Request PDF on ResearchGate | On Jan 1, , Carmen M. Méndez-García and others published Sophie's Choice, by William Styron. Sophie's Choice. William A Biography of William Styron Greek Drama, the Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy (essential to my hypochondria), the. Stingo, a young southerner, who journeyed north in to become a writer becomes intellectually and emotionally entanglement with his neighbors in a Brooklyn rooming house. Nathan, a tortured, brilliant Jew, and his lover, Sophie, a beautiful Polish woman whose wrist bears the.

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Read Sophie's Choice by William Styron for free with a 30 day free trial. Read unlimited* books and audiobooks on the web, iPad, iPhone and Android. cover image of Sophie's Choice Sophie's Choice. by William Styron. ebook Winner of the National Book Award and a modern classic, Sophie's Choice. Editorial Reviews. Review. “Stunning a triumph A dazzling, gripping book.” —Chicago Sun Times “Splendidly written, thrilling A passionate novel.

It is when Sophie lies to a police oicer that Nathan gets the crucial evi- dence he needs to justify his suspicions. A police oicer stops Nathan in Con- necticut for driving at a reckless speed.

Sophie's choice

But Nathan now realizes that Sophie is an excellent liar, which leads him to thunder: And what did you do, baby, when they burned ghettos down? Sophie realizes that Nathan is on the verge of exposing her lies of omis- sion, so she concocts another story, this time about her father risking his life to save Jews.

But Nathan now knows that her Holocaust story does not make sense and that she is an incredibly skillful liar. To prevent any more interrogations about her Holocaust past, Sophie inally tells Nathan about her son.

Nathan speciically asks Sophie if she used anti-Semitism to save herself. Sophie simply cannot reveal to Nathan the answer to this question.

But more importantly, Sophie does not want Nathan to pursue a Holocaust line of questioning at all, for as she can readily surmise, Nathan is perceptive, and can easily expose her lies and discover what she really did. Moreover, she confesses to Stingo that she feels horribly guilty about the very thing that Nathan accuses her of doing.

After telling Stingo about the Jews she saw in the Warsaw ghetto, Sophie goes on to claim that she realized that as long as the Germans could use up all this incredible energy destroying the Jews — superhuman energy, really — I was safe. No, not really safe, but safer. Bad as things were, we were oh so much safer than these trapped, helpless Jews. And so as long as the Germans were draining of so much power destroying the Jews, I felt safer for myself and for Jan and Eva.

When readers irst encounter the couple, Nathan is on a rampage. As Sophie declares: I mean Southern sports.

But if we take into account something we learn more than twenty pages later, that Nathan has been obsessed with the Bobby Weed story, in which a sixteen-year-old black boy is lynched in Georgia for supposedly assaulting a white girl, it makes perfect sense.

For Nathan, there is an all-pervasive political psychology that enables barbaric forms of racial oppression to lourish from one culture to the next. And for Nathan, these conditions are similar to the ones that obtained in Nazi Germany, thus implicating an ordinary Southerner like Stingo.

But he clearly suspects the latter, which is why he uses the charge of inidelity to justify his verbal and physical assault of her. During his explosive rage at Sophie, Nathan notices that Stingo has an article about Bilbo, which mentions that the Senator has cancer of the mouth. Stingo says that he would, but then he makes a distinction between Bilbo and Hitler.

Ironically, his supposed distinction is no distinction at all. Stingo says that Bilbo instituted major reforms that signiicantly improved the quality of life in the South, which is, as Nathan rightly notes, exactly what Hitler did in Nazi Germany.

Stingo realizes that Nathan exposed him: Inadvertently, Stingo demonstrates that there are substantive parallels between Hitler and Bilbo. He is not an insane perpetrator who resembles the Nazis. But my reading does provide an explanation for his behavior.

In the fall of , Styron heard that Baldwin was low on money and needed a place to live, so he invited the black author to stay in his writing studio, where Baldwin lived for more than six months.

Speciically, Styron claims: I mean burn. Put succinctly, Nathan and Baldwin reject the measured cadences of stately reason for the ferocious oratory of political outrage. Explosive rhetoric, however, is not the most extreme response to oppression.

For Cleaver, this ruthless attitude manifests itself as an act of sexual vio- lence, which Cleaver considers a meaningful political symbol: Politically, this act sends a direct and speciic message to the white com- munity: After claiming that he has lived what Baraka expresses in his poem, Cleaver submits that this experience is no anomaly.

