my seventeenth year of writing weekly on matters close to my heart (and, I hope, also to yours), I’d like to talk about three books I’ve read over the holiday season that affected me in different ways.

The first is David Baddiel’s Jews Don’t Count, a remarkable volume published earlier this year by TLS Books in London. The author, whose name was unknown to me before reading the book, is apparently a well-known British comedian. (He was actually born in Troy, New York, in 1964, but has basically lived his entire life in the U.K.) But this book is not at all funny. Just the opposite, actually: it is 123 pages of very angry prose directed at a world that simply refuses to take anti-Semitism seriously as a form of pernicious racism. Mostly, his fire is aimed at progressives and liberals. But although there is more than enough ammunition left over for him also to take aim at right-of-center groups and conservatives, he’s particularly enraged at people on the left for whom the slightly hint of racism or bigotry is intolerable, yet who seem more than able to tolerate even overtly-stated, ham-fisted anti-Semitic remarks without reacting even slightly negatively, let alone with real revulsion or even feigned outrage.

Even though the book itself is really just an extended (a very extended) essay on the topic, the author has more than enough ammunition at the ready to buttress his point. Over and over he cites instances of public figures, including A-list celebrities, making overt or allusive anti-Semitic comments without facing any sort of public censure, let alone being “cancelled” in the way people who make openly disparaging remarks about other minority groups become personae non gratae overnight and are, at least in some cases, never heard from again. Some of the people he quotes will be familiar to American readers, but others will not be. Nonetheless, his analysis of the reason the comments those personalities are cited as having made are more than tolerated by the liberal public—for the most part because speaking negatively about Jewish people, Jewishness, or Judaism is somehow legitimized with reference to some specific ethnos-wide character trait that people can legitimately use as a rational basis for hate—will be familiar to any Jewish reader who lives out there in the world, who reads a daily newspaper, or who spends time wandering around in the blogosphere.

The author draws an interesting portrait of himself. He declares himself not to be a Zionist, which I take to mean that he has neither any specific interest in the fate of the State of Israel or sense of a personal stake in its wellbeing. So that puts him outside the camp in which an overwhelming majority of Jewish people I know live. And the author also self-defines as an atheist with no specific allegiance to Jewish ritual or belief, thus putting him even further outside the ranks of the kind of Jewish people who occupy the world I personally inhabit. In many ways, his prose made me think of him as the latter-day version of those German Jews in the 1930s who were so busy being German that they were amazed that the Nazis considered them to be part of the Jewish problem at all. (There’s a certain irony in that thought too, given that Baddiel’s grandparents fled Nazi Germany.) Perhaps that lack of connection to traditional Jewish values or beliefs and his disconnection from Israel is what fuels his rage—he (and so many like him) see themselves as having done nothing to offend, as holding no beliefs that set them apart from the British mainstream, as being as properly ill at ease regarding Israel’s vigorous efforts to defend itself—so how dare the world refuse to censure, or let alone to cancel, people who are overtly anti-Semitic in the way those very same people would never dream of tolerating homophobic or anti-Black racist comments!

I recommend the book strongly, despite all of the above comments. It is a short read, but a forceful, dynamic statement that readers on this side of the Atlantic will have no trouble translating into local terms. It is upsetting, and in a dozen different ways. But that only makes it more, not less, important and worth your time to find and read.

The second book I’d like to write about today is Dara Horn’s People Love Dead Jews, published this summer by W.W. Norton. The author, born in New Jersey in 1977, has taught at Sara Lawrence and at CUNY. Some of my readers will know her work from essays published in The Atlantic and the New York Times. And she has written five novels, mostly recently A Guide for the Perplexed in 2013 and Eternal Life in 2018. People Love Dead Jews is her first book-length work of non-fiction.

