After recently rereading My Name is Asher Lev, I have a new perspective on this remarkable book. This story is truly challenging, yet in the end, it offers a profound sense of satisfaction. I must admit that I still feel a certain degree of discomfort while reading it, but at the same time, I am completely mesmerized by the captivating narrative. I simply could not put this book down. It is one of the most compelling novels I have ever read.

I was already aware of the ending, as it seemed almost inevitable throughout most of the book. However, this did not diminish the impact of the story. Instead, it added to the overall sense of drama and tension. The ending is both stunning and heartbreaking, with a tiny glimmer of hope peeking through the darkness. It was as if the entire world changed colors as I delved deeper into the pages of this book.

The characters in My Name is Asher Lev are vividly drawn and complex, and the themes explored are both universal and deeply personal. This book forces us to confront our own beliefs, values, and desires, and to question the choices we make in life. It is a powerful and thought-provoking work that will stay with me for a long time to come.

Spoilers for My Name is Asher Lev and this book below.

The question of whether God has a plan or if we are at the mercy of an uncaring universe where bad things befall good people looms large in this book, though it is presented in a rather subtle way. The book doesn't offer a straightforward answer, yet this query weighs heavily on the minds of the characters as their world becomes increasingly uncertain.

I have to admit, I found the ending of My Name Is Asher Lev to be a major letdown. Asher ends up alienating his family and community, leaving Brooklyn to pursue his art in Europe. He achieves great artistic success, but his relationship with his father seems irreparably damaged.

Fast forward about 20 years, and Asher is a well-established, world-renowned artist. He has just had a commercially successful but critically panned exhibition. He is happily married with two children and spends his days painting in southern France until a family tragedy calls him and his family back to Brooklyn.

This book is similar to My Name is Asher Lev in terms of the writing. It focuses on Asher and his internal state of mind throughout his months back in Brooklyn. We see how he views his loving (but still traumatized from the war) wife, his children, his parents (whom he has reconciled with to some extent), and the community he returns to. We witness his struggle with doubt resulting from the fallout of his Paris show and the need to balance his familial obligations with his drive to create art. The prose is beautiful, and the book is quite accessible.

Unlike My Name is Asher Lev, there is no significant tension in this book between Asher's art and the Ladover community (save for the occasional "How could you create those paintings" comments, but there are just as many supportive voices). Instead, the main tensions seem to be between the Rebbe wanting Asher and his family to stay longer and Asher wanting to return home to France.

Asher gradually realizes that there is a deeper purpose to the Rebbe's attention towards him and especially his son, an attention that will have long-term effects on the entire Ladover community and Asher's family. While the first book left me sad but hopeful for future reconciliation, this ending left me with a deeper sense of sadness. Asher will forever be apart from both his family and his community because of his intense drive to create art. It is a bittersweet story of a family coming together while simultaneously being separated by an ocean and a lifestyle.

Much like My Name is Asher Lev, there are many side story lines that emerge: the disposition of Asher's uncle's surprisingly amazing art collection, reconnecting with friends back in Southern France, his daughter's asthma, settling a debt to the family of a deceased friend, and so on. These were all enjoyable distractions on their own, but unlike in the previous book, they did not come together in an elegant way to enhance the book's central message. Instead, they seemed like small, self-contained vignettes. They were nice adornments but ultimately felt underdeveloped or not adequately related to the main theme of the book.

Overall, I thought this book did not quite live up to its predecessor. It still had Potok's excellent prose and imagery, memorable characters, and a fascinating plot, but the plotting seemed a bit too loose to me. Perhaps I am missing some subtle connection between all of Asher's encounters, but I never felt that Potok tied the whole book together at the end with the same elegance he demonstrated in My Name is Asher Lev. It was a very good and engaging read (hence the four stars), but I did not have the same transcendent feeling I had when I finished the first book.

This detailed exploration of Asher's life offers both insights and disappointments, making it a complex and thought-provoking read.

I’m going to give away the end, so you may need to stop reading. But it’s the end I want to talk about.