I could stop now and here, right here by the road and in this meadow, do with her anything I wished. But what it does do is to indicate how some people will respond to their oppression. In other words, Bontemps, Baraka, Wiesel, Cleaver, and Styron are not supporting or legitimizing rape by describing how some oppressed males responded to their situation.

In sum, Baldwin inluenced Styron by providing him with deeper insight into the subtle forms of oppression and racism that he had hitherto overlooked, enabling him to draw clear lines of connection between the political psychology that led people in both Europe and the United States to violate minorities with emotional and legal impunity, and bequeathing to him a ferocious oratory with which to denounce the prevalence of social injustice in the West.

Put succinctly, the voices of Nathan and Baldwin may be shrill, but ignoring or dismissing them as mere hyperbole or total insanity would be a mistake. Acknowledgements I want to thank Jim West and Susannah Heschel, who gave me excellent feedback on earlier versions of this essay and who forced me to be more rigorous and precise.

Notes 1. For examples of this critique, see Ozick 13 , Alan L. Berger 33 , and D.

Myers By stark contrast, I argue that Styron actually portrays Sophie as more perpetrator than victim. Field, notes that Hitler read the Foundations In an 8 December letter to her parents, Grese says: Keine Spur von Angst, noch von Verzweilung lasse ich in meine Herzen eintreten!

I do not allow any trace of fear, nor any despair to enter my heart. Grese signed her name Grese, but Styron spells it Griese. When I am referring to the historical igure, I spell the name Grese. When I am referring to the igure in the novel, I spell the name Griese. In a short biography about Grese, Daniel Patrick Brown claims: I have chosen to refer to Sophie as a female Borowski for a number of reasons.

But there are signiicant diferences. Lengyel, whose husband was Jewish, was a Christian and remained so, while Sophie ultimately rejects Christianity. Lengyel is from Hungary, while Sophie is from Poland. And Sophie commits suicide, while Lengyel does not. It would be too simple to suggest that Borowski portrays non-Jewish workers in the camps as totally innocent. What sickens Borowski, and what probably contributed signiicantly to his suicide, was the fact that he was forced to contribute to the horrors of Auschwitz, despite his intentions to the contrary.

After getting engaged to Sophie, Nathan tells Stingo that the three of them will visit the South for the honeymoon. In preparation for the trip, Nathan studies the history of the South, which, predictably, leads him to explode. Works Cited Baldwin, James.

New York: Vintage Books, Berger, Alan L. Crisis and Covenant: SUNY Press, Bontemps, Arna. Black hunder. Beacon Press, Brown, Daniel Patrick. Ventura, CA: Golden West Historical Publications, Carstens, Lisa.

Chamberlain, Houston Stewart. John Lane Company, Cleaver, Eldridge. Soul on Ice. Ramparts Books, Cologne-Brookes, Gavin. From Harmony to History. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State UP, Durham, Carolyn A. Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. Field, Geofrey G. Evangelist of Race: Columbia UP, Foley, Barbara. Testimony and Mimesis in Holocaust Narratives. Goebbels, Joseph.

Helmut Heiber. Frederick A. Praaeger, Grese, Irma. SS-Frauen vor Gericht. By Claudia Taake. Bibliotheks- und Informationssystem der Universitaet Oldenburg, Hilberg, Raul. Quadrangle Books, Lackey, Michael. Continuum, Literature Interpretation heory Lang, John. Law, Richard G. Daniel W. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, Leeming, David.

James Baldwin: A Biography. Alfred A. Knopf, Raymond Rosenthal. Vintage International: Lupack, Barbara Tepa. Insanity as Redemption in Contemporary American Fiction. UP of Florida, Myers, D. Nagel, Gwen L. Ozick, Cynthia. Literature, Religion, Ethics. Syracuse, NY: Syracuse UP, Seidman, Naomi. Shirer, William L.

The University Residence Club was only one small cut above a flophouse, differing from Bowery accommodations to the extent of nominal privacy in the form of a locked door. Nearly all else, including the tariff, fell short of resemblance to a flophouse only by the most delicate of degrees. Paradoxically, the location was admirable, almost chic. For then sex, or rather its absence, and this insolent and gorgeous little garden—together with the people who inhabited it—all seemed to merge symbolically to make ever more unbearable the degenerate character of the University Residence Club and to aggravate my poverty and my lonely and outcast state.

