Half a century ago, like numerous boys, I relished Chaim Potok's The Chosen. Consequently, I categorized him in my mind as a middlebrow storyteller of Orthodox life in Brooklyn. The Book of Lights seemed to be a delightful account of two friends, Hanukkah, and the celebration of lit feasts. I wagered that many buyers anticipated such.
However, it is actually a sparely narrated, austere, and unwavering exploration of grappling with Promethean guilt. We, part-reptilian creatures, as Arthur Leiden quotes, with the atomic bomb incinerating two cities in Japan due to our mastery of physics. This haunts him, as his parents had a direct role. His rabbinical classmate, Gershon, contends with both his colleague's despair and his own entanglements with apparitions of two of his seminary teachers, a Talmudist and a secular Kabbalist scholar, along with a voice beckoning him into the depths hinted at in the Zohar, which obsesses Gershon. He is a wandering soul, bereft. The two form an uneasy partnership throughout.
The narrative is unsentimental, the insights eerie rather than comforting, and the characters, including the two main protagonists, remain flawed. They are neither model chaplains in Korea nor earnest adepts into "the mysteries of the Orient" in the mid-1950s. As representatives of the victors, they embody authority figures uncomfortable with their assignment, which was thrust upon them before they could graduate. Their Asian foes view them not as saviors but as suspects, easy targets, or smug know-it-alls.
Potok tackles the hasty and callow imperialism of postwar American military occupation and scientific power, as well as the uneasiness of a liberal Jewish attitude towards its institutional complicity. Placing this crisis of conscience after WWII, with both Jewish clergymen feeling as if the weapon was dropped on the wrong enemy, adds a disquieting aura to this storyline where the forces of light and its absence contend within both Arthur and Gershon, disturbing sleep and triggering nightmares.
The outcome results in a curious blend of terse observations, convincing physical and spiritual discomforts, and an immersion into the malaise of coming to terms with unanswerable doubts about the perpetuity of a people too preoccupied with pushcart messiahs and tobacco-stained sages, in Gershon's words. It is not light reading despite its direct prose. Instead, it compels you to face difficult choices. The novel deliberately remains laconic, capturing a mid-20th-century, stoic, masculine mindset.
P.S. Although Potok lived for a couple of decades or more after this was published, it apparently did not have a sequel. It does, however, leave a story open for one.