First, I adored the earlier book, My Name is Asher Lev (1972). I think it is, without exaggeration, a profound statement on the integrity of the artist. Second, everyone told me that the sequel, The Gift of Asher Lev (1990), wasn’t very good. Well, it wasn’t as good as the first, but it wasn’t that bad, either. I still found it absorbing, worth reading, and very interesting. Generally speaking, I’m not a fan of sequels, though I understand the desire for them. It just seems like a sequel is inevitably disappointing, so it’s a set-up for disaster. But the thing is that we just love Asher so much—and Rocky and Han Solo and Bruce Willis (what was his name in Die Hard?)—and we care, so we want to know about their well-being, their fate. We’re suckers for sequels. If Potok had more to say about Asher Lev, I had to find out what it was. Third, what I really wanted, after this sequel, was a memoir by Potok on Potok, no doubt an interesting guy. He never wrote that memoir.

The Gift of Asher Lev finds Asher to be a world-renowned artist, living in France with his wife—a nice Jewish girl—and two kids. He is still a practicing Hasidic Jew, though the religious community is pretty much suspicious of him at every turn. He is in exile. An artist and a Jew. It’s an uneasy relationship, but he manages.

Then, his uncle in Brooklyn dies. He goes back to New York with his French family. A trip to mourn a death turns into months, and then there’s the decision to stay or to go. At the heart of the decision is this gift: Asher, like Abraham in the Old Testament (the book draws this comparison), will sacrifice his son. By allowing his child to stay in Brooklyn, Asher is acquiescing to the Rebbe’s (the rabbi’s) implicit decision to groom the boy to be the future Rebbe. This is the gift of Asher Lev, not his art.

But Asher, despite a happy marriage and children he loves, doesn’t stay himself. He chooses his art. He returns to France, while his family stays in Brooklyn. He will return on holidays. His life as an artist is in France. Asher wonders to himself, as he ponders his gift, whether the Rebbe counted “on the helpless self-centeredness of the artist’s soul.”

That’s about my yearly quota for plot summary.

When I first started reading this sequel, I wanted to write about anger. Asher struck me as slightly angry. I liked him, but his anger stood out. And, then, in my meanderings, I began to wonder if all artists are angry. Is anger part of it? Am I angry?

I probably am. I’m not sure this is a good thing or a necessary thing, though. I just think that art—Art—often involves standing in opposition to something. That can make one angry. But there’s a lot to say about this, and I’ll save it.

Rather, that end. He left his family! You know what? I think that’s B.S.! I think that sucks! The helpless self-centeredness of the artist’s soul! Even if it’s totally true, let’s resist it!

When I read about Asher in Paris and Asher in the South of France, a part of me wants that. I want to sit in cafes, go to Giverny, wander through a garden. But this too is true: I’ve been to a number of exotic locations all alone. While part of it was really great, another part really sucked!

Artists may be myopic, self-absorbed, possessing secret and highly privatized thought lives that allow them to seem present when they’re really not. Artists may be alienated, eccentric, given to depression even. Artists may be lousy parents, lousy spouses, lousy followers of religion. Artists may crave exotic and even solitary ventures upon occasion.

But, really, this made me slightly irate. Don’t be an idiot. When it comes down to it, stay with your kid. Asher, take the family back to France or stay in Brooklyn with them. You think you’re doing your art a favor. You’re not. You’ve got a family, man.

Why so irate? I guess it’s my past. I had a lot of time alone. I wrote a lot. In exotic and solitary places. Everyone who knows about my family life knows how, um, “challenging” it’s been. The last time I traveled abroad was on my belated honeymoon to Alaska. Tim and I were in Vancouver for a night or two. Then, we immediately had kids. I love to travel. I have these cravings, these fantasies: Greece, India, Tibet, Egypt, Indonesia. I’d write and write and write. I’d go on glass-bottom boats, walk through markets, sleep on cots near purple lizards. Somehow or other, I’d be okay with the lizards.

But, really, where is the material, the true grist, the stuff of life? Alone in Paris?

I’m sorry for going crazy. I find Potok and his unique questioning to be fascinating and appropriate and important. I didn’t love this book’s conclusion. The gift was no gift at all.

How old are you? Do you remember the Eighties? Do you remember Wham!? Do you remember when George Michael used to wear those t-shirts that said Choose Life? Life is among the living. Choose life.

When I embarked on this installment from Mr. Potok, the room where I was engrossed in reading it was, of course, dry.

Line by painstaking line, chapter by captivating chapter, I endured the shivers of intense emotion. And at a certain juncture, I quietly acquiesced. By the conclusion of the tale, I became lucid in my instability and permitted the sorrow that had long dwelt uneasily within me to flow unrestrained.

We have perused several authors within his literary phalanx, whose pens not only dispense ink and words but, in some mysterious way, generate an internal upheaval, even within the safety of our own environment while engaged in the leisurely pursuit of reading.