The all-male clientele, mostly middle-aged or older, Village drifters and losers whose next step downward was skid row, emitted a sour smell of wine and despair as we edged past each other in the cramped, peeling hallways. No doting old concierge but a series of reptilian desk clerks, each with the verdigris hue of creatures deprived of daylight, mounted guard over the lobby where one small lightbulb pulsed dimly overhead; they also operated the single creaking elevator, and they coughed a lot and scratched in hemorrhoidal misery during the interminable ascent to the fourth floor and the cubbyhole where, night after night that spring, I immured myself like a half-mad anchorite.

Necessity had forced me to this, not only because I had no extra money for entertainment but because, as a newcomer to the metropolis, less shy than simply proudly withdrawn, I lacked both the opportunity and the initiative to make friends.

For the first time in my life, which had for years been sometimes witlessly gregarious, I discovered the pain of unwanted solitude. Like a felon suddenly thrown into solitary confinement, I found myself feeding off the unburned fat of inward resources I barely knew I possessed. In the University Residence Club at twilight in May, watching the biggest cockroach I had ever seen browse across my copy of The Complete Poetry and Prose of John Donne, I suddenly encountered the face of loneliness, and decided that it was a merciless and ugly face indeed.

So during those months my evening schedule rarely varied. Leaving the McGraw-Hill Building at five, I would take the Eighth Avenue subway train a nickel to Village Square, where, after debarking, I made straight for a corner delicatessen and bought the three cans of Rheingold my severe and budgetary conscience permitted me.

Sophie’s Choice

Thence to my roomlet, where I would stretch out on the corrugated mattress with its Clorox-fragrant sheets laundered to transparency and read until the last of my beers grew warm—a matter of an hour and a half or so. Mercifully, I was at that age when reading was still a passion and thus, save for a happy marriage, the best state possible in which to keep absolute loneliness at bay. I could not have made it through those evenings otherwise.

But I was an abandoned reader and, besides, outlandishly eclectic, with an affinity for the written word—almost any written word—that was so excitable that it verged on the erotic.

What dinners! Or the gristle embedded like an impacted tumor in the lamb chops at the Athens Chop House, the chops themselves tasting of old sheep, the mashed potatoes glutinous, rancid, plainly reconstituted with Greek cunning from dehydrated government surplus filched from some warehouse.

But I was as innocent of New York gastronomy as I was of a lot of other things, and it would be a long time before I would learn that the best meal for less than a dollar in the city was a couple of hamburgers and a slice of pie at a White Tower.

Back in my cubicle, I would savagely seize a book and plunge once more into make-believe, reading into the early hours of the morning. On several occasions, however, I was forced to do what I had come distastefully to regard as my homework, that is, composing jacket blurbs for forthcoming McGraw-Hill books. As a matter of fact, I recall that I had been hired in the first place largely on the basis of a trial blurb I had written for an already published McGraw-Hill tome, The Story of the Chrysler Building.

My lyrical yet muscular copy had so impressed Farrell that it not only was an important factor in my getting the job but obviously made him feel that I could produce similar wonders for books about to be published.

Without being willing quite fully to admit it, I had begun to detest my charade of a job. I was not an editor, but a writer —a writer with the same ardor and the soaring wings of the Melville or the Flaubert or the Tolstoy or the Fitzgerald who had the power to rip my heart out and keep a part of it and who each night, separately and together, were summoning me to their incomparable vocation.

My attempts at jacket copy filled me with a sense of degradation, especially since the books I had been assigned to magnify represented not literature but its antipodean opposite, commerce. Here is a fragment of one of the blurbs I was unable to finish.

As the romance of paper is central to the story of the American dream, so is the name Kimberly-Clark central to the story of paper. Beginning as a humble one-horse operation in the sleepy Wisconsin lakeside town of Neenah, the Kimberly-Clark Corporation is now one of the authentic giants of the world paper industry, with factories in 13 states and 8 foreign countries.

Serving a host of human needs, many of its products—the most famous of which is undoubtedly Kleenex—have become so familiar that their very names have passed into the language A paragraph like this would require hours. Should I say undoubtedly Kleenex or indubitably? Host of human needs or horde? During its composition I would pace my cell distractedly, uttering soft meaningless vocables to the air as I struggled with the prose rhythms, and fighting back the desolate urge to masturbate that for some reason always accompanied this task.

