My Debt to Amos Oz

There is an inaudible line up to which words may reach and beyond which there begins the expanse of silence.
(Unto Death / Amos Oz / 1971)

To use words, to write, to unfurl sentences, to construct paragraphs almost shamelessly in an ode to this writer defies the talents of any wordmaster.

As Amos Oz did in his writing and public life, I acknowledge my life in the turmoil of this political place, my days of living war and unquiet peace in this geographically blistered space. But whatever understanding I have of this world I live in is because it has been defined, deconstructed, and dug into by Amos Oz. With guts and grace, he has introduced me to people I never knew, to glorious moments of love and to harrowing struggles with death. And I am proud that the words Amos Oz chose, with such art and grace, are written in a language that swam to these shores on the waves of the Red Sea, the Atlantic, and the Mediterranean.