Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing from The New Yorker (5 page)

RABBI RADITZ of Poland was a very short rabbi with a long beard, who was said to have inspired many pogroms with his sense of humor. One of his disciples asked, “Who did God like better—Moses or Abraham?”

“Abraham,” the Zaddik said.

“But Moses led the Israelites to the Promised Land,” said the disciple.

“All right, so Moses,” the Zaddik answered.

“I understand, Rabbi. It was a stupid question.”

“Not only that, but you’re stupid, your wife’s a
meeskeit,
and if you don’t get off my foot you’re excommunicated.”

Here the Rabbi is asked to make a value judgment between Moses and Abraham. This is not an easy matter, particularly for a man who has never read the Bible and has been faking it. And what is meant by the hopelessly relative term “better”? What is “better” to the Rabbi is not necessarily “better” to his disciple. For instance, the Rabbi likes to sleep on his stomach. The disciple also likes to sleep on the Rabbi’s stomach. The problem here is obvious. It should also be noted that to step on a rabbi’s foot (as the disciple does in the tale) is a sin, according to the Torah, comparable to the fondling of matzos with any intent other than eating them.

A MAN who could not marry off his ugly daughter visited Rabbi Shimmel of Cracow. “My heart is heavy,” he told the Rev, “because God has given me an ugly daughter.”

“How ugly?” the Seer asked.

“If she were lying on a plate with a herring, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

The Seer of Cracow thought for a long time and finally asked, “What kind of herring?”

The man, taken aback by the query, thought quickly and said, “Er—Bismarck.”

“Too bad,” the Rabbi said. “If it was Maatjes, she’d have a better chance.”

Here is a tale that illustrates the tragedy of transient qualities such as beauty. Does the girl actually resemble a herring? Why not? Have you seen some of the things walking around these days, particularly at resort areas? And even if she does, are not all creatures beautiful in God’s eyes? Perhaps, but if a girl looks more at home in a jar of wine sauce than in an evening gown she’s got big problems. Oddly enough, Rabbi Shimmel’s own wife was said to resemble a squid, but this was only in the face, and she more than made up for it by her hacking cough—the point of which escapes me.

R
ABBI
Z
WI
C
HAIM
Y
ISROEL,
an Orthodox scholar of the Torah and a man who developed whining to an art unheard of in the West, was unanimously hailed as the wisest man of the Renaissance by his fellow-Hebrews, who totalled a sixteenth of one per cent of the population. Once, while he was on his way to synagogue to celebrate the sacred Jewish holiday commemorating God’s reneging on every promise, a woman stopped him and asked the following question: “Rabbi, why are we not allowed to eat pork?”

“We’re
not?
” the Rev said incredulously. “Uh-oh.”

This is one of the few stories in all Hassidic literature that deals with Hebrew law. The Rabbi knows he shouldn’t eat pork; he doesn’t care, though, because he
likes
pork. Not only does he like pork, he gets a kick out of rolling Easter eggs. In short, he cares very little about traditional Orthodoxy and regards God’s covenant with Abraham as “just so much chin music.” Why pork was proscribed by Hebraic law is still unclear, and some scholars believe that the Torah merely suggested not eating pork at certain restaurants.

RABBI BAUMEL, the scholar of Vitebsk, decided to embark on a fast to protest the unfair law prohibiting Russian Jews from wearing loafers outside the ghetto. For sixteen weeks, the holy man lay on a crude pallet, staring at the ceiling and refusing nourishment of any kind. His pupils feared for his life, and then one day a woman came to his bedside and, leaning down to the learned scholar, asked, “Rabbi, what color hair did Esther have?” The Rev turned weakly on his side and faced her. “Look what she picks to ask me!” he said. “You know what kind of a headache I got from sixteen weeks without a bite!” With that, the Rabbi’s disciples escorted her personally into the
sukkah,
where she ate bounteously from the horn of plenty until she got the tab.

This is a subtle treatment of the problem of pride and vanity, and seems to imply that fasting is a big mistake. Particularly on an empty stomach. Man does not bring on his own unhappiness, and suffering is really God’s will, although why He gets such a kick out of it is beyond me. Certain Orthodox tribes believe suffering is the only way to redeem oneself, and scholars write of a cult called the Essenes, who deliberately went around bumping into walls. God, according to the later books of Moses, is benevolent, although there are still a great many subjects he’d rather not go into.

