I think this works as a response to The Chosen and The Promise.

In this book, the burning urgency of scientific criticism is not really present. It's taken for granted. Even if some people find it objectionable, they have no power over our protagonist. He kind of just studies what he wants and doesn't worry about other people's opinions.

This lack of worry is perhaps the biggest tonal shift. Gershon is just as obsessed with education as Potok's other leads, but the difference is he can't explain why. He is just as much a genius and a natural in the library, but the way he studies is almost outside himself. He has no objective with his study; he studies because he studies. It's not pleasurable; it's just the thing he's doing.

This is a book about people who don't want to talk about their feelings, who have no interest in feeling much at all if they can help it. It's about people who don't fully explain themselves, who change the subject, who allude but do not proclaim. As a reader, this leaves you awash in ambiguity for most of the novel. Who are these people? What are they so uptight about? What are they reacting to?

This is what grief looks like. Each character is facing a kind of grief which they cannot express. It's not that they are choosing to be silent, it's that the grief dug a hole in them that they lack the words to explain. So they return to that hole continuously, looking at it, trying to talk about it, but they can't come out and say why they're in pain. Because they don't have words for it.

Grief is not a logic process. Grief is a feeling process. And if Potok's previous novels were about the joy of pursuing religious logic, this one is about the pain of pursuing religious feeling. Gershon is ambivalent, resentful, silently burdened, and directionlessly seeking. He does not know why. He does not know to what end.

What am I doing here? What am I doing here, specifically?

This is a book where everyone keeps asking that question over and over. There's not much catharsis, but there is a process. It's cyclical and draining at times (much like a long deployment overseas), and the relief is never complete. But it's interesting as a different kind of response to education. It shows how education can be both a source of comfort and a cause of confusion, how it can lead us to ask more questions than it answers, and how it can force us to confront our own emotions and limitations.

This book tells the story of a young man who was too young to participate in World War II but grew up just in time to be involved in the Korean War.

Actually, the Korean War officially ended in 1953, yet the troops remained there. Whether they were policing the demilitarized zone or for some other reason, I'm not entirely sure, but there they were.

The description of Gershon Loran is rather quaint. His unsuspected talent is heralded by visions, mystical experiences, and mood issues. Fortunately, I had recently read a Kierkegaard write-up in The New Yorker, where Adam Kirsch reminds us of how things have changed. Kierkegaard's abnormal temperament, which nowadays might lead to therapy in the hope of achieving more normal functioning, was in those days seen as an announcement of his genius. But that was a long time ago, and this book was published in 1981, which, relatively speaking, is practically yesterday.

I found the quaintness quite enjoyable. However, the contrast between Talmud studies and Kabbalah in the book presented a bit of a stumbling block for me as I reached page 100. The former is described as dry and legalistic, while the latter is mystical and magical. This may be somewhat outdated, considering books like If All the Seas Were Ink: A Memoir and the thousands of people taking up Daf Yomi. Nevertheless, within the context of the book, the dichotomy is resolved as both of his mentors, one a professor of Talmud and the other of Kabbalah, come to inhabit his mystical visions and serve as his guides.

Somehow, despite the occasional visions and visitations, the book remains realistic. The events that occur are just that, rather than being examples of magical realism.

Toward the end, there was another interlude, some sort of visitation that didn't really resonate with me, but it passed, and the story once again caught my attention.

I liked the characterization, although I couldn't help but laugh a little at the number of times in the first part of the book that Gershon says or does something without knowing how, as if sleepwalking into success. He writes impressive, even award-winning academic reports without realizing it! Later, after achieving academic success and being ordained as a rabbi, he goes off to Korea as a Jewish chaplain and comes into his own. This reminds me, more than anything, of Annie Proulx's protagonist in The Shipping News. That's what I remember, anyway, from 25 years ago, a man whose strength is revealed to himself and the reader simultaneously. Of course, Proulx does it more efficiently and with fewer words, but this book is still good.

The Book of Lights contained other themes as well, but these are the ones that were important to me.

Who knew how cold it gets in Korea! And, with the Army still there in 1956, there was a sudden outbreak of antisemitism (the only such instance in the book) along with a fear of World War III that accompanied the Suez Canal crisis.

