I found the passage. It wasn't the Rebbe, it was the mashpia. "Asherel, you have a gift. The gift causes you to think only of yourself and your own feelings. No one would care if these were normal times, Asherel. We do not interpret the second commandment the way others do. But these are not normal times."

Finished today.

I think people have been making very good points.

I think the "a man cannot serve two masters" (is that a parable?) thing is New Testament, but it came to mind as I was reading.

As did one of the things I've been told in a couple different places, that Christians who live pretty crappy or oppressed lives as a group (this often correlates with Catholicism, rather than Protestantism) put Christ on the cross in jewelry and decoration. The reason being that, whatever pain you are going through, Jesus wins (Crucifixion being about the most painful way to die). I think that idea, not only of sacrifice, but massive pain and suffering, is something that I've not encountered elsewhere (though, admittedly, I do not know all the possible symbologies, even in Judaism, as is relevant to this instance). The closest I can think of is Prometheus, which, no, he would not know, in all probability)

The other thing that struck me was the acceleration as the story went along. Even though there was a seeming lack of choice at most points all the way through, as he fell further into the funnel of inevitibility, things moved faster and faster. The shit accelerated toward the fan.

Maybe my favorite theme is the trying to balance two opposing ideas, to find a livable middle ground. I can't think of anyone who manages to do it in the book, which is quite a pattern/statement.

I didn't like Asher Lev as a person (although, as the single mother of two pre-teen children, my on-going struggle to convince each of them that he/she is not, in fact, the center of the universe might have colored my perception a bit!) but generally liked the book except for the undertone of passivity that ran through it. There was, as noted, that sense of inevitability about the final crash and burn that bugged me - that as readers we were supposed to accept the premise that Asher's talent left him no choice but to hurt his family and community and behaviors which would have prevented or lessened the pain (like managing to come home on time so his mother wouldn't be terrified) simply weren't possible for him. I have to say I wasn't convinced but then again, I'm big on the concept that humans have choices and that for most people, the claim that "I didn't have a choice" simply means the person didn't want to accept the responsibility of the choices, so I was able to suspend that particular disbelief long enough to enjoy the novel.

The part I'm still not clear about is whether Asher (or Potok) wants us to approve of Asher or merely empathize with him (and, at some level, I can relate to his situation - I've spent so much time between a rock and a hard place that the post office delivers my mail there). The story starts with Asher refusing to apologize so it would appear that he doesn't care what we think but at the same time, he is intent on trying to explain the "mystery", which indicates some need for validation so I'm left with the question - given that we know so much about what motivated Asher to paint, what motivated him to tell his story?

I don't think Asher as Narrator cares if we as Audience approve of him or not. The beginning, when he says (roughly), "Yes, that Asher Lev," sounds to me like "All right, you all want to know why I did it? Well, I'm only going to say it once. Pay attention now."

generally liked the book except for the undertone of passivity that ran through it.

I hadn't thought about it, but I see what you mean here. I think that Potok tends to have a laid-back, somewhat passive style of writing (this is just a general impression, not based on specific words or anything like that), but I don't get a such sense of inevitability in others. This irked me here too. There were times when I just wanted to kick Asher and his parents in the butt. On the positive side, I kind of think the Rebbe felt that way too, except he was better and kinder about it.

I just finished. (I had read it before so I was chiming in anyway)

I think Asher didn't (couldn't?) warn his parents because he wanted them to see his work. Not just the crucifixes, all of it. And not even the acclaim heaped on him at the opening -- he wanted them to see what he was and what he did. In part, I think it was because he had FINALLY seen what his Father had done, and appreciated it in a pretty visceral way -- and he wanted the same in return. He knew if he told them they wouldn't go and they would never see it. Once word of the crucifixes reached them, that would be it. He had this tiny window of them seeing him and his work before he, probably inevitably, broke their hearts.

I was struck how the week to the opening was a long good-bye. I knew what was coming, and it was so hard to watch it unfold.

I was also struck how the Rebbe sends him away but does not cast him out. By the end of the book I could almost understand the community's love and reverence for the man.

I was also struck how the Rebbe sends him away but does not cast him out. By the end of the book I could almost understand the community's love and reverence for the man.

Trudy, I had the same feeling, which surprised me.

And, going back a few days...

Naturally I could relate to the setting a great deal, probably more than most of you, and was actually curious how easy or difficult it was for other people to understand many of the concepts Asher Lev throws out.

This was the one thing that threw me out of the book (although I did really like it). Concepts and vocab were often eventually explained, but I could have used a glossary at the back for when I first reached an unknown word or ritual. Given that this was set in my neighborhood and I am actually in (visual) contact with Hasidim on a daily basis, I wondered how this would read to someone completely unfamiliar with the community. Of course, such a person would probably have the pleasure of not be annoyed by him calling Eastern Parkway "Brooklyn Parkway" or the Brooklyn Museum "Parkway Museum" so I guess it all works out.

That bothered me too, Megan, but I figured it made the locations not only a little more accessable to non-Brooklyn-knowers, but maybe even a little more cloistered for Asher.

Still bugged though.

Oh, and did you notice that Jacob Kahn's subway stop is mine? Gave me tingles.

By the end of the book I could almost understand the community's love and reverence for the man.

I did understand it. I was predisposed to not like him, but as written, the Rebbe seems like a truly holy man to me, part of a tradition, but not bound by it. This does tap into something that is also difficult for me, the idea of "holy people." I can understand regular rabbis or priests or whatever, who have the training, time and inclination to provide guidance. And I see people out there who appear to be "better than" (Mother Theresa, Ghandi), but it's hard for me to square these people and the concept with the world and people I see around me in daily life. Sorry for the incoherance on this, but it's hard for me to write on this, since I haven't figured it out for myself yet.

Re: the Rebbe--I was surprised by him as well. I always got the impression that he knew his people didn't quite get the whole message but he loved them all for working so hard. The fact that the Rebbe knew Jacob so well and that Jacob had great respect for the Rebbe was very telling. The Rebbe transcended boundaries that the less-enlightened couldn't.