September 14th, 2010

hasui hirakawa morning

(no subject)

Happy birthday, incandescens!

Picked up a book at a yard sale Saturday, In My Father's Court by Isaac Bashevis Singer, on account of never having read any Singer. Owner's name is scrawled illegibly on the flyleaf. Owner's name is... I.B. Singer. Well well well. Go me with the signed copy.

Strange world, that of the Polish Hasidim. Feels far more foreign than, say, Qing China, if Red Chambers and Shen Fu are anything to judge by. But then, maybe it's only Singer's vision itself that registers as magic realism. For sure, this memoir feels more MR than Robertson Davies' What's Bred in the Bone, the latter's angels and daimons notwithstanding. In fact, the presence of defined angels and daimons makes it *not* MR in my books; the fantastic ought to be inherent in the mundane, not a separate identifiable fantastic element.
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