The ending also met my criteria. I'm not sure exactly what those criteria are; it doesn't necessarily have to be a happy ending, but it has to be good and meet the demands of the character and the story.

Note: The Jewish chaplains had to be more or less drafted because, according to the book, enough Protestants and Catholics had volunteered for duty, in contrast to Jews. This reminds me a little of the Philip Roth story Defender of the Faith.

Second note: Throughout the book, I kept meaning to look up Jamesway. "Hey Google" has made me lazy; all she could tell me this time was that it was a line of department stores. So I finally looked it up: it's a particular brand of Quonset hut, a type of WWII-era prefab housing for the military.

Imagine what life would be like if your parent helped to invent the atomic bomb.

Anything Potok writes is sure to be breathtaking. However, it took a good 300 pages for me to really get into this one. Gershon is so emotionally unavailable that I had a hard time liking him. He seems to wander through life without any passion or purpose. He just goes through the motions of living.

I liked the way Gershon encounters new people once he gets to Korea. While Gabriel Rosen, a fellow Jew, appalls him, his Mormon assistant gives him a sense of security. In Hong Kong, a Muslim family welcomes him. In Japan, he discovers his shared humanity and devotion to the divine with people he once thought to be a great enemy.

Finally, it is Arthur's desperation to do or say something (yes, do or say something Gershon!) that finally brings a little humanity to the story, at least for me.

I loved how Potok juxtaposed opposites: light and dark, rich and poor, Talmud and Kabbalah, science and mysticism, east and west. Arthur's father tries to uncover the secrets of the universe through physics, while Gershon tries through the study of Kabbalah. The atomic bomb goes off in such a bright light that even the blind can see it, and yet it brings the darkness of death. Was the bomb good because it ended the war, or was it simply evil?

This is a beautiful and thoughtful read that makes you think about the complex nature of life, humanity, and the choices we make.

Chaim Potok is truly one of my favorite novelists. I have written a review of "My Name is Asher Lev" on Goodreads, although I'm not sure exactly where it is.

I am deeply drawn to his writing style, which is both engaging and thought-provoking. His ongoing theme of breaking free from constrictive and restrictive religion is something that really resonates with me. It's about being able to find a Light that is real and inclusive, not bound by the limitations of traditional dogma.

"The Book of Lights" is a remarkable 1981 novel by Chaim Potok. It tells the story of a young rabbi and student of Kabbalah who serves as a United States military chaplain in Korea and Japan after the Korean War. This experience challenges his thinking about the meaning of faith in a world filled with "light" from numerous sources. It's a complex and profound exploration of faith, identity, and the search for truth in a diverse and ever-changing world.

Potok's works have the power to make us question our own beliefs and perspectives, and to open our eyes to new ways of seeing and understanding the world around us.

This is not “The Chosen” by any means. Instead, it is a rather dull and uninteresting copy set during the end of the Korean War. I must say, an excessive amount of detail was dedicated to mindless descriptions of the settings, while character development took a backseat.

Our protagonist, Gershon, who had an initially fascinating mystical experience of touching the otherworldly ether of the universe at the start of the novel, shows no growth or maturation as a budding Kabbalist. His dialogue is stunted, and I could just picture him grunting out his short, pointed, and impatiently inane sentences throughout the text. Potok seems to have him simply going from one drab place to another, like a robot following a humdrum set of behaviors. I was seriously on the verge of quitting if I had to read about one more trip to the “piss tubes” near Gershon’s Jamesway in Korea or one more episode of Arthur’s desperate need to find a bathroom to take a dump. It was just so repetitive.

The story is filled with redundant insanity amidst what could have been interesting Jewish mysticism, but it doesn't really develop much beyond a few passages. And poor Karen; all she does is wait for Gershon, and when he finally comes back home after a year, she goes on vacation with her parents. HAH! Gershon's supposed fascination with the “sexuality” of Kabbalah leads to a few freaky moments with Karen on a page or two, and he even witnesses some Chinese prostitutes in Hong Kong acting out a play with a large phallic object, but these plotlines go nowhere as Gershon is essentially a eunuch, and Potok probably thought he was getting too close to pornography with these parts.

