To The End Of The Land by David GrossmanTo The End Of The Land by David Grossman

To The End Of The Land

byDavid GrossmanTranslated byJessica Cohen

Paperback | August 9, 2011

Pricing and Purchase Info

$20.12 online 
$22.00 list price save 8%
Earn 101 plum® points

Prices and offers may vary in store

Quantity:

In stock online

Ships free on orders over $25

Available in stores

about

Now in paperback -- A major, internationally bestselling novel of extraordinary power about the costs of war from one of Israel''s greatest writers, now longlisted for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize

Set in Israel in recent times, this epic yet intimate novel places side by side the trials of war and the challenges of everyday life. Through a series of powerful, overlapping circles backward in time, it tells the story of Ora''s relationship with her husband, from whom she is now separated, as well as the tragedy of their best friend Avram, a former soldier — and her son''s biological father. When her son Ofer rejoins the army for a major offensive, Ora is devastated and decides to hike in the Galilee, leaving no forwarding information for the "notifiers" who might deliver the worst news a parent can hear. She phones Avram, whom she has not seen in 21 years, and convinces him to go with her. As they journey together, Ora unfurls the story of her family, and gives Avram the gift of his son — a telling that keeps the boy alive for both his mother and the reader.

Never have we seen so vividly the surreality of daily life in Israel, the consequences of living in a society where the burden of war falls on each generation anew. David Grossman''s rich imagining of a family in love and crisis makes for one of the great anti-war novels of our time.
DAVID GROSSMAN is one of the leading Israeli writers of his generation, and the author of numerous works of fiction, non-fiction, and children''s literature. His work has appeared in The New Yorker, and been translated into twenty-five languages around the world. He lives on the outskirts of Jerusalem. JESSICA COHEN''s translations inc...
Loading
Title:To The End Of The LandFormat:PaperbackProduct dimensions:672 pages, 7.9 X 5.2 X 1.13 inShipping dimensions:672 pages, 7.9 X 5.2 X 1.13 inPublished:August 9, 2011Publisher:McClelland & StewartLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0771036353

ISBN - 13:9780771036354

Appropriate for ages: All ages

Look for similar items by category:

