“And then they stopped all of the tanks and for a moment I was so foolish to think that it was over, that they had decided to return to Germany and end the war because nobody likes war not even those who survive it, not even the winners.”

When I started this book I was thinking it is a pretentious contrived work of experimental fiction that I usually don't connect with, but I ended up really liking it. I love these kinds of surprises which push me to give more than one chance to genres of books I didn't immediately find compelling. The narrative is by no means traditional, the non-linear fragmented structure jumps around in time, and there are stories within the stories told by three different narrators, switching style, language and viewpoint, sometimes without satisfying conclusion. We are following the main character Jonathan (the author himself) in a journey across Ukrania in the quest of finding the mysterious woman Augustina, who may, or may not save his Jewish grandfather from the Nazis. As the stories of Jonathan's ancestors unravel more and more emotional and compelling stories of Ukrainian people are being displayed in the magic realism history of the village of Trachimbrod, from 1791 to the arrival of the Nazi army in 1941. I was definitely highly interested and emotionally and mentally invested in stories, and considering that connection happens really with me and this type of literary fiction, I consider this a good book, but I think it would benefit from simplification but then again, it would lose a bit of its quirkiness and uniqueness, especially for the genre of historical fiction. I loved the arrogant trippiness of the prose throughout and I want to try more Safran in the future for sure. I think fans of work similar to David Grossman's A Horse Walks into a Bar would immensely enjoy Everything is illuminated, in my opinion, much more vivid and better-crafted work.

“It's true, I am afraid of dying. I am afraid of the world moving forward without me, of my absence going unnoticed, or worse, being some natural force propelling life on. Is it selfish? Am I such a bad person for dreaming of a world that ends when I do?”

These actually are three stories in one book: that of the author Jonathan Safran Foer who visits Ukraine in search of traces of his ancestors, helped by a bumbling Ukrainian interpreter; that of the interpreter itself, Alexander, who accompanies Safran Foer and afterwards corresponds with him, and finally the story that Safran Foer writes about the history of his ancestors. The latter is rather nice, and Safran Foer shows that he has something to offer. But the antics of interpreter Alex for me were a real letdown: the process initially is funny, but after a few pages it became absolutely boring. (1.5 stars)

Sometimes reading makes me so angry

Dammit.

I’m a freaking mess. I realize this and I accept it.

Ugh.

Why, Jonathan Safran Foer? Why? Why do you do this to me? And why the hell are you so young? I know that some call you gimmicky and think that you are just a phosphoresce in the pannikin (yes, I, too, have access to Thesaurus.com) but I just…just…spleen them. They can read their Anderson and their Coetzee and leave us dreamers alone. I am ‘Team Foer’; others be damned. (I still wish you weren’t so freaking young, though)

The story is fragmented, told through letters and hodgepodges of writings that might or might not be parts of a novel. There is the story about the people of Trachimbrod, which might be Trochenbrod, a city in western Ukraine that was decimated during WWII by a Nazi Invasion. There is the story of Alex and Jonathan and their journey to find out Who is Augustine?  And to thank her for saving Jonathan’s lineage. There is the story of Grandfather and Herschel (copious amounts of tears during that one).

And then there are the stories within the stories. The story of Brod, Jonathan’s great great great great great grandmother and her struggle with loving the idea of love and her 613 sadnesses ( “Mirror Sadness”, “Sadness of not knowing if your body is normal”, “Beauty Sadness”, “Sadness of Hands”, “Sadness of knowing that your body is normal”, “Kissing Sadness”, “Sadness of wanting sadness”, “Sadness of feeling the need to create beautiful things”, What if? Sadness”, “Sadness”, “Secret Sadness.”)

The story of the would-be ‘Augustine’ and her house with its many labeled boxes ( ‘Silver/Perfume/Pinwheels’, ‘Watches/Winter’, ‘Darkness’, ‘Pillowcases’, ‘Poetry/Nails/Pisces’, ‘Dust’, 'Menorahs/Inks/Keys', 'Death of a Firstborn', 'In Case')

I loved them all. I love the awakenings and the not-truths. I love the humor and the tragedies and the friendships. I am giddy and heavy hearted. I am in love with the idea.