From the very beginning, Chaim Potok has profoundly influenced my world. Since my youth, and until now, he remains my trusted prophet, a personal angel who descends to remind me to revisit his works.

He extends an avuncular arm around the reader's shoulder and, moreover, provides a succor that is not readily found elsewhere.

This secular yet spiritual reader is unsure of the precise reason. There is no need to have an answer to every query posed. In fact, most answers disclose very little, and even then, they are suspect.

Gratitude wells up within me, time and again, for the ability to read this person's remarkable efforts.

And that, indeed, is more than good enough.

My Name is Asher Lev is a captivating novel that delves into the complex world of a Hasidic Jewish community and the struggles of an artist within it.

The story follows Asher Lev, who is exiled from his Brooklyn community due to a scandalous crucifixion painting. Twenty years later, he returns with his family for the funeral of his uncle, only to face new challenges.

At the funeral, the Rebbe's cryptic message sets the stage for a series of events that will test Asher's loyalty and faith. He discovers that his uncle has left him a valuable art collection and named him as trustee, which causes conflict with his cousins.

As Asher contends with these issues, his family becomes more rooted in Brooklyn, while he longs to return to his art in France. He also begins to understand the Rebbe's riddle and realizes that he may be asked to make a great sacrifice for his son's future.

Chaim Potok's writing is characterized by a "quiet" voice that allows the story to unfold naturally, revealing the depth of the characters and their relationships.

Overall, My Name is Asher Lev is a thought-provoking exploration of love, honor, estrangement, and the tensions between art and faith in a religious community. It offers valuable insights into the challenges faced by the orthodox in a secular world and is a must-read for anyone interested in Jewish culture and literature.

Summary: Asher Lev, exiled for a scandalous artwork, returns after twenty years for his uncle's funeral. He faces new challenges and discovers a valuable art collection. The Rebbe's cryptic message leads Asher to a difficult decision about his son's future. Potok's "quiet" voice reveals the depth of the characters and their relationships. The novel explores the tensions between art and faith in a religious community.

This is a truly challenging review to pen

because the plot is so intricate and I'm reluctant to disclose any spoilers. Let me start by stating that you must first read "My Name is Asher Lev"

as this story occurs 20 years after Asher was exiled from his Ladover Jewish community in Crown Heights, NY

due to his art, specifically the two crucifixion paintings. These artworks catapulted him to international fame and made him a significant force in the art world.

He then relocated to France, got married, and had two children. When his beloved uncle passes away, he takes his family to NY for the funeral.

His daughter, who is 11 years old, is intelligent and perceptive. His son, at 5 years old, is as lovable as most children of that age. His wife is still grappling with the trauma of having been hidden in an apartment for two years at the tender age of 4 during WWII

and losing her parents in concentration camps.

That forms the foundation of what unfolds when Asher Lev returns. There are family dynamics, Jewish rituals, religion, greed, jealousy, resentment, a legacy from his uncle, his needs, his family's needs, and parental disappointment

As I mentioned earlier, it's a highly complicated plot. The ultimate question seems to be: how much is Asher expected to sacrifice for the gift of his artistic talent?

Potok is an inspired author. The title alone is inspired, having several meanings

and his writing has drawn me into an orthodox Jewish community about which I had very little knowledge. It is highly recommended for readers who adored "My Name is Asher Lev".

This novel continues the story of Asher Lev, who was first introduced in Potok's book My Name Is Asher Lev.

Here, we see him at the age of 45, married with two children and residing in the south of France. He is a world-renowned artist, yet his art work is abhorrent to his parents and the Hasidic community. Asher is living in France because the community's Rebbe exiled him from his original home in Brooklyn, New York. Nevertheless, Asher has managed to retain his Hasidic Jewish practice and has built a good life for himself in France.

However, everything changes for him and his family when he receives a call to return home (Brooklyn) for his uncle's funeral.

I found the novel to be both quiet and disquieting, leaving me with a lot to think about. It was published in 1990, but many of its themes are still relevant today, such as politics, art, and Orthodox Judaism's disdain for Conservative and Reform Jews.

Gradually, Asher discovers that the Rebbe has a special purpose in mind for his 5-year-old son, Avrumel. This will have a profound impact on his entire family. I empathized with Asher as he grappled with what to do. This made for an interesting read.