Read from the Book

Prologue, 1967  HEY, GIRL, quiet! Who is that? Be quiet! You woke everyone up! But I was holding her Who? On the rock, we were sitting together What rock are you talking about? Let us sleep Then she just fell All this shouting and singing But I was asleep And you were shouting! She just let go of my hand and fell Stop it, go to sleep Turn on a light Are you crazy? They’ll kill us if we do that Wait What? I was singing? Singing, shouting, everything. Now be quiet What was I singing? What were you singing?! In my sleep, what was I singing? I’m supposed to know what you were singing? A bunch of shouts. That’s what you were singing. What was I singing, she wants to know . . . You don’t remember the song? Look, are you nuts? I’m barely alive But who are you? Room Three You’re in isolation, too? Gotta get back Don’t go . . . Did you leave? Wait, hello . . . Gone . . . But what was I singing?  AND the next night he woke her up again, angry at her again for singing at the top of her lungs and waking up the whole hospital, and she begged him to try to remember if it was the same song from the night before. She was desperate to know, because of her dream, which kept getting dreamed almost every night during those years. An utterly white dream. Everything in it was white, the streets and the houses and the trees and the cats and dogs and the rock at the edge of the cliff. And Ada, her redheaded friend, was also entirely white, without a drop of blood in her face or body. Without a drop of color in her hair. But he couldn’t remember which song it was this time, either. His whole body was shuddering, and she shuddered back at him from her bed. We’re like a pair of castanets, he said, and to her surprise, she burst out with bright laughter that tickled him inside. He had used up all his strength on the journey from his room to hers, thirty-five steps, resting after each one, holding on to walls, doorframes, empty food carts. Now he flopped onto the sticky linoleum floor in her doorway. For several minutes they both breathed heavily. He wanted to make her laugh again but he could no longer speak, and then he must have fallen asleep, until her voice woke him. Tell me something What? Who is it? It’s me You . . . Tell me, am I alone in this room? How should I know? Are you, like, shivering? Yeah, shivering How high is yours? It was forty this evening Mine was forty point three. When do you die? At forty-two That’s close No, no, you still have time Don’t go, I’m scared Do you hear? What? How quiet it is suddenly? Were there booms before? Cannons I keep sleeping, and all of a sudden it’s nighttime again ’Cause there’s a blackout I think they’re winning Who? The Arabs No way They’ve occupied Tel Aviv What are you . . . who told you that? I don’t know. Maybe I heard it You dreamed it No, they said it here, someone, before, I heard voices It’s from the fever. Nightmares. I have them, too My dream . . . I was with my friend Maybe you know What? Which direction I came from I don’t know anything here How long for you? Don’t know Me, four days. Maybe a week Wait, where’s the nurse? At night she’s in Internal A. She’s an Arab How do you know? You can hear it when she talks You’re shaking My mouth, my whole face But . . . where is everybody? They’re not taking us to the bomb shelter Why? So we don’t infect them Wait, so it’s just us— And the nurse I thought What? If you could sing it for me That again? Just hum I’m leaving If it was the other way around, I would sing to you Gotta get back Where? Where, where, to lie with my forefathers, to bring me down with sorrow to the grave, that’s where What? What was that? Wait, do I know you? Hey, come back  AND the next night, too, before midnight, he came to stand in her doorway and scolded her again and complained that she was singing in her sleep, waking him and the whole world, and she smiled to herself and asked if his room was really that far, and that was when he realized, from her voice, that she wasn’t where she had been the night before and the night before that. Because now I’m sitting, she explained. He asked cautiously, But why are you sitting? Because I couldn’t sleep, she said. And I wasn’t singing. I was sitting here quietly waiting for you. They both thought it was getting even darker. A new wave of heat, which may have had nothing to do with her illness, climbed up from Ora’s toes and sparked red spots on her neck and face. It’s a good thing it’s dark, she thought, and held her loose pajama collar up to her neck. Finally, from the doorway, he cleared his throat softly and said, Well, I have to get back. But why? she asked. He said he urgently had to tar and feather himself. She didn’t get it, but then she got it and laughed deeply. Come on, dummy, enough with your act, I put a chair out for you next to me. He felt along the doorway, metal cabinets, and beds, until he stopped way off, leaned his arms on an empty bed, and panted loudly. I’m here, he groaned. Come closer to me, she said. Wait, let me catch my breath. The darkness filled her with courage and she said in a loud voice, in her voice of health, of beaches and paddleball and swimming out to the rafts on Quiet Beach, What are you afraid of? I don’t bite. He mumbled, Okay, okay, I get it, I’m barely alive. His grumbling tone and the heavy way he dragged his feet touched her. We’re kind of like an elderly couple, she thought. Ouch! What happened? One of these beds just decided to . . . Fuck! So, have you heard of the Law of Malicious— What did you say? The Law of Malicious Furniture—heard of it? Are you coming or not? The trembling wouldn’t stop, and sometimes it turned into long shivers, and when they talked their speech was choppy, and they often had to wait for a pause in the trembling, a brief calming of the face and mouth muscles, and then they would quickly spit out the words in high, tense voices, and the stammering crushed the sentences in their mouths. How-old-are-you? Six-teen-and-you? And-a-quar-ter. I-have-jaun-dice, how-a-bout-you? Me? he said. I-think-it’s-an-in-fec-tion-of-the-o-va-ries. Silence. He shuddered and breathed heavily. By-the-way-that-was-a-joke, he said. Not funny, she said. He groaned: I tried to make her laugh, but her sense of humor is too— She perked up and asked who he was talking to. He replied, To my joke writer, I guess I’ll have to fire him. If you don’t come over here and sit down right now, I’ll start singing, she threatened. He shivered and laughed. His laughter was as screechy as a donkey’s bray, a self-sustaining laughter, and she secretly gulped it down like medicine, like a prize. He laughed so hard at her stupid little joke