What I loved most, what I clung to after I finished the book, was this:

Jews have Six Senses
Touch, taste, sight, smell, hearing….memory. While Gentiles experience and process the world through the traditional senses, and see memory only as a second-order means of interpreting events, for Jews memory is no less primary than the prick of a pin, or its silver glimmer, or the taste of the blood it pulls from the finger. The Jew is pricked by a pin and remembers other pins. It is only by tracing the pinprick back to other pinpricks—when his mother tried to fix his sleeve while his arm was still in it, when his grandfather’s fingers fell from stroking his great-grandfather’s damp forehead, when Abraham tested the knife point to be sure Isaac would feel no pain---that the Jew is able to know why it hurts.
When a Jew encounters a pin, he asks “What does it remember like?”

The idea of memory as a sense. Okay, I’ve admitted it before and will again and again. I’m a shiksa—a French-Canadian/German/NH bred—Shiksa. I can’t fathom the horrors of having the Holocaust in my past, I won’t even begin to pretend to imagine the ramifications. But I can appreciate this idea: “What does it remember like?” Aren’t we all tied to the past? Aren’t all of our future actions predetermined by a memory? “Everything is the way it is because everything was the way it was.”

So much for Free Will.

At one point, Alex begs Jonathan when writing their story: “I beseech you to forgive us, and to make us better than we are. Make us good.”

We have that power in writing. To take away the bad and to recreate. We usually choose not to. It has to be gritty…fairytales are for the young…we need to set the story straight… we need to exorcise our demons….and so on. Make us good. God, that just about killed me.

And this is why I will always defend Foer. His ability to bring me to this awareness and to break my heart in 300 pages or less.

За паспортом я Олександр Перцов. Але всі другани кличуть мене просто Алєкс, бо так тупо легше вимовити моє настояще ім’я. Мама мене називає Льоша-нє-нєрвіруй-мєня, бо я постоянно граю їй на нервах.

Такими словами – і я лише можу уявити, як це звучало в оригіналі – стартує свою першу книжку на той час 25-річний Джонатан Сафран Фоер. «Всьо ясно» стала для нього дебютом, справжнім «проривом» у світ літератури, який він із галасом повторив з книжкою «Страшенно голосно і неймовірно близько» - впевнена, ви знаєте як не роман, так фільм.
*
Мені дуже складно писати рецензію на «Всьо ясно» і не тому, що під кінець книжки розумієш – ніфіга не ясно, шановний Сафране, як можна було всьо аж так наплутати? – а тому, що теж маючи родину з єврейським корінням, в своїх пошуках я маю більше білих плям, ніж відповідей – хто, коли, чому і навіщо.

20-річний Джонатан – і це, власне, сам Фоер, наприкінці буремних українських 90-х приїжджає до Львова, де зустрічається з усіма «прєлєстями жизні», як-от подвійна такса для іноземця, який вєрняк має «валюту», висміювання вегетаріанства («і сосиски не їж? – ні. – шо з тобою не так?»), паскудна розбавлена кава і брудна підлога вокзалу, на якому зате розвішані голубі і жовті шматки паперу (в честь річниці Конституції). На таку ризиковану поїздку з двома одеськими «гідами» - нібито сліпим «дідом» і недоучкою з ін’язу Алєксом та шавкою на кличку Семмі Дейвіс Младший-Младший, Джонатан зважується заради пошуків таємничої Августини – жінки, яка врятувала його дідуся в часи Другої світової.

Чого не варто чекати?
Літературної мови і це зрозуміло з першого абзацу роману, а також з моїх речень – я не здатна втриматися і не вклинити цей одеський суржик, який Фоер видав англійською, а потім Ростислав Семків умудрився відтворити нашою, майже солов’їною.

Роману у класичному сенсі цього слова: Сафран – не Жауме Кабре, але й він любить пострибати роками – події 1999 року переплітаються з трагічним випадком 1791-го, потім ми бачимо Другу світову війну, яка немов завмерла у винищеному Трохимброді, а останній розділ – я не спойлю! – пропонує проекцію 1942-1791 років. Думайте!

