Growing up in a traditional family, I considered but didn’t pay heed to my writing abilities. I did not think I had the talent; more importantly, while I listened to others stories, my family’s stories, I did not think I had a story to tell. Moving to a very different culture and learning to adjust on my own made me see the world much more clearly.
Despite it being a daunting task to go back 600 years; I believed that she would turn up “concrete evidence” to prove her convictions, but in the end all she has are symbols and an inner knowing—her own truth: instinct over logic, which must have been hard for her since she was trained as a hard news reporter, and it becomes a woman’s account of family.
I’m always thrown for a loop when someone I admire has passed away. It makes me think of how short our lives are. Today I heard about Roger Ebert and recall the many times I watched him flag his hands in the air and took heed to his either thumbs up or thumbs down that became his moniker. Last night another blow— and another light extinguished—Oscar-winning screenwriter and award-winning novelist Ruth Prawer Jhabvala died.
Sometimes, with a nervous mannerism, he reminds me of actor Gene Wilder, delivering a mad spark that explodes into manic hilarity. But it’s his Yiddish that hurls me onto the floor, although I don’t understand a word, it sounds like he’s either coughing or spitting in your face, and the audience cackles from his animation.