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Authors: Philip Roth
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mockery of myself, my family, and my religion.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, my back (as is usual) all I will offer him to look at while I speak, “but just because it’s your religion doesn’t mean it’s mine.”
“What did you say? Turn around, mister, I want the courtesy of a reply from your mouth.”
“I don’t have a religion,” I say, and obligingly turn in his direction, about a fraction of a degree.
“You don’t, eh?”
“I can’t.”
“And why not? You’re something special? Look at me! You’re somebody too special?”
“I don’t believe in God.”
“Get out of those dungarees, Alex, and put on some decent clothes.”
“They’re not dungarees, they’re Levis.”
“It’s Rosh Hashanah, Alex, and to me you’re wearing overalls! Get in there and put a tie on and a jacket on and a pair of trousers and a clean shirt, and come out looking like a human being. And shoes, Mister, hard shoes.”
“My shirt
is
clean—”
“Oh, you’re riding for a fall, Mr. Big. You’re fourteen years old, and believe me, you don’t know everything there is to know. Get out of those moccasins! What the hell are you supposed to be, some kind of Indian?”
“Look, I don’t believe in God and I don’t believe in the Jewish religion—or in any religion. They’re all lies.”
“Oh, they are, are they?”
“I’m not going to act like these holidays mean anything when they don’t! And that’s all I’m saying!”
“Maybe they don’t mean anything because you don’t know anything about them, Mr. Big Shot. What do you know about the history of Rosh Hashanah? One fact? Two facts maybe? What do you know about the history of the Jewish people, that you have the right to call their religion, that’s been good enough for people a lot smarter than you and a lot older than you for two thousand years—that you can call all that suffering and heartache a lie!”
“There is no such thing as God, and there never was, and I’m sorry, but in my vocabulary that’s a lie.”
“Then who created the world, Alex?” he asks contemptuously. “It just happened, I suppose, according to you.”
“Alex,” says my sister, “all Daddy means is even if you don’t want to go with him, if you would just change your clothes—”
“But for what?” I scream. “For something that never existed? Why don’t you tell me to go outside and change my clothes for some alley cat or some tree—
because at least they exist!
”
“But you haven’t answered me, Mr. Educated Wise Guy,” my father says. “Don’t try to change the issue. Who created the world and the people in it? Nobody?”
“Right! Nobody!”
“Oh, sure,” says my father. “That’s brilliant. I’m glad I didn’t get to high school if that’s how brilliant it makes you.”
“Alex,” my sister says, and softly—as is her way—softly, because she is already broken a little bit too—“maybe if you just put on a pair of shoes—”
“But you’re as bad as he is, Hannah! If there’s no God, what do shoes have to do with it!”
“One day a year you ask him to do something for you, and he’s too big for it. And that’s the whole story, Hannah, of your brother, of his respect and love …”
“Daddy, he’s a good boy. He does respect you, he does love you—”
“And what about the Jewish people?” He is shouting now and waving his arms, hoping that this will prevent him from breaking into tears—because the word love has only to be whispered in our house for all eyes immediately to begin to overflow. “Does he respect them? Just as much as he respects me, just about as much …” Suddenly he is sizzling—he turns on me with another new and brilliant thought. “Tell me something, do you know Talmud, my educated son? Do you know history? One-two-three you were bar mitzvah, and that for you was the end of your religious education. Do you know men study their whole lives in the Jewish religion, and when they die they still
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, my back (as is usual) all I will offer him to look at while I speak, “but just because it’s your religion doesn’t mean it’s mine.”
“What did you say? Turn around, mister, I want the courtesy of a reply from your mouth.”
“I don’t have a religion,” I say, and obligingly turn in his direction, about a fraction of a degree.
“You don’t, eh?”
“I can’t.”
“And why not? You’re something special? Look at me! You’re somebody too special?”
“I don’t believe in God.”
“Get out of those dungarees, Alex, and put on some decent clothes.”
“They’re not dungarees, they’re Levis.”
“It’s Rosh Hashanah, Alex, and to me you’re wearing overalls! Get in there and put a tie on and a jacket on and a pair of trousers and a clean shirt, and come out looking like a human being. And shoes, Mister, hard shoes.”
“My shirt
is
clean—”
“Oh, you’re riding for a fall, Mr. Big. You’re fourteen years old, and believe me, you don’t know everything there is to know. Get out of those moccasins! What the hell are you supposed to be, some kind of Indian?”
“Look, I don’t believe in God and I don’t believe in the Jewish religion—or in any religion. They’re all lies.”
“Oh, they are, are they?”
“I’m not going to act like these holidays mean anything when they don’t! And that’s all I’m saying!”
“Maybe they don’t mean anything because you don’t know anything about them, Mr. Big Shot. What do you know about the history of Rosh Hashanah? One fact? Two facts maybe? What do you know about the history of the Jewish people, that you have the right to call their religion, that’s been good enough for people a lot smarter than you and a lot older than you for two thousand years—that you can call all that suffering and heartache a lie!”
“There is no such thing as God, and there never was, and I’m sorry, but in my vocabulary that’s a lie.”
“Then who created the world, Alex?” he asks contemptuously. “It just happened, I suppose, according to you.”
“Alex,” says my sister, “all Daddy means is even if you don’t want to go with him, if you would just change your clothes—”
“But for what?” I scream. “For something that never existed? Why don’t you tell me to go outside and change my clothes for some alley cat or some tree—
because at least they exist!
”
“But you haven’t answered me, Mr. Educated Wise Guy,” my father says. “Don’t try to change the issue. Who created the world and the people in it? Nobody?”
“Right! Nobody!”
“Oh, sure,” says my father. “That’s brilliant. I’m glad I didn’t get to high school if that’s how brilliant it makes you.”
“Alex,” my sister says, and softly—as is her way—softly, because she is already broken a little bit too—“maybe if you just put on a pair of shoes—”
“But you’re as bad as he is, Hannah! If there’s no God, what do shoes have to do with it!”
“One day a year you ask him to do something for you, and he’s too big for it. And that’s the whole story, Hannah, of your brother, of his respect and love …”
“Daddy, he’s a good boy. He does respect you, he does love you—”
“And what about the Jewish people?” He is shouting now and waving his arms, hoping that this will prevent him from breaking into tears—because the word love has only to be whispered in our house for all eyes immediately to begin to overflow. “Does he respect them? Just as much as he respects me, just about as much …” Suddenly he is sizzling—he turns on me with another new and brilliant thought. “Tell me something, do you know Talmud, my educated son? Do you know history? One-two-three you were bar mitzvah, and that for you was the end of your religious education. Do you know men study their whole lives in the Jewish religion, and when they die they still
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