moment, treated you like a son. Admittedly, a stubborn and rebellious son. And you, Boaz, instead of gratefully kissing his hand, you bit the hand that fed you. Take note, Boaz: You disgraced your mother and me, but first and foremost you disgraced yourself. It seems as though you will never learn humility now. I am just wasting words on you. You refuse to be taught.
And shall I tell you why? Even if it hurts you to hear it? All right, I’ll tell you. Why not. It’s all because you’ve got it fixed deep down in your head that you’re some kind of prince or something. That you have noble blood flowing in your veins. That you were born and bred a dauphin. Well let me tell you something, Boaz, man to man, even though you are still a thousand miles short of being a man, nevertheless I’ll lay all the cards on the table.
I do not have the honor to know your dear, famous father, nor do I hanker after that honor. But this I can tell you straight: that your father is neither a duke nor a king—unless he is the King of Villains. If you only knew to what shame and misery he reduced your mother, how he humiliated her and impugned her honor and drove you yourself out from his presence like a loathsome offspring!
So it is only right that now he has remembered to pay something as recompense for sorrow and disgrace. And right too that I should have decided to overlook our self-respect and accept his money. And have you perhaps asked yourself why I decided to accept his tainted money? For you, you ungrateful donkey! To try to raise you up onto the straight and narrow path!
Now listen carefully to why I’m telling you all this. Not to make you hate your father, Heaven forbid, but in the hope that you will choose to follow my example rather than his. Learn that in me pride and humanity are expressed through mastery of the baser instincts. I accepted money from him instead of killing him. That is my honor, Boaz: that I overcame my sense of humiliation. As it is written: “Whoever effaces his own honor, his honor is never effaced.”
I am continuing this letter to you in the evening, after an intermission to give two private lessons and get the supper ready and look after your poor mother, who is ill because of you, and then I watched the news and “Second Glance” on the television. I deemed it right to add something here about my own life, following on what I wrote about self-control and mastering the baser instincts. Without going into what we suffered, Boaz, in Algeria in our time, first from the Arabs as Jews and later in Paris from the Jews as Arabs and from the French as
pieds noirs,
if you happen to know what that means, I mention purely and simply what I myself have been through in this country and still go through because of my beliefs and opinions, my appearance and my origins; if you knew, you might realize perhaps that to get a little kick from a good, dear person like Abram Abudarham is really the equivalent of a caress. The trouble with you is you’ve been spoiled. You wouldn’t understand, anyway. I’ve been accustomed since the day I was born to get real, authentic kicks three times a day, and I’ve never raised a crate against anyone. And the reason for that is not just to fulfill the commandment “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself,” but first and foremost because I tell you that man must learn to accept suffering with love.
And are you prepared to hear something else from me? In my opinion it is better to receive a thousand sufferings than to cause even one, Heaven forbid. No doubt the Almighty has a few black marks in his ledger against the name of Michael Sommo too. I won’t deny it. But among my black marks you won’t find any item under the heading Caused Suffering. No—not that. Just ask your mother. Ask Abram, after you ask him nicely to excuse and forgive you. Ask Mrs. Janine Fuchs, who knows me well from way back when we were still in Paris. While as for you, Boaz, who were gifted with physical
And shall I tell you why? Even if it hurts you to hear it? All right, I’ll tell you. Why not. It’s all because you’ve got it fixed deep down in your head that you’re some kind of prince or something. That you have noble blood flowing in your veins. That you were born and bred a dauphin. Well let me tell you something, Boaz, man to man, even though you are still a thousand miles short of being a man, nevertheless I’ll lay all the cards on the table.
I do not have the honor to know your dear, famous father, nor do I hanker after that honor. But this I can tell you straight: that your father is neither a duke nor a king—unless he is the King of Villains. If you only knew to what shame and misery he reduced your mother, how he humiliated her and impugned her honor and drove you yourself out from his presence like a loathsome offspring!
So it is only right that now he has remembered to pay something as recompense for sorrow and disgrace. And right too that I should have decided to overlook our self-respect and accept his money. And have you perhaps asked yourself why I decided to accept his tainted money? For you, you ungrateful donkey! To try to raise you up onto the straight and narrow path!
Now listen carefully to why I’m telling you all this. Not to make you hate your father, Heaven forbid, but in the hope that you will choose to follow my example rather than his. Learn that in me pride and humanity are expressed through mastery of the baser instincts. I accepted money from him instead of killing him. That is my honor, Boaz: that I overcame my sense of humiliation. As it is written: “Whoever effaces his own honor, his honor is never effaced.”
I am continuing this letter to you in the evening, after an intermission to give two private lessons and get the supper ready and look after your poor mother, who is ill because of you, and then I watched the news and “Second Glance” on the television. I deemed it right to add something here about my own life, following on what I wrote about self-control and mastering the baser instincts. Without going into what we suffered, Boaz, in Algeria in our time, first from the Arabs as Jews and later in Paris from the Jews as Arabs and from the French as
pieds noirs,
if you happen to know what that means, I mention purely and simply what I myself have been through in this country and still go through because of my beliefs and opinions, my appearance and my origins; if you knew, you might realize perhaps that to get a little kick from a good, dear person like Abram Abudarham is really the equivalent of a caress. The trouble with you is you’ve been spoiled. You wouldn’t understand, anyway. I’ve been accustomed since the day I was born to get real, authentic kicks three times a day, and I’ve never raised a crate against anyone. And the reason for that is not just to fulfill the commandment “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself,” but first and foremost because I tell you that man must learn to accept suffering with love.
And are you prepared to hear something else from me? In my opinion it is better to receive a thousand sufferings than to cause even one, Heaven forbid. No doubt the Almighty has a few black marks in his ledger against the name of Michael Sommo too. I won’t deny it. But among my black marks you won’t find any item under the heading Caused Suffering. No—not that. Just ask your mother. Ask Abram, after you ask him nicely to excuse and forgive you. Ask Mrs. Janine Fuchs, who knows me well from way back when we were still in Paris. While as for you, Boaz, who were gifted with physical
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