Що ви отримаєте?
Звичайну людську драму: «Він непоганий чоловік. Він хароший чоловік, який народився в погане врємя». Її причини. Її наслідки.

Багато премудростей (звідки, звідки вони були у голові 25-річного Сафрона?), причому з добрячим ухилом до єврейської релігії, міфології і філософії загалом.

Чудовий гумор – уривок про Бога і плагіат, який Ним і був «породжений», я, мабуть, вставлю у свою дисертацію, просто на всяк випадок:)

Інтригу і навіть трохи містики, які триматимуть у постійному зацікавленні і особливо уважним (зізнаюсь, що деякі уривки перечитувала двічі) дадуть відповідь на все і навіть більше.

Євреї мають шість відчуттів.
Дотик, смак, зір, нюх, слух... пам‘ять. Тоді як не євреї-гої сприймають і перетворюють світ за допомогою тільки перших п’яти відчуттів, а пам’ять використовують лише як допоміжний засіб інтерпретації різних подій, для євреїв пам'ять є не менш відчутною, ніж укол шпильки, її срібний блиск чи смак крові, яка тече з пораненого нею пальця. Якщо єврея вколоти шпилькою, він одразу згадує про тисячі інших шпильок. Лише через зіставлення гостроти шпильки з гостротою інших відчуттів – як мама вколола тебе голкою, намагаючись пришпилити відірваний рукав, як дідові пальці звело кольками судоми, бо він змучився стирати піт із прадідового лоба, як Авраам пробував на пальці, чи гостре лезо ножа, щоб Ісаак не відчув болю, - тільки усвідомивши все це, єврей відчуває, що то справді болить.
Таким чином, коли єврей знаходить шпильку, він запитує себе: «Про що вона мені нагадує?»

This brilliant debut novel by Jonathan Safran Foer is a deeply-felt imaginative achievement. It is wholly recommendable, even if it is only half of a good book. The half that is good--no, great--is so worthy as to overshadow the book's other half, which is, sad to say, an embarassing if rightly-intended misfire.

The half that is successful is the tale of the fictional Jonathan Safran Foer's search for the story of his ancestors. It is successful as a story, but especially in the way it is told, in the hilarious, fractured, malapropriate voice of Alex, the Ukrainian translator/guide. Alex's way of speaking jumps instantly into the pantheon of great narratorial voices in literature, right next to Huckleberry Finn, to whom the technique hugely owes allegiance. Foer is doing the Twain bit of putting his story in the mouth of of a speaker of "substandard English," and of letting this voice become, eventually, poetic and utterly profound. It is a great and a wonderful achievement.

Part of what is terrific about this is that Alex's voice changes throughout the course of the narrative, as he learns more correct English from his writer-idol, Foer. So the book shows not only a narrative arc, but a corresponding arc of style as well.

The Alex-spoken chapters alternate with the supposed novel about his ancestors which the fictional Foer is writing, and which Alex progressively comments on when his sections come around again. Unfortunately, the quaint story of the ancestors in their small village doesn't have the brilliance of Alex's parts. This whole section of the novel reads like a Jewish folktale, full of magical-realist touches, but somehow it doesn't have a stamp of truth or real honesty to it. it comes off as cloying and precious, to tell the truth.

It might be argued that this quality was a very deliberate choice by the author. The idea here, completely supported by the novel as a whole, would be that the real story of the ancestors and their destruction in the holocaust is so harrowing that it cannot and should not be remembered by the fictional Foer. So instead, he creates this folktale version of events, with wild and magical characters and so forth.

Sure, I see that. I know that that is part of what is going on. The contrast between the story as told and the harrowing history as we eventually discover it it huge. But for me, it didn't work. The magical-realist nostalgia sections have to have an integrity and an honesty at their heart. And these are lacking in that, lacking in some deeply-felt spirit that would connect them with reality. They seem cartoony. They are trying way too hard. This is not Isaac Bashevis Singer, but is trying hard to be, and the attempt becomes embarassing after awhile.

The film version of the novel very rightly left out this half of the story entirely, and was very true to Alex's narrative. It worked, I thought, quite well.