I envision Avrumel as the 5-year-old child he is. Not being Hasidic myself, I cannot fathom Asher allowing Avrumel to be groomed to become the community's future Rebbe. I believe that Asher should have been more assertive in insisting that his family return to France with him. And he should have fully discussed this with his wife. Why is he the sole decision-maker?


Here is my review of My Name Is Asher Lev https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

I truly LOVED this book.

I firmly believe that everyone who has read My Name is Asher Lev should also read this one. It took me the entire summer to complete, mainly because it is the kind of book that you just can't rush through. You have to linger over it, savor every word.

I really didn't want it to end. Not only are the chapters exquisitely written, but the storyline also delicately balances out the hardships that Asher encountered during his youth.

This story takes place twenty years later, when he has a wife and two children and is now returning to the U.S. It is a tale about redemption, hope, and persevering through both the highs and lows of life.

I'm certain that one of the reasons I'm so enamored with this book is that, as an art historian, I'm deeply interested in understanding Asher's art and his pursuit of making it meaningful.

However, I think in a broader context, Asher's situation can be applied to anyone who is striving to foster creativity and beauty in their lives and come to terms with their daily spirituality.

How do we make sense of God's seemingly absent presence? How do we remain faithful in the face of inexplicable evils, trials, and difficulties? This is Asher's dilemma, and Potok presents it thoughtfully, without resorting to cliched or empty answers, but with an underlying sense of the power of resilience and optimism.

The strength of Potok lies in the honesty and depth he brings to his characters and their communities.

In his stories of the Ladovers, there is a rich tapestry of emotions: beauty and love, anger and disappointment, hope and despair.

One feels as if they have truly stepped into the world of the Hasid, a world that is both alien and familiar to me.

In some ways, I identify with Asher: I am connected to this world, yet not truly a part of it.

Asher, of course, is a part of the Hasidic world, but he exists in a kind of exile within it.

His duality allows us to enter this insular world without intruding.

I know little about Potok's personal life and biography.

I'm not sure how much of him is reflected in Asher Lev, but it seems like a significant amount.

Obviously, one can see the tension between religion and art that Potok may have experienced himself.

I also wonder how much of Asher's struggle to create new art without repeating himself mirrors the author's own similar challenges.

I liked this book, but it doesn't reach the level of My Name is Asher Lev or The Chosen.

It's good, but not on the same plane as those true classics.

The Gift is too melancholy, too meandering, and too derivative to be considered truly great.

There is simply too much moping and waiting throughout.

The ending is ambiguous (which makes some sense in the context of the story) but ultimately unsatisfying.

The story builds and builds, only to end abruptly.

Most importantly, I don't think this sequel provides any deeper insights into the first book.

In some ways, it's like an extended epilogue.

It was nice to revisit and see how things have turned out, but it doesn't really add anything new.

**SPOILER ALERT** This review delves into some of the central plot lines within the book.

These books are rich with outstanding symbolism. Take Asher's crucifixion paintings, for instance. They not only signify the suffering of his mother but perhaps that of the entire Jewish community. His picture of Abraham with Isaac, where Isaac is actually being sacrificed, is also highly symbolic. I envision Asher's father, filled with rage upon seeing these pictures. He seems like a man who has learned little in life, capable of understanding only extremely conservative interpretations of the Torah handed down through generations.

Knowing that Chaim Potok was a Rabbi elevates the book to a higher plane. He must have been similar to Asher, able to comprehensively understand all aspects of living the religion while simultaneously being able to expose the evident pitfalls and issues with such a conservative mindset and way of life. I almost suspect he was attempting to encourage his people to be more understanding and cautious in how they judge and deal with those within their own community who deviate from the norm. To me, he painted Asher as the most virtuous and moral person among them, in stark contrast to Yonkle.

The Rebbe, to some extent, exhibited careful behavior towards both Asher and Jacob, still loving and accepting them. However, when he banished Asher from the community, I felt his actions were rather extreme. Why not suggest moving to Midtown instead of France?

I have read that many Jewish groups have banned these books and look down upon them. This is not unexpected as there is undoubtedly a great deal of criticism of the conservative and blindly obedient behavior depicted by the leaders and conservatives in both books. Yet, Asher remains true to the teachings and continues to honor the Rebbe's wishes, to the extent that he is willing to give Avrumel to his father and the Rebbe for the sake of leadership continuity. In my view, this is no gift; it is like Abraham sacrificing Isaac, as in Asher's painting, and truly, as has been done to Asher ever since he desired to become an artist. Asher is the sacrificed Isaac because it is the will of The Master of the Universe, and Asher still believes it to the point of obediently allowing it to occur. So, for me, this sacrifice is极其 unfair and wrong, demonstrating how selfish and blind those leading cult-like religions can be while believing they are doing the right thing. It is the worst aspect of religion. I also think of the extreme Muslims and their suicide bombings. A step worse than how Asher is treated and taught, but emerging from the same extremist and abhorrent thinking.