that she barely resisted telling him that lately she wasn’t good at making people roll around with laughter the way she used to. “When it comes to humor, she’s not much of a jester,” they sang about her at the Purim party this year. And it wasn’t just a minor shortcoming. For her it was crippling, a new defect that could grow bigger and more complicated. And she sensed that it was somehow related to some other qualities that were vanishing in recent years. Intuition, for example. How could a trait like that disappear so abruptly? Or the knack for saying the right thing at the right time. She had had it once, and now it was gone. Or even just wittiness. She used to be really sharp. The sparks just flew out of her. (Although, she consoled herself, it was a Purim song, and maybe they just couldn’t come up with a better rhyme for “Esther.”) Or her sense of love, she thought. Maybe that was part of her deterioration—her losing the capacity to really love someone, to burn with love, like the girls talked about, like in the movies. She felt a pang for Asher Feinblatt, her friend who went to the military boarding school, who was now a soldier, who had told her on the steps between Pevsner Street and Yosef Street that she was his soul mate, but who hadn’t touched her that time, either. Never once in two years had he put a hand or a finger on her, and maybe that never-touched-her also had something to do with it, and deep in her heart she felt that everything was somehow connected, and that things would grow clearer all the time, and she would keep discovering more little pieces of whatever awaited her. For a moment she could see herself at fifty, tall and thin and withered, a scentless flower taking long, quick steps, her head bowed, a wide-brimmed straw hat hiding her face. The boy with the donkey laugh kept feeling his way toward her, getting closer and then farther away—it was as if he were doing it on purpose, she realized, like this was a kind of game for him—and he giggled and made fun of his own clumsiness and floated around the room in circles, and every so often he asked her to say something so he’d know which direction she was in: Like a lighthouse, he explained, but with sound. Smart-ass, she thought. He finally reached her bed and felt around and found the chair she had put out, and collapsed on it and breathed heavily like an old man. She could smell the sweat of his illness, and she pulled off one of her blankets and gave it to him and he wrapped it around himself and said nothing. They were both exhausted, and each of them shivered and moaned. Still, she said later from under her blanket, your voice sounds familiar. Where are you from? Jerusalem, he said. I’m from Haifa, she said, accentuating slightly. They brought me here in an ambulance from Rambam Hospital, because of the complications. I have those too, he laughed, my whole life is complications. They sat quietly. He scratched his stomach and chest and grumbled, and she grumbled, too. That’s the worse thing about it, isn’t it? she said. She also scratched herself, with all ten fingernails. Sometimes I’m dying to peel all my skin off, just to make it stop. Every time she started talking, he could hear the soft sticky sound of her lips parting, and the tips of his fingers and toes throbbed. Ora said, The ambulance driver said that at a time like this they need the ambulances for more important things. Have you noticed that everyone here is angry at us? As if we purposely. . . Because we’re the last ones left from the plague. They sent home anyone who was feeling even a little bit better. Especially soldiers. Wham-bam, they kicked them right back to the army so they could make it in time for the war. So there’s really going to be a war? Are you kidding? There’s been a war for at least two days. When did it start? she asked in a whisper. Day before yesterday, I think. And I told you that already, yesterday or the day before, I can’t remember, the days get mixed up. That’s right, you did say . . . Ora was dumbstruck. Clots of strange and terrifying dreams drifted through her. How could you not hear? he murmured. There are sirens and artillery all the time, and I heard helicopters landing. There are probably a million casualties by now. But what’s going on? I don’t know, and there’s no one to talk to here. They have no patience for us. Then who’s taking care of us? Right now there’s just that thin little Arab woman, the one who cries. Have you heard her? That’s a person crying? Ora was stunned. I thought it was an animal wailing. Are you sure? It’s a person, for sure. But how come I haven’t seen her? She kind of comes and goes. She does the tests and leaves your medicine and food on a tray. It’s just her now, day and night. He sucked in his cheeks and said thoughtfully, It’s funny that the only person they left us with is an Arab, isn’t it? They probably don’t let Arabs treat the wounded. But why does she cry? What happened to her? How should I know? Ora sat up straight and her body hardened, and she said coldly, quietly, They’ve occupied Tel Aviv, I’m telling you. Nasser and Hussein are already sipping coffee at a café on Dizengoff Street. Where did you come up with that? He sounded frightened. I heard it last night, or today, I’m almost positive, maybe it was on her radio, I heard it, they’ve occupied Beersheba and Ashkelon and Tel Aviv. No, no, that can’t be. Maybe it’s the fever, it’s because of your fever, ’cause there’s no way! You’re crazy, there’s no way they’ll win. There is, there is, she mumbled to herself, and thought, What do you even know about what could or couldn’t happen.

Editorial Reviews

"Very rarely, a few times in a lifetime, you open a book and when you close it again nothing can ever be the same. To the End of the Land is a book of this magnitude. David Grossman may be the most gifted writer I''ve ever read.... Powerful, shattering, and unflinching. To read it is to have yourself taken apart, undone, touched at the place of your own essence." — Nicole Krauss"This is a book of overwhelming power and intensity, David Grossman''s masterpiece. Flaubert created his Emma, Tolstoy made his Anna, and now we have Grossman''s Ora — as fully alive, as fully embodied, as any character in recent fiction. I devoured this long novel in a feverish trance. Wrenching, beautiful, unforgettable." — Paul Auster"There are some writers in whose words one recognizes the texture of life. David Grossman is such a writer. His characters don’t so much lie on the page as rise before the reader’s eyes, in three dimensions, their skin covered in prose that both stabs with insight and shines with compassion." — Yann Martel