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252 pages, Paperback
First published June 1, 2025
I am aware that my portrait of Ephraim is mutable, but with any luck, faithful to his complexity. I am mapping his ethical contours as I go, listening to his words and the reverberations of his actions. It is a relief to know that in some foundational way, I am limited; I will never capture him entirely or definitively. But I would like to capture the bits that collide, the facets of his being that butt up against each other to make sparks. It is these sparks that seem to hold his essence, this lifelong agitator who reveres tradition, this once-outsider who has fought so hard to bring others home, to enfold them in their belonging. (161)
He will intone the names of his mother and father. He will weep for them, while knowing the limits of his weeping. He will continue bending, head bowed, holding all the connections in all his body. And I will sense, simply by being next to this softly moving human, the shuddering proximity between us all, the near-misses, the churn of loss and the majesty of memory, the ceaseless current of our arrivals and departures. (11)
As I get closer to the end of Ephraim’s story, I am clinging. I feel pre-emptive regret at what I haven’t covered, either through the exigencies of time or through my own shortcomings. I become married to memory, who goes where I go now, my life-giving bride. Ephraim’s stories — early, recent, prophetic, age-old — invade my sleep, they follow me down the street. I dream of shrouds on the bodies of the dead. The wrap of innocence, these rags of light. (220)