In the end, I found myself loving Asher and caring deeply about him. I wish he would have been chosen as the Rebbe. Then, perhaps, we would have a religion worth liking.

A wonderful complex novel that delves deep into the fascinating theme of individuality versus the community. It masterfully weaves together various elements such as religion, art, family, and depression, creating a rich and multi-faceted narrative. The prose is simply mesmerising, drawing the reader in and keeping them hooked from start to finish. Potok truly is a legend in the literary world. His ability to explore such profound and complex ideas with such elegance and grace is truly remarkable. This novel is a must-read for anyone interested in exploring the human condition and the tensions that exist between the individual and society. It offers valuable insights and food for thought, and will leave a lasting impression on the reader.

I could have rated it five stars before I read it.

"Riddles, puzzles, double meanings, lost possibilities, the dark side to the light, the light side to the darkness, different perspectives on the same things. Nothing in this whole world has only one side to it. Everything is like a kaleidoscope. That's what I'm trying to capture in my art. That's what I mean by ambiguity."

Twenty years after the events of My Name Is Asher Lev, Asher Lev, the rebel, trouble-maker, and genius, is called home to Brooklyn for a funeral. He is reliving the past, and it's killing his inspiration.

I read the first half of this over the course of 3 weeks; then I read the second half yesterday. I finally buckled down to finish it, lost myself. You cannot read Potok books broken up into chunks, or you'll miss the deep yet subtle connections between everything. His writing is like honey, thick with detail and hard to process in gulps. You have to drink it in slowly.

And if I give him focus, Potok will start to shape the way I see the world around me. Small details noticed, a dissection of everyday interactions, and an indescribable feeling that I'm only an observer on the world. The moods and emotions he crafts in his stories begin to affect my own moods and emotions.

This book in particular is by far the most Slice of Life version of his style I've yet read. Very little happens in the middle of this book. It paints Lev's wandering with strokes so that the reader feels it as well. Every detail that Potok points out places you into the artist's mind, looking at the world in the way only an artist can. I do not read many Slice of Life books, but Potok's use of specificity makes for such rich writing.

But hardly anything about this book is concrete besides the writing. Everything floats, like we're in Lev's thoughts. The words flow in a stream of consciousness, all leading to a single wide river, but no stopping point. The end of the book doesn't end the lives of the characters. The rivers will keep on flowing.

I'm still struggling with what this book is trying to say. Do I agree with it? What is it even saying? It's the most ambiguous of Potok's works that I've read--like a mystery to uncover with clues on every single page. It's a riddle.

And I realized in reading this book, that I completely stole Potok's style. The narrative flow reminded me of my own writing exactly, if my writing quality was magnified by a hundred. It scared me, because I felt a strange detachment from the words, a distance, at least at the beginning of the book. Then I was drawn in. It still worries me.

I decided that it was inevitable I would cry after the first chapter. Starting the book was like meeting an old friend; and at the end of the reunion I was supposed to burst into tears like I did with My Name Is Asher Lev. All the signs were there: the rising tension at the end, every thread coming to a climax in the final pages when there weren't enough pages left for a happy end to everything. Then I finished the last page and stared at the ceiling for a long while. It didn't end the way I wanted it to, but it ended in the right way.

I actually debated with myself whether it was really worth five stars; something felt off about it. But I can't do that. If this book was under a different name I would have no problems with giving it five stars and marking it as a favorite book. But this was a Potok, and I expected a lot. It's still worth the five stars. Maybe not worth the favorite. It's a tough book to read.

Little about The Gift of Asher Lev is underwhelming--don't think I meant that. This book is like a flood, far more than you ever could want. Far more than is easy to dissect. There's too much to be able to understand the ambiguity in one reading. Like Asher Lev's own art, not everyone gets it. No one will fully understand it besides the author. This book is a riddle, a complex and thought-provoking work that challenges the reader to look beyond the surface and explore the deeper meanings within. It's a book that will stay with you long after you've turned the last page, making you question your own beliefs and perspectives on life.