Finally, overtaken by rage, I would find myself saying No! And because I was not yet completely lost, perhaps because the Presbyterian ethic still exercised some vestigial hold on me, I would try again that night—would try with all my passion and might, to no avail. After sweaty hours, I would give up and return to The Bear or Notes from the Underground or Billy Budd, or often simply loiter yearningly by the window, gazing down into the enchanted garden.

Alone for an instant, blond Mavis Hunnicutt would appear in the garden, dressed in a blouse and tight flowered slacks; after pausing for a peek up at the opalescent evening sky, she would give an odd and bewitching toss to her lovely hair and then bend down to pluck tulips from the flowerbed.

In this adorable stance, she could not know what she did to the loneliest junior editor in New York. My lust was incredible—something prehensile, a groping snout of desire, slithering down the begrimed walls of the wretched old building, uncoiling itself across a fence, moving with haste serpentine and indecent to a point just short of her upturned rump, where in silent metamorphosis it blazingly flowered into the embodiment of myself, priapic, ravenous, yet under hair-trigger control.

Gently my arms surrounded Mavis, and I cupped my hands under her full, free-floating, honeydew breasts.

Is that you, Winston? To which she invariably replied, Oh, darling, yes—later. Or Katherine Anne Porter. Or John Hersey. Or Malcolm Cowley.

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Or John P. At which point—brought back to my senses with a punctured libido—I would find myself at the window once more, savoring with longing heart the festivities below. For it seemed perfectly logical to me that the Winston Hunnicutts, this vivid and gregarious young couple whose garden-level living room, incidentally, afforded me a jealous glimpse of Danish-modern shelves jammed with books , had the enormous good fortune to inhabit a world populated by writers and poets and critics and other literary types; and thus on these evenings as the twilight softly fell and the terrace began to fill with chattering, beautifully dressed sophisticates, I discerned in the shadows the faces of all the impossible heroes and heroines I had ever dreamed of since that moment when my hapless spirit had become entrapped by the magic of the printed word.

I had yet to meet a single author of a published book—unless one excepts the seedy old ex-Communist I have mentioned, who once accidentally blundered into my office at McGraw-Hill, smelling of garlic and the stale sweat of ancient apprehensions—and so that spring the Hunnicutt parties, which were frequent and of long duration, gave my imagination opportunity for the craziest flights of fancy that ever afflicted the brain of a lovelorn idolater.

There was Wallace Stevens! And Robert Lowell! That mustached gentleman looking rather furtively from the door. Could that really be Faulkner? He was rumored to be in New York.

The woman with the buxom frame, the hair in a bun, the interminable grin. Surely that was Mary McCarthy. The shortish man with the wry ruddy sardonic face could only be John Cheever. It was really too dark to tell, and his back was to me, but could the man who wrote The Girls in Their Summer Dresses be that broad burly wrestler hemmed in by two girls, their adoring faces upturned like flowers? One night, however, just before my expulsion from the McGraw-Hill empire, I experienced a violent reversal of emotions which caused me never to gaze down into the garden again.

Vintage wines? Summer places in the south of Spain? The Bhagavad-Gita? If only And then she whirled in a swift half-circle, thrusting out at the University Residence Club a furious little fist, a darling angry fist so prominent, so bloodlessly agitated that it seemed impossible that she was not brandishing it a scant inch from my nose.

I felt illumined as if by a spotlight, and in my pounding chagrin I was certain that I could read her lips: But my torment on Eleventh Street was not fated to be prolonged. It would have been satisfying to think that my employment was terminated because of the Kon-Tiki episode. But the decline of my fortunes at McGraw-Hill began with the arrival of a new editor in chief, whom I secretly called the Weasel—a near-anagram of his actual surname.

The Weasel had been brought in to give to the place some much-needed tone. Although the Weasel and I were both from the South—a connection which in the alien surroundings of New York more often than not tends initially to cement the relationship of Southerners—we took an immediate dislike to each other.

The Weasel was a balding, unprepossessing little man in his late forties. In the staff editorial conferences he was fond of uttering such locutions as Wolfe used to say to me Or, As Tom wrote to me so eloquently just before his death But the Weasel and I utterly failed to make contact. By contrast, I was still very much feeling my oats, in every sense of that expression, and had to bring a facetious attitude not only to the whole idea of the editorial side of book publishing, which my fatigued eyes now saw plainly as lusterless drudgery, but to the style, customs and artifacts of the business world itself.