As I said at the outset, though, the Alex parts are so well done, so strong and funny and well-told, that they carry the novel. Though only half-successful, this is a very good book.

There are obstacles to enjoying this book. They are worth overcoming.
Ground rules:
1. Do not, do not, do not read the blurb, or the effusive quotes all over and inside the damn book. They will make you hate the author before you have even begun.
2. If you are not Jewish you will likely be dismayed by the insularity of the first few chapters. Persevere.
3. The 'cute' mangled English does border on tiresome, but generates scattered lols and more importantly lends poignancy later on.

It's a patchwork of bright, romantic, experimental, expectation-defying images.

I didn't like the self-righteous tone that develops later, leaning on atrocity for gravitas. The ending for me was murky. Overall though the patchwork is well crafted; woven together with no itching edges. Enough to conjure a magical feeling and make you care enough to immerse in it to the end.

n   “Soy una buena persona que vivió una mala época” n

Como esos títulos que tienen forma de ola o de montaña rusa en los capítulos de una de las partes que de forma alternativa se van sucediendo a lo largo de todo el relato, así fue mi experiencia con la novela: grandes subidas y suaves descensos, sin que ello signifique que, como en ese carro que se hunde en el río en el inicio del relato histórico del que van saliendo a la superficie objetos de muy diversa índole, no aparecieran en esos declives de vez en cuando párrafos maravillosos. El final, como en las etapas ciclistas de montaña, es en alto, aunque después haya un pequeño descenso hasta llegar a la meta.

n   “El fin del mundo ha llegado a menudo, y sigue llegando con la misma frecuencia.” n

La novela se inicia con mucha fuerza gracias a las divertidísimas reflexiones que Alex hace acerca de lo que fue su trabajo como traductor para Safran Foer en Ucrania mientras este se documentaba sobre sus ancestros judíos con el fin de escribir una novela, su primera novela, una preciosidad durante buena parte de la poética, dura, mágica y triste historia.

n   “Para Brod, la vida era la lenta constatación de que este mundo no estaba hecho para ella, y de que, por la razón que fuera, ella nunca podría ser feliz y sincera al mismo tiempo… Nada conseguía ser más de lo que era en realidad. Eran solo cosas, prisioneras de su propia esencia.” n

Como enlace entre ambas partes están las cartas, divertidas en un principio, muy amargas a medida que avanza la historia, que Alex escribe a Safran comentando los capítulos de la novela que este le va enviando, y que nosotros también leeremos, al mismo tiempo que discutía los comentarios que el novelista le hacía sobre el relato que Alex iba escribiendo acerca de sus días en Ucrania y que este le enviaba a su vez, también con una deriva desde lo divertido hacia lo doloroso. Cartas que, copiando su estilo y sus expresiones y hasta frases enteras, podría yo enviar a Safran para decirle:

Querido Jonathan.

Espero que estés feliz y que tu familia esté saludable y próspera.

Tragándome un trozo de orgullo, me siento forzado a proclamar primeramente que no soy nada primordial escribiendo cartas y que querer, como quiero, ser sincero y a la vez benévolo es bastante rígido.

Empezaré decorosamente refiriendo los rosados cosquilleos que sentí leyendo tu libro, lo embelesado que me he encontrado con muchas de las contingencias de tu familia que a mucha gente le irá bien saber. Toda la pandilla me ha parecido primordial, el héroe, o sea, tú, Alex, el machete, el torpe Pequeño Igor, el abuelo, que me gustaría imaginármelo ahora exhalando zetas, y, aunque a ti no te electrifique mucho, también el perrito Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior, ¡qué gracia bosquejarlo socializando con tu pierna! De padre mejor no digo nada, ni de madre tampoco. Estoy siendo cautelar

Hay otros momentos en la parte céntrica del libro que no he disfrutado tanto, conjeturo que pudo ser porque eran muy judías. No atesoro peros en contra de los judíos, aunque no pueda perdonaros vuestro proceder como país en la actualidad ni comprender vuestra pasiva instalación en aquellos acaecidos tiempos.

