• Complain

Cohen - A Heaven of Others

Here you can read online Cohen - A Heaven of Others full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. year: 2013;2011, publisher: Starcherone Books, genre: Detective and thriller. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:

Romance novel Science fiction Adventure Detective Science History Home and family Prose Art Politics Computer Non-fiction Religion Business Children Humor

Choose a favorite category and find really read worthwhile books. Enjoy immersion in the world of imagination, feel the emotions of the characters or learn something new for yourself, make an fascinating discovery.

Cohen A Heaven of Others

A Heaven of Others: summary, description and annotation

We offer to read an annotation, description, summary or preface (depends on what the author of the book "A Heaven of Others" wrote himself). If you haven't found the necessary information about the book — write in the comments, we will try to find it.

Joshua Cohen has created a visionary novel that is terrifying and heartbreaking and humbling in its luminous brilliance. In my view, it firmly places the author on the same level as Kafka. Michael Disend, author of Stomping the Goyim
The idea that there are multiple heavens, right ones and wrong ones, white ones and black ones, is pushed to its fantastical limits by Brooklyn writer Joshua Cohen in his dream-world novel of the afterlife. . Heaven is a challenging but rewarding read on thematic and formal levels. The Brooklyn Rail
A breathless flight of controlled delirium, an exquisitely blasphemous tour of an afterlife where earths dominion, in all its terror and glory, trumps the miraculous and overturns the world to come. . Its a brave book that should earn its young author the readers profound and enduring admiration. Steve Stern, author of The Frozen Rabbi
When a ten-year-old Jewish boy is exploded on a Jerusalem street by a ten-year-old Palestinian boy, he wakes up in a heaven no one in his tradition prepared him for, a heaven of others. Joshua Cohens novel stands at the crossroads of a conflicted city and wordplay that both celebrates and dismantles tradition.

A Heaven of Others — read online for free the complete book (whole text) full work

Below is the text of the book, divided by pages. System saving the place of the last page read, allows you to conveniently read the book "A Heaven of Others" online for free, without having to search again every time where you left off. Put a bookmark, and you can go to the page where you finished reading at any time.

Light

Font size:

Reset

Interval:

Bookmark:

Make
Annotation
"Joshua Cohen has created a visionary novel that is terrifying and heartbreaking and humbling in its luminous brilliance. In my view, it firmly places the author on the same level as Kafka." Michael Disend, author of Stomping the Goyim
"The idea that there are multiple heavens, right ones and wrong ones, white ones and black ones, is pushed to its fantastical limits by Brooklyn writer Joshua Cohen in his dream-world novel of the afterlife.. Heaven is a challenging but rewarding read on thematic and formal levels." The Brooklyn Rail
"A breathless flight of controlled delirium, an exquisitely blasphemous tour of an afterlife where earth's dominion, in all its terror and glory, trumps the miraculous and overturns the world to come.. It's a brave book that should earn its young author the reader's profound and enduring admiration." Steve Stern, author of The Frozen Rabbi
When a ten-year-old Jewish boy is exploded on a Jerusalem street by a ten-year-old Palestinian boy, he wakes up in a heaven no one in his tradition prepared him for, a heaven of others. Joshua Cohen's novel stands at the crossroads of a conflicted city and wordplay that both celebrates and dismantles tradition.