For McGraw-Hill was, after all, in spite of its earnest literary veneer, a monstrous paradigm of American business. And so with a cold company man like the Weasel at the helm, I knew that it was not long before trouble must set in and that my days were numbered. One day, soon after he assumed command, the Weasel called me into his office. He had an oval, well-larded face and tiny, unfriendly, somewhat weasel-like eyes which it seemed impossible to me had gained the confidence of anyone so responsive to the nuances of physical presence as Thomas Wolfe.

He beckoned me to sit down, and after uttering a few strained civilities came directly to the point, namely, my clear failure within his perspective to conform to certain aspects of the McGraw-Hill profile. But it turned out that my errors were both sartorial and, tangentially at least, political. A hat? I replied. Why, no. I had always been lukewarm about headgear, feeling only that hats had their place. Certainly, since leaving the Marine Corps two years before, I had never thought of hat-wearing as a compulsory matter.

It was my democratic right to choose, and I had given the idea no further thought until this moment. And of course as I reflected on what he was saying, I realized that it was true: This was at least true for men; for the women—mainly secretaries—it seemed to be optional.

I cannot dictate your newspaper-reading habits, nor do I want to, he said, "but it is not wise for a McGraw-Hill employee to be seen with a copy of the New York Post. Needless to say, you can read anything you care to, on your own time and in privacy. It just does not look What should I be reading then? It had been my lunchtime custom to go down to Forty-second Street and pick up the early afternoon edition of the Post along with a sandwich, both of which I would consume in my office during the hour allotted me.

It was my only newspaper reading of the day. What do you think I should read instead? Or the News, even. Or the Journal-American. Sensationalism is preferable to radicalism. Even I knew that the Post was hardly radical and I was on the verge of saying so, but held my tongue. Poor Weasel. Cold a fish as he was, I suddenly felt a little sorry for him, realizing as I did that the snaffle he was trying to curb me with was not of his making, for something in his manner could it have been the faintest note of apology, one Southerner reaching out to another in faltering, belated sympathy?

I also saw that at his age and position he was the true prisoner of McGraw-Hill, irrevocably committed to its pettifoggery and its mean-spirited style and its single-minded concern for pelf—a man who could never again turn back—while I, at least, had the freedom of the world spread out before me.

I recall that as he pronounced that forlorn edict Sensationalism is preferable to radicalism, I murmured beneath my breath an almost exultant adieu: Goodby, Weasel. Farewell, McGraw-Hill. I still mourn the fact that I lacked the courage to quit on the spot. Instead, I went on a sort of slow-down strike—work-stoppage would be a more accurate term. For the next few days, although I appeared on time in the morning and left precisely at the stroke of five, the manuscripts became piled high on my desk, unread.

At noontime I no longer browsed in the Post, but walked over to a newspaper stand near Times Square and bought a copy of the Daily Worker, which without ostentation—indeed, with grave casualness—I read, or tried to read, at my desk in my habitual way as I chewed at a kosher pickle and a pastrami sandwich, relishing each instant I was able to play, in this fortress of white Anglo-Saxon power, the dual role of imaginary Communist and fictive Jew.

One of the few tolerable features of life at McGraw-Hill had been my view from the twentieth floor—a majestic prospect of Manhattan, of monolith and minaret and spire, that never failed to revive my drugged senses with all those platitudinous yet genuine spasms of exhilaration and sweet promise that have traditionally overcome provincial American youths.

Wild breezes whooshed around the McGraw-Hill parapets, and one of my favorite pastimes had been to drop a sheet of paper from the window and to watch its ecstatic tumbling flight as it sped across the rooftops, often disappearing far off into the canyons around Times Square, still tumbling and soaring. That noon, along with my Daily Worker, I had been inspired to download a tube of plastic bubble material—the kind commonly used by children now, although then a novelty on the market—and once back in my office, I had blown up half a dozen of these fragile, lovely, iridescent globes, all the while anticipating their adventure upon the wind with the greedy suspense of one at the brink of some long-denied sexual blessing.

Released one by one into the smoggy abyss, they were more than I had hoped for, fulfilling every buried, infantile desire to float balloons to the uttermost boundaries of the earth. They glowed in the afternoon sunlight like the satellites of Jupiter, and were as big as basketballs. A quirky updraft sent them hurtling high over Eighth Avenue; there they remained suspended for what seemed interminable moments, and I sighed with delight.

