Current Reading: The Seven Good Years by Etgar Keret

 

I started before, but, today, I started reading Etgar Keret's The Seven Good Years. The reason I stopped is because I did not have access to a copy from my public librar; well, now the library is open for browsing and checkouts. Here is a passage from Keret's book that I liked:

    Before I started publishing books, I inscribed dedications only in those I bought to give as gifts to people I knew. Then one day I suddenly found myself signing books for people who'd bought them themselves, people I'd never met before. What can you write in a book of a total stranger who may be anything from a serial killer to a Righteous Gentile? "In friendship" borders on falsehood; "With admiration" doesn't hold water; "Best wishes" sounds too avuncular; and "Hope you enjoy my book!" oozes swarm from the first H to the final exclamation point. So, exactly eighteen years ago, on the last night of my first Book Week, I created my own genre: fictitious book dedications. If the books themselves are pure fiction, why should the dedication be true?

    "To Danny, who saved my life on the Litani. If you hadn't tied that tourniquet, there'd be no more me and no book."

    To Mickey. Your mother called. I hung up on her. Don't you dare show your face around here anymore."

    "To Sinai. I'll be home late tonight, but I left some cholent in the fridge."

    "To Feige. Where's that tenner I lent you? You said two days and it's a month already. I'm still waiting."

    "To Tziki. I admit that I acted like a shit. But if your sister can forgive me, so can you."

    "To Avram. I Don't care what the lab test show. For me, you'll always be my dad.

    "Bosmat, even though you're with another guy now, we both know you'll come back to me in the end."

    In retrospect, after the slap in the face I got for that last one, I suppose I shouldn't have written what I did for the tall guy with the Marine buzz cut who was buying a book for his girlfriend, though I still think he could have made a civil remark instead of getting physical.

    In any case, I learned my lesson, however painfully, and since then, during every Book Week, no matter how much my hand itches to write in the books bought by some Dudi or Shlomi that the next time he sees anything from me on paper it's be a lawyer's letter, I take a deep breath and scribble "best wishes" instead. Boring, maybe, but much easier on the face.

    So, if that tall guy and Bosmat are reading this, I want them to know that I am truly repentant and would like to offer my belated apologies. And if by chance you're reading this Feige, I'm still waiting for the tenner (pgs 22-23).