“De manera que no se hizo nada. No se tomó decisión alguna. No se preparó ninguna maleta, ni se vaciaron las casas. No se construyeron trincheras ni se blindaron edificios. Nada. Esperaron como tontos, sentados como tontos, hablando, como tontos…”

Pese a todo, te reiteralizo lo de los rosados cosquilleos y mis muchos embelesos. Si tu diana era hacer algo de lo que no avergonzarte, puedes conformarte mucho.

Y ya, no teniendo ningún otro apunte luminoso que darte, me despido, que sé que mi forma de articular termina fastidiando un poquito y quizás fue algo de lo que tú dispensaste cantidubi en la novela. Lo que no roba que poseas razón al pensar que “el humorístico es el único modo sincero de contar una historia triste”, aunque tampoco puedo disputarte que también, mano a mano, “el humor no es más que una forma de escabullirse de este mundo maravilloso y terrible”.

Bueno, que espero que mis palabras no te hayan parecido insignificantes o carentes de adecuación, nada me hastiaría más que haberte puesto aburrido. Solo puedo instruirte de que he colocado mi mejor talento y me he esforzado al máximo, que es lo máximo que puedo esforzarme.

Con todo mi candor.

Guille.

No, not clever at all. Just a very simple trick: pick up a thesaurus and change a few verbs and adjectives in such a way that their usage becomes absurd or silly. What would have been clever is listening carefully to real-life people trying to cope in a foreign tongue, then create a character who uses the kind of crude, unnuanced language that you get as a result. I would advise Foer to get up from behind that desk and do some serious travelling (abroad) - stay in (youth) hostels: they are a treasure trove of funny English. So much for the main ploy of this book. As for the storyline, I "close ranks with" (how's that for a Foerism?) Steve and Nils Samuels (both: three stars) : take a look at their excellent reviews.

I'm not sure how I feel about this, one of the most overhyped novels of the early noughties. On the one hand, it undeniably contains flashes of genius. It is original, inventive and ambitious, which is great. On the other hand, it has a few aspects which annoyed me, and that, I think, is less good.

In a nutshell, Everything Is Illuminated is an amalgam of three interconnected stories. The first is that of a young Jewish American (bearing the same name as the author) who visits the Ukraine in an attempt to find the woman who saved his grandfather from the Nazis and without whom he himself would never have been born. This part of the story is told by Alex, the flashy young Ukrainian who serves as Jonathan's interpreter. Alex's subsequent letters to Jonathan, written in a bizarre, highly ornate and seriously mangled kind of English, make up the second storyline. Finally, the third storyline consists of the magic-realist novel Jonathan writes about life in his grandfather's Jewish village before the Nazis destroyed it. Together, the three storylines tell a tale of friendship, guilt, family secrets, atrocities, opportunities, dreams and ways of dealing with drama which is at turns funny and shocking and occasionally beautifully nostalgic.

As I said, there is much about the book that is to be admired. Foer is undeniably a gifted writer. He relishes his stories and has a lot of fun sharing them with the reader. Sadly, though, he is rather uneven, following passages of great beauty (especially towards the end of the book) with scenes which are so crass that they completely ruin the effect. He also tries a bit too hard to be clever and original, coming up with gimmicks and typographical idiosyncrasies which are interesting at first but do rather distract from the narrative. And then there's the book's main gimmick, which is Alex' mangled English. While frequently funny, it is also entirely unconvincing from a linguistic point of view, and I'm enough of a linguist to care about such things. Halfway through the book I got so fed up with Alex' overwritten language that I began to dread his parts of the narrative. I doubt that was Foer's intention.

So. Yeah. It's an interesting tale, but I wish Foer had waited a few years before telling it. I'm pretty sure he'll mature into an excellent author; this story just happened to come a bit too early in his career to live up to the hype.

The last book for the American Novel Since 1945!

Personally, I ended up loving this book, but I fully respect and understand those that hate it. I see you!

Everything is Illuminated is about an American named Jonathan Safran Foer who is visiting Ukraine. He has a goal to find Augustine, a woman pictured in a photograph that is associated with his grandfather.

To assist Jonathan in his journey are Alex (acting as translator) and Alex’s Grandfather (acting as driver).

First, readers hear from Alex, and he writes in broken English. His attempts at conquering the language are often humorous.