Joshua Cohen
A Heaven of Others
To Alexander Fried,

of Czechoslovakia, Nazism, Sovietism, Austria, Belgium, Canada, Israel & the Czech Republic.
The last of the last Europeans.
Sie stiessen zusammen auf der Strasse
Zwei Schicksale auf dieser Erde
Zwei Blutkreislufe in ihrem Adernetz
Zwei Atmende auf ihrem Weg
in diesem Sonnensystem
ber ihre Gesichter zog eine Wolke fort
die Zeit hatte einen Sprung bekommen
Erinnern lugte herein
Ferne und Nhe waren Eines geworden
Von Vergangenheit und Zukunft
funkelten zwei Schicksale
und fielen auseinander
Nelly Sachs, Glhende Rtsel: III
~ ~ ~
How did I get here, if I am still an I? If how and where is here? can still be asked and why?
He got here how he got here. How anyone gets here. How and where it is not my domain, this answering of questions. It is unbecoming. Truly, insulting. Beneath me. Below. Rather it is I, who create these questions and endeavor to create them answerless. Unanswerable to anyone save the asker to whom and do not fall into the wrong pit if it is in me to ever create one they are still unanswerable but who still must seek. To hide a find. To question my domain, my only power, rather the only power I allow myself in the how and in the here.
But rest assured that here was arrived at through no fault of his own. And that what is mine is my memory. A memory is all that is left and all that is mine Which either begins or does it end only to begin all over again on what had been the most summery, swelteringly ripest pear day I can remember, I can the most. I was with my parents but already without them, verily I was outside with the cars, amongst the birds and the beeswax I was old enough for alone. It was my birthday, my tenth, a toy birthday and so we were on the way to the toystore for my present but after And only after as the Queen always said this pilgrimage Had to be made.
A nail had been sticking through his shoe, killing it, shoethrough, my Abas. In pain since yesterdays yesterday, ever since a nail had stuck through cow and foot, my Abas.
Aba was in a shoestore with the Queen (thats how Ababa we often called him called Ima, Wife, Eve of my Lilith, Mommy, Mom, Hello Muddah, the Woman of the House or Apartmenthold, Bride), me I was, I was as bored as a baked good, the street an asphalt birthday cake rising the candle of me flickeringly impatient to reflect dimly in the window of the display under the sign saying SHOES, over the sign saying PERSONAL DATA SOLUTIONS reflected hazily inattentive in the window from a store of computers on the opposite side of the Blah blah blah. I was observing myself, my skin stretched across the rounding toes not yet scuffed of shoes not yet my size that never would be. Puffing myself out as if Hanukah donuts were filling my cheeks, frying behind my eyes, I observed my I. Jelly limbs. What was reflected back to me was merely a reflection of my form jam nose, mouth preserves the shape of any not quite but almost ten-year-old, itchy in wait, twitchy with sun and light and heat and not the faces For examplish the Queen had once loved: the default Funny Face, the default Sad Face (opposites fulfill those as engaging as I once was), the Dont Disturb Me When Im Watching TV Face, which I meant as much as the Keep the Beets Far Far Away from Me on the Other Opposite End of the Table Face, and which of what is me or isnt, I never wasnt. A toy, I just wanted a toy, to break to get another toy. To break next year or upon the New Year, which were never.
He stood there, beyond All. Alone despite any reflection, picking pants from tush. In hot Ennui Aba would say steeped in stirless Anomie and vav kaf vav A stupid day hed say, Aba sitting to try on pair after pair, after pair, with the Queen standing vetting, disapproving, mostly No-ing, anything but denying anyone but herself least of all. I remember I observed all this wonder through the window in which I observed, just as much, the reflection of the signs weak as too outstretched.
And then I dont know why I turn but I did.
It was a presence. A breath on the back of my neck, Aba would have said The tush of my head.
I turned to the boy turning to me he was running, his arms flapping flight shed wildly.
He turned and the boy met him.
His skin the milk of pigeons, with dark eyes and hair, maybe the earliest dew of a moustache.
Stubbly manna, it tickled, I laugh as much as we kissed or just seemed to.
He hugged me I dont know why I hug him back in return.
Us, we hug tightly. We fall on each other. We feel for one and for others we fall. We feel. And we hug.
Their eyes shut, they squeeze just like lemons.
And then they explode.
Mind the seeds.
One boys name was his, the other boys name was his too. The same age, then they were ten, near enough. And both are now mine. Equally neither.
But the questions far from where is here, how near from there, without a stir of why.
Answer is Im dying.
Pigs, here are only pigs, pigs there too, theyre everywhere. A huge pink hurtling, oinkmad shuttling to Get the treyf out of Jerusalem, Route Ones rushed hour to Tel Aviv then the sea to surf on over to Europe. Honk. Rumps backfire. Hynk. Pigs are coming out of the woodwork. Ambulant help. Emergent winged from the grain of void. Honk if youre no longer living. Pigs are flying past me here but its not just pigs I see before I cant see anymore or wont live: these pigs are pigs with faces, human like the faces that kiss when youve folded your underwear (appropriate drawer) and scream when you havent and instead youve strewn the little stained white shrouds all over the branching boughs of the widest and only tree in your smallest and only garden: this a man who resembles my teacher Moreh Kulp at the school for the Gifted & Talented also on Tchernichovsky Street (why O why did we have to live right next door?), that a woman who must be or must have been the twin of the one that, a sister of the woman who, the Only a girl Aba once said was my Aunt was Aunt Zlforget Zelda until the Queen she came back north from the Negev and never answered anything about everything that I had wanted and waited so long to hear until I stopped asking and thought I knew but didnt these many many many other but now the TVs always off (how even if youd knot an antenna to the tailfeathers of a falcon, heaven would get horrendous reception) pigged people I cant recognize, dont know and might never, I wont, but must be nimble enough to hora around as if my death were my wedding, to jump over just like that great gymnast Katia Pisetsky tumblesaulting away from them to avoid being blindsided, swiped by them then helplessly whisked away up into the sky and its vault and its much vaunted warmth and light that neither warmed nor did it light, though others say the very snouts of these pigs flare as if suns themselves in a shine that forces you to feel their flight and to be burnt by it, remarking upon the hot puffs to be felt upon the wound of the neck, pork out your eyes because my eyes that have now become sockets cant be opened again to this gleam this high up and higher, this glint, this bright coinlike chinging that rings in my very own ears resounding on my all the way up this gilded or maybe its a real solid 24 carat gold ladder I ascend as if Im walking a necklace of jingjangling bracelets like those the Queen kept clasped around her ankles and wrists, this ladder I must, I am ascending now with the whole entire bottom of it, the foot of it All shod a thousover from whence I arose becoming dimmed to the din of
Next page
Light

Font size:

Reset

Interval:

Bookmark:

Make

Similar books «A Heaven of Others»

Look at similar books to A Heaven of Others. We have selected literature similar in name and meaning in the hope of providing readers with more options to find new, interesting, not yet read works.


Reviews about «A Heaven of Others»

Discussion, reviews of the book A Heaven of Others and just readers' own opinions. Leave your comments, write what you think about the work, its meaning or the main characters. Specify what exactly you liked and what you didn't like, and why you think so.