Kaddish for an Unborn Child Read Online Free PDF Page A

peculiar fact—(namely, that I was Jewish) in all its singular oddity, or at least in a more familiar light, I suddenly realized that I now understood who I was:
a bald-headed woman seated in front of the mirror in a red negligee.
The matter was plain enough, albeit not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible, but in the final analysis, indisputably, it admirably defined my not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible situation, to say nothing of my kinship. In the end, as things turned out, I simply no longer needed it because I came to terms with the notion, that is, the notion of my Jewishness, just as I have come to terms, slowly and one by one, with a succession of other not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible notions, in a sort of crepuscular truce, of course, knowing full well that even these not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible notions will themselves eventually cease when I cease to be, until which time those notions are admirably useful things, including, in the front rank, the notion of my Jewishness—of course, solely as a not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible matter of fact, moreover one which now and again is also somewhat life-imperiling, but then, at least for me (and I hope, indeed am confident, that
by no means
everybody will agree with me on this, while I suppose some will be offended at, indeed I sincerely hope will hate, me for this, especially Jewish and non-Jewish philo- and anti-Semites)—as I say, for me its utility resides precisely in this, this is the only way in which I can use it, no other way: as a not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible and, moreover, occasionally life-imperiling matter of fact that perhaps, purely for its perilousness,
one must try to love
, as we know, though speaking for myself I see no reason for it, perhaps because I long ago stopped trying to live as it were in harmony with other people, with Nature, or even with myself, and what is more, I would see that as nothing short of a form of moral poverty, the same sort of disgusting perversity as in an oedipal relationship or incest between two hideous siblings. Yes, so there I was sitting and waiting for my (ex-) wife in this coffee bar lit like an aquarium, hoping for a pile of new prescriptions and not even thinking about my not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible and, moreover, periodically life-imperiling existence, while two women at the nearby table chatted and I, virtually as a reflex, started to eavesdrop since they were attractive women, the one more of a blonde, the other more a brunette, and no matter how much and how often they dismayed me (to say no more than that), surreptitiously, if I pay attention, quietly and closely, to the circulation of my blood and my alarming dreams, as a matter of fact I am still, and even so, surreptitiously fond of attractive women, with an unshakable, incorrigible, I might say natural attraction which, for all it purports to be so banally understandable is nevertheless essentially mysterious, since it has almost nothing to do with me, and to that extent is even outrageous and in any event not so readily dismissed as, let’s say, my liking for plane trees, which I like simply for their sprawling, blotchy trunks, their splendid and fantastic branches, and their large, veined leaves, dangling as they do, at the right time of the year, like so many listless hands. And I had barely had a chance to join in, if only as a passive party, their conversation, the confidential, one might say stiflingly whispered tone of which instantly intimated a significant topic, when I heard the following words: “. . . I don’t know, but I could never do it with a foreigner . . . A black, a gypsy, an Arab . . .” At this point her voice broke off, but I sensed that she was merely hesitating, my sense of rhythm tipped me off that she was not