RABBI YEKEL of Zans, who had the best diction in the world until a Gentile stole his resonant underwear, dreamed three nights running that if he would only journey to Vorki he would find a great treasure there. Bidding his wife and children goodbye, he set out on a trip, saying he would return in ten days. Two years later, he was found wandering the Urals and emotionally involved with a panda. Cold and starving, the Rev was taken back to his home, where he was revived with steaming soup and flanken. Following that, he was given something to eat. After dinner, he told this story: Three days out of Zans, he was set upon by wild nomads. When they learned he was a Jew, they forced him to alter all their sports jackets and take in their trousers. As if this were not humiliation enough, they put sour cream in his ears and sealed them with wax. Finally, the Rabbi escaped and headed for the nearest town, winding up in the Urals instead, because he was ashamed to ask directions.

After telling the story, the Rabbi rose and went into his bedroom to sleep, and, behold, under his pillow was the treasure that he originally sought. Ecstatic, he got down and thanked God. Three days later, he was back wandering in the Urals again, this time in a rabbit suit.

The above small masterpiece amply illustrates the absurdity of mysticism. The Rabbi dreams
three
straight nights. The Five Books of Moses subtracted from the Ten Commandments leaves five. Minus the brothers Jacob and Esau leaves
three.
It was reasoning like this that led Rabbi Yitzhok Ben Levi, the great Jewish mystic, to hit the double at Aqueduct fifty-two days running and still wind up on relief.

1970

HOWARD MOSS

THE ULTIMATE DIARY

(FURTHER DAILY JOTTINGS OF A CONTEMPORARY COMPOSER)

MONDAY

Drinks here. Picasso, Colette, the inevitable Cocteau, Gide, Valéry, Ravel, and Larry. Chitchat. God, how absolutely dull the Great can be! I know at least a hundred friends who would have given their eyeteeth just to have had a
glimpse
of some of them, and there I was bored, incredible lassitude,
stymied.
Is it me? Is it them? Think latter. Happened to glance in mirror before going to bed. Am more beautiful than ever.

TUESDAY

Horrible. After organ lesson at C’s, he burst into tears and confessed that he loved me. Was mad about me, is how he put it. I was embarrassed. I respect him, he is a great
maître
and all that, but how could I reciprocate when I, myself, am so involved with L? I tried to explain. He said he thought it would be better if we discontinued our lessons. How am I ever going to learn to play the organ? Came home upset. Finished
Barcarolles, Gigue, Danse Fantastique,
and
Cantata.
Writing better than ever. Careful of self-congratulations. So somebody said. John Donne? Fresh mushrooms. Delicious.

WEDNESDAY

Drunk at the dentist’s. He removed a molar, and cried when I said it hurt.
Très gentil.
I think he has some feeling for me. The sky was like a red blister over the Dome. Streaks of carmine suffused the horizon. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t have been a writer. Drunk as I was, I caught a glimpse of myself in a bakery window. No wonder so many people love me!

THURSDAY

Arletty said something profound at lunch. “The trouble with homosexuals is that they like men.” She sometimes gets to the heart of the matter with all her superficiality. She is leaving M. Talked and talked about it. I found my attention wandering, and kept seeing the unfinished pages of the
Symphony.
It is a great hymn to world peace, a kind of apotheosis of calmness, though it has a few fast sections. Drank a lot, and can’t remember much after lunch. Woke up in Bois. Think something happened. But what? To relieve depression, dyed my hair again. Must say it looks ravishing.
Ravissant.

FRIDAY

Calls from Mauriac and Claudel. Why don’t they leave me alone?

FRIDAY, LATER

Larry back from Avignon. Seems changed. Felt vague feeling of disgust. To camouflage, worked all day and finished
Pavane, Song Cycles,
and
Sonata.
Dedicated latter—last?—to Princesse de N. She sent me a Russian egg for my name day. How know? Malraux, Auric, Poulenc, and Milhaud dropped by.

SATURDAY

Stravinsky angry with me, he said over phone. I must never stop working, working. What about sex? L has left. Should I call C? Thinking of it. Press clippings arrived. Is there any other composer under seventeen whose works are being played in every capital of Asia? Matisse said, jokingly at lunch, that I was too beautiful to live. Genius is not a gift; it is a loan.

