Nothing in Common, and Yet . . .

It would seem that I have nothing in common with the title character of Chaim Potok's novel, My Name is Asher Lev -- and yet I find myself powerfully moved by his story.   

Asher Lev is a Jewish child whose family follows a a strict set of religious principles and requirements while he is growing up in Brooklyn. He is also an artist who draws and paints at every opportunity, even when it gets him into trouble. His drive to express himself coalesces into the title phrase, a way of asserting his identity, even his existence as a unique, creative, independent person. These two selves -- the observant Jew and the budding artist -- are often at odds, leading Asher Lev to feel even more individualized, more alienated,  from his parents and community. 

Asher's determination to honor his artistic impulse creates a rift in his family; they cannot understand, for example, that his desire to view paintings of nudes and crucifixions is part of his artistic education. The conflict between religion and art drives much of the action in the novel. While Asher attempts to find a way for the two to coexist, it's apparent that as he matures as an artist, he will ultimately have to choose between them. The fact that he is very talented makes this choice even more difficult.

Throughout the novel, Asher's desire for realizing his destiny spoke to me. Perhaps this is because everyone -- artistic or otherwise -- must discover and assert their identity to the world, and then stand fast against the disapproval and occasionally the hostility of those challenged by the simple act of asserting that identity. 

The common experience of choosing who you are lies at the heart of this novel and imbues it with a broader meaning, one that transcends the details of Asher's life and speaks to every reader.

Excerpt:

I saw a picture in the Times the following day of Stalin lying in his coffin. Behind the coffin were mounds of flowers. I could not take my eyes off the picture. This was the man who had killed tens of millions of people. Now he lay in his mustache and uniform in front of a mountain of flowers, dead, as dead as the millions he had slain, as dead as Yudel Krinsky's wife and children. I could not stop staring at the picture of Stalin dead in his coffin. 

I went over to Yudel Krinsky's store that Monday and helped him wait on some customers. We were alone for a few minutes between customers and he said to me, glancing around quickly, "The others who follow him will be just like him. There are many Stalins in Russia."

I helped him stack packages of paper. I was beginning to understand the differences between grades of paper. Often now I could tell the weight and quality of a piece of paper by holding it in my hands.

Note: This book counts toward the Color Coded Reading Challenge and the Mount TBR Reading Challenge.