Most of my life, I’ve lived near or around Jewish populations. With the exception of an uncomfortable stint in Chicago, where all of the Yiddishisms I’d picked up from having good friends who were Jewish or just being surrounded by a healthy Jewish culture were, for some reason, completely unintelligible to people, I’ve always assumed Judaism as a part of my life. (I later found out that there is a Jewish population in Chicago; it just didn’t happen to intersect with my particular life.)
So I reacted with some surprise when, as I was first crafting this column, people in my immediate circle mentioned Jewish literature again and again as a literature I should explore. Surely, I thought, this is a literature that is already duly respected, that is not in danger of under-representation or marginalization. I thought, for instance, of all the Jewish authors I’ve read in my lifetime, in nearly every genre: Philip Roth, Shel Silverstein, Michael Chabon, Maurice Sendak, Jodi Picoult. I thought of the Jewish writers in my social circle. I thought
