I once again marvel at the perceptiveness of those the literati dismiss as pulp fiction writers. Here is something from Harold Robbins that I have read several times in the past 40 years. An excerpt from A Stone for Danny Fisher one of his touching books. It talks about a Jewish ritual where all relatives of a dead person visit the cemetery and pray and remember the dead person, and place a small stone on the tomb. The author talks on behalf of Danny, the dead person: To my mother, I am a frightened child, huddling close to her bosom, seeking safety in her hands. To my father, I am a difficult son, whose love was hard to meet, yet strong as mine for him. To my sister, I am the bright young brother, whose daring was a cause for love and fear. To my sisters husband, I am the friend who shared his common hope of glory. To my wife I am the lover, who beside her in the night, worshipped with her in the shrine of passion, and joined her in a child. To my son - to my son, I know not what I am, for he knew me not. How very true and touching and evocative.
Posted on: Sun, 02 Nov 2014 12:45:01 +0000
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