Arthur's character, who could arguably be the most interesting one in the whole novel, like Daniel Saunders, is treated as elusive, intelligent, and willing to give up a part of his life to find greater meaning. However, unlike DS, he wants to atone for the great evil his parents contributed to by making the atomic bomb. But alas, his constant talk about going to Japan becomes so tiresome and downright annoying that I actually celebrated his death (hey, he's fictional, so it's not that bad, right?). And where was he when the plane exploded? Near the toilet! I told you earlier, this guy lived in the bathroom for most of the novel when he wasn't trying to get to Japan or make some failingly snarky comment.

There were also numerous references to buildings burning down and the NYFD memorial, which were obvious symbols for the Divine Fire, the atomic bombs, the blazing Hebrew script, and transformation/destruction/creation, etc. It got to the point where I almost lost it again. Everywhere Gershon went, some place seemed to be burning down. Yikes! People, keep him away from the ammunition dump!

Finally, I had enough of Gershon's repeated visions of his teachers. Imagine having two of the most boring professors visit you in your quasi-mystical visions and yak about what books you should be reading over and over again. And then, to have the final pages of the book end with the main character going to visit one of them, presumably to immerse himself in Kabbalah, only to have it all end there with an image of an old man flip-flopping around getting coffee. I felt completely cheated after reading Potok's other fantastic novels.

I will leave you with one excellent quote from the book, which I hope will save you the trouble of buying this entire 389-page tome of monotony and unfulfilled promise of mysticism: “What is of importance is not there there may be nothing. We have always acknowledged that as a possibility. What is important is that if indeed there is nothing, then we should be prepared to make something out of the only thing we have left to us—ourselves” (383).

So, make something out of reading this review and find another book that is truly worth your time!

It felt as if this book, along with its characters, maintained a certain distance from you, almost holding you at arm's length. It didn't seem to welcome you into its inner world. Instead, it kept you as an observer, much like you were looking into a life without having any real context. It was all about showing rather than telling. A significant part of this was due to the centrality of Jewish mysticism, something that I, of course, was entirely unfamiliar with. It was rather strange to share a country and some aspects of faith with the protagonists, yet not be part of the religion that formed such a large part of their identity.

It felt different from everything I've read by Potok, yet it was equally brilliant. He truly is an astounding author. His ability to create such a unique and engaging narrative, even when dealing with complex and unfamiliar themes like Jewish mysticism, is truly remarkable. This book made me realize that there is still so much to learn and discover about different cultures and religions, and Potok's writing is a wonderful way to start that journey.

I vividly remember reading the Book of Lights when I was a 20-year-old college student. It was as if this book was tailor-made for that precise moment in my life and in time.

The words within its pages seemed to speak directly to my soul, addressing the hopes, dreams, and uncertainties that filled my young heart.

Each chapter was like a precious gem, shining a light on different aspects of my journey. It offered wisdom, inspiration, and a sense of direction that I so desperately needed at that stage.

The Book of Lights became my constant companion, guiding me through the challenges and joys of college life. It taught me valuable lessons about self-discovery, perseverance, and the power of believing in oneself.

Even today, as I look back on that period, I am filled with gratitude for having come across this remarkable book. It truly was a life-changing experience that has left an indelible mark on my heart and mind.

I had a profound love for the Kabbalahistic content that was presented in the book.

However, the main character's lack of direction was a significant drawback. It made the reading experience rather challenging at times.

He seemed to be constantly adrift, without a clear sense of purpose or goal.

Despite this, as the story progressed, he did show some growth.

But even with this growth, there were still moments when his lack of direction was palpable.

Overall, while the Kabbalahistic content was fascinating, the main character's struggle with direction detracted from the overall enjoyment of the book.

It would have been nice to see him develop a stronger sense of purpose earlier on in the story.

This would have made it easier for the reader to connect with him and root for his success.

Nevertheless, the book did have its redeeming qualities, and I still found it to be an interesting read.

I think a great deal of this book escaped my comprehension.

Perhaps I would have a deeper appreciation for it if I were reading it within a book club, or if I had greater insights from a Jewish perspective.

As the situation stands, I found the book to be a bit slow-paced, yet not to the extent that it would prevent me from reading it.