SATURDAY, LATER

At state banquet for de Gaulle, misbehaved. Slapped his wife in face during coffee. Drunk. Terribly depressed, but am I not also not a little proud? Contrite but haughty, sorry but pleased? Can’t remember issue. Something about Monteverdi? Sent her a dozen white roses as apology. The Princesse says I should get out of town for a while.
I WILL NOT RUN AWAY!
C back. We are both more gorgeous than ever. Finished
War and Peace.
A good book.

SUNDAY

Pneumatique from Mallarmé. I will not answer. C and I had pique-nique. Fell asleep on Seine bank. Dream: Mother in hippopotamus cage, crying. She said, “If music be the feast . . .” and then gobbled up by crowd of angry deer. What mean? Shaken. C bought me drink at Deux Magots. Sweet. Told me he thought there had never been a handsomer man placed on this earth. Forced to agree, after catching tiny glimpse of myself in café window. How often are genius and beauty united? They will hate me when they read this diary, but I tell the truth. How many can say as much?

MONDAY

A name even
I
cannot mention. . . . And he wants me to spend the summer in Africa with him! C angry. Finished
Concerto Grosso
and
Hymn to the Moon,
for female voices. Something new, a kind of rough susurration, here and there, a darkening of strings. It is raining. Sometimes I think we are more ourselves in wet weather than in dry. Bought linen hat.

TUESDAY

Gertrude, Alice, James, Joyce, Henry Green, Virginia Woolf, Eliot, Laforgue, Mallarmé (all is forgiven!), Rimbaud’s nephew, Claudel’s niece, Mistinguett, Nadia, Marais, Nijinska, Gabin, and the usual for drinks. I did it with Y in the pantry while the party was going on! Ashamed but exhilarated. I think if
THEY
knew they would have approved. Finished
Sixty Piano Pieces for Young Fingers.
Potboiler. But one has to live!

WEDNESDAY

Snow. Hideous hangover. Will never drink again. Deli dinner with Henry Miller.

THURSDAY

Half the Opéra-Comique seems to have fallen in love with me. I cannot stand any more importuning. Will go to Africa. How to break with C? Simone de Beauvoir, Simone Signoret, Simone Weil, and Simone Simon for drinks. They didn’t get it!

FRIDAY

C left. Am bruised but elated. Dentist. I was right. I wonder if he’ll dare send me a bill.
Now,
I mean. Tea with Anaïs.
Enchantant.

SATURDAY

René Char and Dior for lunch. Interesting. Clothes are the camouflage of the soul. Leave for Africa with X tomorrow. Had fifty tiny Martinis. Nothing happened.

SUNDAY

Barrault, Braque, Seurat, Mayakovski, Honegger, and René Clair saw us off. Very gala. I think I am really in love for the first time. I must say I looked marvellous. Many comments. Wore green yachting cap and cinnamon plus fours. Happy.

WEDNESDAY

Dakar: Tangled in mosquito netting. Getting nowhere with
Chanson d’Afrique.

SATURDAY

Back in Paris. God, what a fool I’ve been! Someday I will write down the whole hideous, unbelievable story. Not now. Not when I am so close to it. But I will forget
nothing.
Leaving tonight for Princesse de N’s country place. Green trees, green leaves. The piercing but purifying wind of Provence! Or is it Normandy? Packed all afternoon. Long bath, many thoughts. Proust called. . . .

1975

MARSHALL BRICKMAN

THE ANALYTIC NAPKIN

R
ECENT
work by Frimkin and Eliscu has brought to light valuable new material about the origin and development of the analytic napkin. It is not generally realized outside of psychoanalytic circles that the placement by the analyst of a small square of absorbent paper at the head of the analysand’s chair or couch at the start of each session is a ritual whose origins are rooted in the very beginnings of analysis, even predating the discovery of infant sexuality. Indeed, references to a “sticky problem” (“
eines Entführung bezitsung
”) appear as early as 1886, in a letter the young Freud wrote to his mentor Breuer:

I am convinced that “hysterical symptoms,” so-called, are nothing but the emergence of long-buried psycho-neurotic conflicts [
bezitsunger Entführung
]. Does that sound crazy? More important, how can I keep the back of the patient’s chair from becoming so soiled [
ganz geschmutzig
]? They come in, they put their heads back—one week and already my upholstery has a spot the size of a
Sacher Tarte.