Meiselman, by Avner Landes

This clever novel gives the reader an hilarious perspective of a young man bumbling his way through work, religion and sex.

Although Meiselman is meant to be humorous, it’s protagonist, Meiselman, is tragic. He lives in a house given to him by, and very close to, his stereotypically funny Jewish parents, who don’t think of themselves as funny, only as seriously observant Jews. His wife, Deena or Daisy, depending on the circumstance, had to take courses on how to be observant. She takes it seriously, although it seems more out of duty than belief. And Meiselman is a mess who keeps sliding away from observance, when he isn’t thinking about the Chicago Cubs. Judaism in the novel is a bit murky, as much from the depiction of the characters as from the attempts at humor.

The story is told from Meiselman’s point of view almost exclusively. Sometimes it is hard to tell  where an observation is coming from because Landes disguises it. But everything that happens is sifted through Meiselman’s eyes and one needs to question how much these depictions are slanted. Meiselman also portrays action in advance, as he does after his meeting with the Rav when on his way home with the Rav’s pronouncement concerning the blood spot on his wife’s underwear, he “envisions how the rest of the night will unfold.” His vision is strangely sexual and in the end he comments, “This is more or less what happens.” It is hard to know whether that comment is truthful, as is the case with most of his commentary, particularly when it is coupled with memories of his childhood, like the ones with Ethel, who also happens to be his boss. Meiselman’s circumspection is particularly profound when he is interacting with the pink-haired woman, who during all of the novel is a subject of his poorly concealed lust. She asks a question at the Shenkenberg reading and Meiselman’s rendition about it is more about himself than her, “Indeed, she is the liberator. You’ve made it to the stage is the pink-haired woman’s message. The light shines on you the same as it does for Shenkenberg, while the rest of us sit cramped in narrow seats on the other side, faceless in the dark.” It’s no matter that the pink-haired woman’s question itself isn’t repeated.

Meiselman, the novel, is a very long concoction of strands of Meiselman’s neuroses looping in and out of memories and rationalizations about his tortured life. The problem with the story is its length. The strands the narrator weaves during the narration start to entangle with themselves after about three hundred pages and the story begins to gasp for air. We’ve heard it too many times, already, readers will want to say. Put us (and Meiselman) out of our misery. Please.

For more information about the author of this novel click on the author’s name.