The book itself, about 100 pages longer than Baddiel’s, is also about anti-Semitism, but is written in an entirely different key—one given away subtly by the book’s subtitle, Reports from a Haunted Present. And, indeed, the book’s twelve chapters, while all discrete essays that can be read separately and without reference to each other, are also all rooted in the same soil: the author’s slow, eventual understanding and coming to terms with the fact that most of the way the world thinks about Jews—and, even more to the point, the way Jews think about the way the world thinks about Jews—are floating along somewhere between dishonest and disingenuous. Her opening chapter, for example, about Anne Frank points out that the great success of her diary rests to a great extent on the endlessly cited passage in which Anne, still hiding in the Achterhuis and hoping to live to adulthood in a liberated Holland, writes that she still believes, “in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.” She surely changed her mind when she got first to Auschwitz and then to Bergen-Belsen, where she and her sister Margot died in the spring of 1945. But that detail, unpalatable to those who wish to see Anne not as a murdered Jewish child but as an apostle of universalist optimism, is generally ignored. And so, to address that issue specifically, Horn provides an obituary for an imaginary Anne who survived the camps and lived into her 90s, and who definitely did not end up thinking that all people, presumably including the guards at Auschwitz, are truly good at heart. It’s that kind of writing that will grab readers from the very beginning and keep them engaged to the end.

The three chapters devoted to the rising level of anti-Semitism in the United States should be required reading for all Americans, but particularly for Jewish Americans still living in their grandparents’ fantasy world regarding the impossibility of America ever engendering its own violent version of “real” anti-Semitism, the kind that moves quickly past quotas and sneers to actual violence, including the lethal kind that cost those poor people in Pittsburgh their lives one Shabbat morning in 2018. Yes, the book is uneven. The admittedly fascinating chapter about her trip to Harbin, China, is at least twice as long as it needed to be. The chapter about the recent Auschwitz exhibition at the Museum of Jewish Heritage is unfocused, the author’s point (at least to me) unclear. The chapter about The Merchant of Venice will leave most readers without university degrees in Shakespeare at least slightly confused. But the book itself is wonderful—thoughtful, intelligent, challenging, and stimulating. I recommend it to all without hesitation.

And the third book I want to recommend for my readers’ reading pleasure this fall is Noam Zion’s Sanctified Sex: The Two-Thousand-Year Jewish Debate on Marital Intimacy, published earlier this year by the Jewish Publication Society in Philadelphia. The other two books were short, perhaps even too short, but no one will say that about Zion’s book, which weighs in at almost 550 pages. But potential readers who allow themselves to be put off by the book’s size would be making a huge error of judgment—the book is long and complicated because its subject is complicated and the sources he cites, often at length, are many and complex. But the book itself is a true tour-de-force and deserves to be considered in that context.

Most readers, used to thinking of sex as something antithetical (or at least unrelated) to religious philosophy, will be amazed to learn how seriously rabbis writing over the last two millennia have taken the very same topics that engage moderns when the talk turns to intimate matters: the limits and boundaries of marital fidelity, the relationship of fantasy to reality in the healthy sexual context, the possibility of legitimate sexual liaisons outside of marriage, the relationship of homosexuality to heterosexuality (and, by extension, of gay people to straight people with respect to the legitimacy of their coupling), the precise nature of the obligation spouses bear to provide sexual satisfaction to each other, and the relationship of reproductive possibility to ongoing sexual activity in the absence of such possibility.

The book is organized chronologically with respect to the sources the author cites, but most readers will be far more impressed by the breadth and depth of the sources than by their relationship to each other chronologically. Many of the authors cited, particularly from the Haredi world, will be unknown to almost all readers. Only a tiny percentage of them wrote in any language other than Hebrew or Yiddish. An even smaller percentage have had their books or essays translated into other languages. As a result, reading Zion’s book is something like being ushered into an art gallery featuring works of great creativity and depth by painters you’re slightly amazed never to have heard of. (I include myself in that category, by the way: almost all the books, essays, and pamphlets cited in the 150-odd pages on Haredi authors were unknown to me.) But the breadth and depth of Noam Zion’s reading of these books, and his willingness—given the riven nature of the Jewish world, his truly remarkable willingness—to consider these men (all of them are men) and their writings in light of writing on the topic by my own colleagues in the Rabbinical Assembly, by authors affiliated with various Reform Jewish institutions, and (even more impressively) with feminist authors of various sorts, that is truly what makes of this book something that my own readers should think twice about not reading.

Noam Zion is a friend. His home in Jerusalem is just a few blocks from our apartment. His wife taught the Lamaze course Joan and I took when we were anticipating the birth of our first child. I mention all that merely to be fully transparent, but also so that I can also say that I would recommend his book this highly even if he and I were not acquainted personally. It is a magisterial work on a complex topic that all readers interested in Jewish thought and its relationship to practice will find fascinating.

And those are the three books I would like to recommend to you all as autumn reading you’ll enjoy and find stimulating and very interesting.