I took pleasure in the middle portion when the main character, Gershon Loran, serves as a Jewish chaplain in Korea during the Korean War.

That particular part provided me with some understanding of what my father might have endured during his time as a soldier there.

Aside from that, I continuously awaited for something significant to occur.

I surmise that someone with a more profound understanding of the Kabbalah and other topics explored from a Jewish perspective would extract more value from this book.

I just couldn't get into it.

It was as if there was an invisible barrier preventing me from truly engaging with the subject matter.

No matter how hard I tried, my mind would wander or I would find myself uninterested.

Perhaps it was the way it was presented, lacking in excitement or appeal.

Or maybe it simply didn't align with my personal interests or experiences.

Either way, I struggled to find any connection or enthusiasm for it.

It was a frustrating experience, as I knew there was potentially value there, but I just couldn't seem to access it.

I hope that in the future, I might be able to find a way to break through this barrier and discover the hidden gems within.

Until then, I'll keep searching for that spark that will ignite my passion and make me truly get into it.

It was okay, not great.

However, towards the end, tragedy struck one of Gershon's best friends. This event was truly heart-wrenching and had a significant impact on Gershon and those around him.

Nevertheless, in the grand scheme of things, some aspects of this story can be skimmed over. Perhaps the details of the day-to-day life leading up to the tragedy are not as crucial as the overall experience and the lessons that can be learned from it.

Sometimes, we need to focus on the big picture and not get too caught up in the minutiae. By skimming over certain parts, we can gain a better understanding of the main events and how they have shaped the lives of the characters involved.

Overall, while the tragedy was a sad and difficult part of the story, it also serves as a reminder of the importance of珍惜 our relationships and making the most of every moment.

This is a truly beautiful book. In my opinion, it is one of Potok's finest works, and I have a great affection for all of them.

At the outset, the subject matter appears to center around the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Even if this were merely a meditation on those events, it would still be an outstanding novel. Potok manages to incorporate numerous viewpoints, thanks to one of the main characters. His father was involved in the development of the bomb, and his mother had some connection to a city that was rejected as a target. Additionally, the book also presents some Japanese perspectives, which are not commonly heard in this country. These are all subplots that Potok realizes fantastically and writes thoughtfully without politicizing them. In fact, he goes out of his way to avoid making political judgments.

However, what I love most about this book is how it reduces the atomic bomb to a motif in relation to its real subject, which is the mystical impulse in human nature. Not every individual has this tendency, but Potok's main character does, making him a literary rarity. Novels often explain what is going on in a character's mind, detailing their motivations so that the reader doesn't have to guess. Here, on the other hand, Potok's main character, Gershon Loran, seems almost incidental. He spends a great deal of time not making any decisions, to the point where you almost feel he isn't part of the action. He is a half-heartedly observant Jew whose parents are deceased. He lives with and takes care of an aunt and uncle, allows himself to be pushed around in his studies without much direction, and even gets drafted into the Korean War in the hope of finding meaning. He is frustrating in many ways, but at the same time, he is listening to himself and the people and situations that enter his life seemingly randomly, as if expecting a message.

The things he "lets" himself be pushed into are those that capture his attention or, you might say, his ear, where he believes there might be answers to his unformulated questions. Essentially, he is a mystic. Fortunately for him, Judaism has a place for people with an academic inclination and a strong mystical tendency, known as the Kabbalah. Despite the disapproval of some of his more sober teachers, Loran has a "legitimate" focus for his energies. He is attracted to the Kabbalah without actively pursuing it. In a sense, it pursues him, and this gives the book an additional character that moves the plot along as much as or more than any of the others. Loran's mystical tendency, which he discovers accidentally on a tenement rooftop as a child, is the driving force of this novel. The significance of the atomic bomb lies not so much in the appalling destruction of human life or the moral questions raised by its makers (although these subjects are discussed) but in the light itself. Kabbalah is filled with images of light, and the atomic bomb is perhaps the brightest light humanity has ever seen after the sun. The unbearable irony of the brightest light being the source of the greatest destructive power we have ever invented is Potok's main subject. If my description seems tedious, rest assured that the novel itself is anything but. It truly is a great book.