Then I heard squeals and girlish laughter and saw that a gaggle of McGraw-Hill secretaries, attracted by the show, were hanging out the windows of adjoining offices. I thought the Weasel controlled his rage very well. I think I merely said nothing, only watched the small man wheel about on his small feet and saunter off out of my existence.

Then there was an odd sense of release that flooded through me, a physical sensation almost like comfort, as if I had removed warm stifling layers of clothes. Or to be more exact, as if I had remained immersed too long in murky depths and had struggled to surface gulping blissful drafts of fresh air. A narrow escape, said Farrell later, reinforcing my metaphor with unconscious precision.


People have been known to drown in this place. And they never even find their bodies. He came into my office, wobbling a little, just as I was stuffing into my briefcase carbon copies of some of my more thoughtful manuscript reports. I had removed them from the files, feeling a rather wistful affection for my piece on Gundar Firkin, and coveting especially my musings on Kon-Tiki, about which I had the odd suspicion that they might comprise someday an interesting sheaf of literary marginalia.

They never even find their bodies, Farrell repeated. Have a little snort. He extended toward me a glass and a pint bottle of Old Overholt rye, half full. I declined the snort, not out of any real reticence but because in those days I imbibed only cheap American beer.

A fossilized old fart in his thirties. Even though it was hardly what you might call a bonanza. Farrell chuckled and made a modest little burp. His face was such a long upper-lipped Irish prototype that it verged on a joke, and he exuded sadness—something intangibly rumpled, exhausted and resigned that caused me to reflect with a twinge of pain on these lonesome office drinking bouts, the twilight sessions with Yeats and Hopkins, the bleak subway commute to Ozone Park.

I suddenly knew I would never see him again. A fine ambition, one that I once shared myself. I hope and pray that you become one, and that you send me a copy of your first book. Where are you going when you start writing? Ah, how I wanted to write, he mused. A fine novel. Not a great novel, mind you—I knew I lacked the genius and the ambition for that—but a fine novel, one with a certain real elegance and style. A novel as good as, say, The Bridge of San Luis Rey or Death Comes for the Archbishop —something unpretentious but with a certain quality of near-perfection.

He paused, then said, Oh, but somehow I got sidetracked. I think it was the long years of editorial work, especially of a rather technical nature. In the long run.

Again he paused, regarding the amber dregs in his glass. Or maybe it was this that sidetracked me, he said ruefully. The sauce. This one-hundred-proof goblet of dreams.

Anyway, I did not become a writer. I did not become a novelist or a poet, and as for essays, I wrote only one essay in my entire life. Know what it was? A little anecdote I sent in regarding a vacation that my wife and I took in Quebec.

Not worth describing. But I got two hundred dollars for it, and for several days I was the happiest writer in America. Ah, well A great melancholy appeared to overtake him, and his voice trailed off. I got sidetracked," he murmured. I did not know quite how to respond to his mood, which seemed perilously near grief, and could only say, as I continued to stuff things into my briefcase, Well, I hope we can somehow keep in touch.

I knew, however, that we would not keep in touch. I do too, Farrell said. I wish we had gotten to know each other better. Gazing down into his glass, he fell into a silence which became so prolonged that it began to make me nervous.

I wish we had gotten to know each other better, he repeated slowly at last. I had often thought to ask you to come to my home out in Queens for dinner, but I always put it off. Sidetracked again. You remind me very much of my son, you know.

I had heard Farrell once allude casually and wryly to his childless state and had simply assumed that he had not, as the phrase goes, been blessed with issue. But my curiosity had ceased there. In the McGraw-Hill atmosphere of gelid impersonality it was considered an effrontery, if not downright dirty, to express even mild interest in the private lives of others.

I thought you— I began. His voice was suddenly a cry, startling me with its mingled tone of rage and lament.Miss Meyers said he wanted to see an editor. You may send this item to up to five recipients. Poor Weasel. CreativeWork , schema: He was It is at this point that Sophie real- izes that she can use the Jews to her advantage, so she reintroduces the topic.

Ellison, Ralph. And there are, of course, many examples of Sophie using Jews to advance her cause. To explore how the domination of one people over another can destroy the spiritual wholeness of both becomes his chief moral theme.