Customer Reviews

Rodinsky's Room

5 star:		(5)
4 star:		(0)
3 star:		(4)
2 star:		(4)
1 star:		(1)

 

 

I just finished teaching *Rodinsky's Room* and was amazed to see the variety of misreadings posted here as reviews. Among the many contemporary works of historical recovery or revision, *Rodinsky* stands out because of its alternating -- and often warring -- authors, each of whom has a different purpose in recovering Rodinsky's history, as well as a different form and style through which to accomplish this recovery.

Sinclair, the experimental London novelist and essayist, draws on a pastiche of languages and approaches: the short, grotesque sentences of crime novels; classic gothic imagery of the uncanny; filmic montage and surrealist juxtaposition; gossip and rumor and arcane whispers. As he follows Lichtenstein's quest for Rodinsky's history, Sinclair questions traditional ways of fixing history that overexpose, erase, or create a fictional simulacrum of the past. While he is quite aware that his early writings on Rodinsky were the stuff of romantic urban legend, he is also insistant that heritage trusts and yuppie preservationists are no better than the City developers who want to erase the multiple layers of time sedimented in Spitalfields. The latter erase history, while the former use urban myths to increase property values.

Lichtenstein's style, while more straight-forward than Sinclair's, is comparable to Paul Auster: a clean, seemingly transparent surface, with a plot built on unexplainable coicidences. If Sinclair is obsessed with the Room as a set for his own fictional musings, Lichtenstein wants to demystify the room, unfix energy from a fetishistic attachment to Rodinsky's objects and redirect it onto the human story of David Rodinsky.

And to those reviewers who see Rodinsky as ultimately an ordinary man or a mentally disturbed recluse, I can only ask: did we read the same book? Rodinsky apparently taught himself several ancient languages, was at work on a treatise on the origins of language itself, definitely studied Kabbalah, and maintained himself in near obscurity in the closely-knit Jewish community of Spitalfields. Lichtenstein also debunks the mental illness theory: the behaviors that seemed "crazy" in London would have been totally normal in the Polish community of his grandparents. The very complexity of Rodinsky's identity is used to evoke the heterogeneity and brilliance of a Jewish immigrant community the history of which is currently elided in the pursuit of parking garages, office blocks, and silk weaver garrets.

Ultimately, *Rodinsky's Room* is thematically similar to works like Sebald's *The Emigrants* or Amitav Ghosh's *In an Antique Land*, works that explore the porous boundaries between fiction, history, and myth, works that seek to protect history without romanticizing it or cutting it off, museum-like, from the plurality of possible fictions.

This is an amazing book. Rachel Lichtenstein is a young artist, living in London, England, and Iain Sinclair, who also lives in London,is the celebrated author of Lights Out for the Territory, which was given a fantastic review in the New York Times not long ago. Lichtenstein, whose Jewish paternal grandparents found themselves in the Spitalfields area of London after immigrating from Poland in the early 1930s, became fascinated with the story of David Rodinsky, a Jewish man who lived above a synagogue in Spitalfields and mysteriously disappeared from his attic room in the 1960s. No more was heard of him until the room was re-opened more than a decade later, and was found exactly as he had left it - indentation in the bed where he had lain, half-finished tea on the table and the room strewn not only with books but extraordinary artefacts which only hinted at the kind of man he might have been. Rodinksy became an urban myth, nobody really knew him, or what had happened to him, but many claimed his memory. Lichtenstein tells a straightforward tale of her quest to find out what really happened to David Rodinsky, a tale which is something of a mystery story, while Sinclair reflects on Lichtenstein's quest and places it in the context of the London he knows so well. Rodinsky's Room is part mystery, part biography, part travel guide to an extraordinary part of London. Essential reading for anyone interested in Jewish history, identity, immigration, London, Iain Sinclair's writings. This is somehow more than just a book.

Lichenstein and Sinclair have taken a fascinating and perplexing mystery and have raised it to the status of urban legend. On many levels, their collaborative attempt succeeds admirably: Lichtenstein skillfully (with some elements of a suspenseful detective story) presents her search for David Rodinsky, whose room was rediscovered, virtually untouched, two decades after it had been abandoned, and Sinclair places the story in its many cultural contexts. Yet, in other ways, their narrative falls short: more questions are raised than answered by their book, and Sinclair's contributions occasionally suffer from a parochialism that makes his discussion difficult for the general reader. As Sinclair himself admits, "The more the mystery of Rodinsky was discussed and debated, the dimmer the outline of the human presence."