“My face gave a high-five to the front window.”

Then, readers have a section of the book from a different time period. The author essentially info dumps, introducing an overwhelming number of characters and events in a relatively short period of time.

This was where I was thinking, “Hmmmmm…..I’m not sure that I like this book…..”

But I persevered.

As the book unfolds, Alex and Jonathan talk about what to include in their story; perhaps not everything has happened in the way it was described. Some readers will naturally feel cheated.

I decided to sit with that feeling.

Everything Is Illuminated feels real because when the group finds someone (or did they?), the reader must question this person’s memory. When we read literature, the reader usually gets a detailed narrative with no missing holes, no missing segment of time. However, that isn’t life. I can’t even remember what I ate last week, let alone every detail from decades ago.

At one point, I was getting confused about Grandfather and Jonathan’s grandfather, trying to keep straight who is who. I suspect that might be intentional on the author’s part to show how history is interconnected.

Once pushing past some of the novel’s awkwardness, I found it deeply moving, and I enjoyed many delicious quotes.

Here are some:
“Fanny packs are not cool in America.”
“I truly feel that I was born to be an accountant.”
“I do not want to make you a petrified person, but there are many dangerous people who want to take things without asking from Americans, and also kidnap them. Good night.”
“He is not a bad person. He is a good person, alive in a bad time.”
“You are the only person who has understood even a whisper of me.”

The Green Light at the End of the Dock (How much I spent):
Softcover Text – $11.89 from Amazon
Audiobook – $84.99 per year through Everand

2025 Reading Schedule
JantA Town Like Alice
FebtBirdsong
MartCaptain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Berniere
AprtWar and Peace
MaytThe Woman in White
JuntAtonement
JultThe Shadow of the Wind
AugtJude the Obscure
SeptUlysses
OcttVanity Fair
NovtA Fine Balance
DectGerminal

Connect With Me!
Blog Twitter BookTube Facebook Insta My Bookstore at Pango

Il mio 2013 letterario inizia con questo romanzo di Foer, che nonostante l'inizio difficile, mi ha coinvolto pienamente.
Tra presente e passato Foer ci porta alla scoperta di un viaggio nell'Ucraina di oggi attraversato da personaggi, quali Alex, il nonno (che essere straordinario!) e un cane puzzolente. Un viaggio tra presente e passato, un passato storico e privato di ferite, di cambiamenti.
Per tutto il tempo della lettura sono stata pervasa da una sorta di mestizia, malinconia, tristezza, che ha fatto sì che lo apprezzassi di più, lo amassi.
Sebbene abbia amato maggiormente "Molto forte, incredibilmente vicino", ritengo che questo libro sia da leggere, perché è un viaggio sulla verità che si fa libertà, perché solo conoscendo possiamo capire e non dimenticare.

Cineva a inițiat pe vremuri un concurs pornind de la îndemnul: „Rezumați într-o propoziție cît mai scurtă romanul lu Marcel Proust În căutarea timpului pierdut...”. Cel care a cîștigat întrecerea a propus acest enunț minimal: „Marcel învață să scrie”.

I-aș urma exemplul și aș rezuma romanul lui Foer astfel: „Jonathan își caută rădăcinile”. Aș mai divulga faptul oarecum nesemnificativ, deși evident, că Jonathan „este un evreu ingenios” (p.9). Atît de ingenios încît nu poți să nu te întrebi dacă Totul este iluminat reprezintă și altceva decît un exercițiu narativ foarte ingenios. Părerile sînt împărțite.

De neuitat rămîne povestea iubirii dintre Brod și Kalkianul / Safran (pp.162-187). Engleza lui Aleksandr Perciov (pe numele lui oficial!) e seducătoare. Să spun oare că părțile redactate de Aleksandr mi s-au părut mai amuzante decît cele redactate de Jonathan? Nu spun. Citez numai un pasaj:

„A încercat din nou să pună verigheta pe degetul mic al eroului și a apăsat foarte rigid și am observat că asta i-a dat eroului multe feluri de durere, cu toate că el n-a înfățișat nici măcar una dintre ele” (p.256).

Citiți cartea și veți trăi negreșit multe feluri de plăcere...