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Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer Rating: ••• (Recommended)
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Laughs Jonathan Safran Foer’s first novel, Everything is Illuminated, presents witty voices in creative ways that include great dialect. I confess that for the first thirty pages or so, I found myself resisting getting into the book, and was tempted to just put it aside and read something else. I’m glad that I gave myself up to the eclectic writing style, and began to see the whimsy as Foer makes genealogy come alive, and structures a novel that’s very well written. Here’s an excerpt from a meal on the journey in which the protagonist named Jonathan Safran Foer, is searching for the woman who may have saved his grandfather from the Nazis. Around the table are: Foer (called the hero in this excerpt); his grandfather; the Ukraine translator, Alex, who’s the narrator of this section (and not a master of English, which you’ll see in his use of words below); and the dog named Sammy Davis Junior, Junior. “The waitress returned to our table with the colas we ordered. ‘Here are -’ she began, but then she witnessed the potato on the floor and walked away with warp speed. The hero was still witnessing the potato on the floor. I do not know for certain, but I imagine he was imagining that he could pick it up, put it back on his plate, and eat it, or he could leave it on the floor, delude the mishap never happened, eat his one potato, and counterfeit to be happy, or he could push it with his foot to Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior, who was aristocratic enough not to eat it as it laid on that dirty floor, or he could tell the waitress for another, which would mean he would have to get another piece of meat for me to remove from his plate because for him meat is disgusting, or he could just eat the piece of meat I removed from his plate before, as I would hope for him to. But what he did was not any of these things. If you want to know what he did, he did not do anything. We remained silent, witnessing the potato. Grandfather inserted his fork in the potato, picked it up from the floor, and put it on his plate. He cut it into four pieces and gave one to Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior under the table, one to me, and one to the hero. He cut off a piece from his piece and ate it. Then he looked at me. I did not want to, but I knew that I had to. To say that it was not delicious would be an overstatement. Then we looked at the hero. He looked at the floor, and then at his plate. He cut off a piece from his piece and looked at it. ‘Welcome to Ukraine,’ Grandfather said to him, and punched me on the back, which was a think I relished very much. Then Grandfather started laughing. Then the hero started laughing. We laughed with much violence for a long time. We obtained the attention of every person in the restaurant. We laughed with violence, and then with more violence. I witnessed that each of us was manufacturing tears at his eyes. It was not until very much in the posterior that I understanded that each of us was laughing for a different reason, for out own reason, and that not one of those reasons had a thing to do with the potato. There is something that I did not mention before, which it would not be befitting to mention. (Please, Jonathan, I implore you never top exhibit this to one soul. I do not know why I am writing this here.) I returned home from a famous nightclub one night and desired to watch television. I was surprised when I heard that the television was already on, because it was so tardy. I cogitated that it was Grandfather. As I illuminated before, he would very often come to our house when he could not repose. This was before he came to life with us. What would occur is that he would commence to repose while viewing television, but then rise a few hours later and return to his house. Unless I could not repose, and because I could not repose would hear Grandfather viewing television, I would not know the next day if he had been in the house the night previous. He might have been there every night. Because I never knew, I thought of him as a ghost. I would say hello to Grandfather when he was viewing television, because I did not want to meddle with him. So I walked slowly that night, and without noise. I was already on the four stair when I heard something queer. It was not crying, exactly. It was something a little less than crying. I submerged the four stairs with slowness. I walked on toes through the kitchen and the television room. First I witnessed the television. It was exhibiting a football game. (I do not remember who was competing, but I am confident that we were winning.) I witnessed a hand on the chair that Grandfather likes to view television in. But it was not Grandfather’s hand. I tried to see more, and I almost fell over. I know that I should have recognized the sound that was a little less than crying. It was Little Igor. (I am such a stupid fool.) This made me a suffering person. I will tell you why. I knew why he was a little less than crying. I knew very well, and I wanted to go to him and tell him that I had a little less than cried too, just like him, and that no matter how it seemed like he would never grow up to be a premium person like me, with many girls and so many famous places to go, he would. He would be exactly like me. And look at me, Little Igor, the bruises go away, and so does how you hate, and so does the feeling that everything you receive in life in something you have earned. But I could not tell him any of these things. I roosted on the floor of the kitchen, only several meters distance from him, and I commenced to laugh. I did not know why I was laughing, but I could not stop. I pressed my hand against my mouth so that I could walk to my room, but I was afraid that it would be too difficult to control my laughing. I remained there for many, many minutes. My brother persevered to a little less than cry, which made my silent laughing even more. I am able to understand now that it was the same laugh that I had in the restaurant in Lutsk, the laugh that had the same darkness as Grandfather’s laugh and the hero’s laugh. (I ask leniency for writing this. Perhaps I will remove it before I post this part to you. I am sorry.) As for Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior, she did not eat her piece of the potato.” Foer is a clever and talented writing. Everything is Illuminated showcases that talent, and rewards readers with the experience of a tale well told. Steve Hopkins, July 17, 2002
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