The book alternates between chapters by the two authors, and Lichtenstein's contributions are far more straightforward. She weaves her investigation into Rodinsky's identity with her own quest for her Jewish identity and ancestry, and I found her chapters to be far more compelling. Unfortunately, Lichtenstein seems a bit out of her depth when discussing Rodinsky's writings. She confesses she doesn't have the background necessary to understand or translate most of the scraps of papers and journals found in Rodinsky's rooms, yet both she (and Sinclair) repeatedly refer to Rodinsky as a talented linguist and scholar (or a cabbalist). This claim would have been greatly supported by reprinting or summarizing some of the texts left in the room, but we are given only four examples of Rodinsky's apparently prodigious output: two grammatically inept notes to his aunt (including one notable for its venom), the translation of a page of Chinese characters that turns out merely to say "I am David Rodinsky" over and over, and a journal entry on the study of the Assyrian language that could have been written (stylistic errors and all) by a college freshman. Was Rodinsky truly a scholar and a linguist, or was he just a reclusive dabbler? The evidence presented in the book is hardly convincing either way.

Sinclair's nonlinear meditations are also absorbing; he finds parallels to the mystery of Rodinksy in a broad range of literary themes and cultural myths, and he aptly illustrates the East End neighborhood where Rodinsky spent nearly all his life. Although he is a wonderful stylist, Sinclair seems to be writing for his fellow members of the East End literati (and for the critics) rather than for the general reader. Time and again, he mentions London-based semi-celebrities without any introduction whatsoever; I can't imagine many American--or even British--readers knowing most of the people and friends Sinclair mentions. If, before you begin this book, you can't identify Steven Berkoff, David Gascoyne, James Fox, George Melly, John Harle, and dozens of other similarly obscure artists and writers, you will know even less about them after you finish reading Sinclair's chapters. Even better-known writers like Kathy Acker and Arthur Morrison deserve some sort of identification.

Furthermore, Sinclair's chapter placing Rodinsky's story within the context of the mythology of the golem seems far-fetched; the parallels just aren't there. Indeed, most of those who knew Rodinsky clearly find this comparison odious ("There must be no talk of golems, cabbalists, interdimensional voyages, invisibility," says one. "Rodinsky was a man to be pitied, an inadequate [who] unfortunately attained nothing . . . due to his low IQ.") But such objections hardly keep Sinclair from attempting to substantiate this analogy for nearly 30 pages.

Nevertheless, in spite of my rather significant reservations, I found this book overall to be an affecting celebration of the life of a man who otherwise would be one of the many reclusive loners and social outcasts who disappear in the world on a daily basis.

David Rodinsky disappeared from his room at 19 Princelet Street, an old synagogue in London's Spitalfields in 1969 and was not thought about again until his room was reopened in 1980. Inside were papers and personal effects, notes and books in many languages, cabalistic diagrams and dictionaries. David Rodinsky, who had failed to attract much attention during the years of his disappearance, was now attracting the imagination of a number of people.

One of those attracted was Iain Sinclair, who wrote an article about Rodinsky called, "The Man Who Became a Room." Rodinsky, easily categorized as a recluse and a scholar, was, of necessity, reduced to all that was left of him, i.e., all that was found in his room. A young Jewish art student, Rachel Lichtenstein, who was researching the thesis she intended to write concerning the immigration of Jews to the East End, became entranced with Rodinsky's room, which by the 1990s had assumed near-mythic proportions. Lichtenstein, who became fascinated by what she found as well as by what she didn't find, spent many of the next years researching and piecing together the life of David Rodinsky.

In alternating chapters, Lichtenstein and Sinclair write their own stories and the story of David Rodinsky. Lichtenstein takes the more archaeological approach; Sinclair's chapters are more analytic. There is some overlap and the two approaches usually serve to compliment each other well.

Lichtenstein's story is the more personal one. She seems to be in search of her own identity as much as she seems to be in search of Rodinsky's. Born Rachel Laurence, she changed her name to that of her grandparents. An Englishwoman who is reclaiming her Jewish heritage, she looks upon Rodinsky as somewhat of a companion in her own quest.

Lichtenstein's efforts are impressive. She clearly sees Rodinsky, forgotten and ignored, as the symbol of London's forgotten Jewish history. An early scene in the book tells of Lichtenstein's efforts to rescue some of the more historically valuable books from Rodinsky's room.

Traveling to both Israel and Poland, Lichtenstein moves away from the mystery of Rodinsky and then draws closer to it again as she comes close to the shetl from which Rodinsky's family no doubt came.

A thorough researcher, Lichtenstein examines the mystery of David Rodinsky from every side. His books tell her that he was a scholar bordering on obsession, while his papers point to a sad, lonely and unexceptional existence. To her enormous credit, Lichtenstein avoids mythologizing Rodinsky and instead, presents all sides quite clearly, leaving the reader room to form his own interpretations.

At times, however, Lichtenstein is guilty of author intrusion as her own quest intrudes into the story she has set out to write. There are far too many sad and weepy scenes set in Poland, and, while we do not, for one second, doubt Lichtenstein's sincerity, her presentation seems a bit shallow and empty.

Sinclair's contributions are interesting and not at all intrusive. He follows Lichtenstein's progress while he comments and elaborates on it, but he also offers his own interpretation of Rodinsky and his room. His writing lacks the quality of personal quest so evident in Lichtenstein's, and, as such, it offers a perfect counterpoint to her more emotional narrative.

Lichetenstein's closure seems a little contrived and somewhat forced. Nevertheless, this is an interesting and engrossing book and David Rodinsky, wherever he is, will certainly be remembered as a fascinating piece of history. It is just too bad he could not be remembered as fascinating human being as well.

This is a fascinating story of a search for information, the peeling away of years of misinformation and misunderstanding in an attempt to understand the last years of a lonely man. Along the way, it gives a good rough example of how cities and ethnic communities change. The alternation of authors presents different perspectives on both the man and the search for information while bringing London's East End to life, revealing a place that in most ways doesn't even exist anymore.

I had a hard time putting this book down -- it's fascinating to read. The alternation of voices (Sinclair's and Lichtenstein's) is very effective, and the story of the Spitalsfield neighborhood, as it emerges from these pages, is very moving. But part of the fascination lies in the skill with which the writers say so much about so little. Rodinsky himself remains a mystery, one that becomes increasingly less intriguing as the book goes on. Sinclair is a gifted writer whose rapid-fire style masks the lack of content. Lichtenstein never seems to realize that the average undergraduate would have completed her search (for Rodinsky) in a few days: go to the newspaper archives, check the city's death records, and when someone tells you which cemetery he is likely to be buried in, check it out right away instead of waiting for months and then waxing mystical when her adviser turns out to be right. As she and Sinclair both acknowlege, Lichtenstein's search for herself is the real subject of the book.

This is a book interesting for reasons unintended by - and perhaps unwelcome - to the authors. Rodinsky was a very ordinary man, whose room above an unused synagogue was left unopened for nearly two decades after his death. Since nobody could remember offhand what happened to him, the wildest stories were put about - perhaps he had been a cabalist, who had learned how to walk through walls! Detective abilities in Sherlock Holmes's hometown would appear to have degenerated considerably, as Rodinsky turns out to have been moved first to a hospital, then to a psychiatric institution, and finally buried, all recorded properly by the British welfare state. The truth was tracked down by the two authors, Lichtenstein, a performance artist from a wealthy and assimilated family, indulging herself in guilt, and Sinclair, a local and more cynical (and non-Jewish) journalist, in a post-industrial London neighborhood that sounds like a cross between Dickens and Hanif Kureshi -indeed, by the end of the book Lichtenstein seems intent on recreating "Sammy and Rosie Get Laid", with herself as the downwardly mobile Rosie married to a husband who is the son of a Pakistani and an Irish Catholic - and they name their firstborn son after Rodinsky! The reader is likely to be alternately bored, annoyed, and bewildered by these goings-on. But the real virtue of the book is that it is a textbook example of the creation of what folklorists (i.e. Brunvand) now call an "urban legend". Here we have step by step the process by which an ordinary, normal event is transformed by media hysteria and public gullibility into a supernatural happening. That should ensure its place on reading lists in folklore and journalism courses - and serve as a warning to the rest of us.

On a recent visit to London in search of my wife's roots and her mother's childhood home, we were most fortunate to be permitted to visit the synagogue where Rodinsky lived in an upstairs room. The building is in disrepair but doesn't feel ramshakle. It's generally not open to the public. In fact, we were not permitted to actually visit the upstairs due to unsafe building conditions but did tour the sanctuary and the basement meeting room and kitchen. The building is in the process of being renovated and has applied for historic status under British law. Our tour was arranged as a special favor to a close family member. One gets a distinct sense of a different time and place when standing in the small sanctuary lit from above by an aged stained glass skylight and reading the imprinted names of the long deceased members of the congregation on the wooden beams surrounding the room. My wife and I tried to imagine her grandfather and great-grandfather actually in this room some time long ago, having closed their kosher fish market (two blocks away), bathed, dressed and prepared for the Sabbath. Interestingly, we were told that many of the more politically radical elements of the surrounding community, including Vladimir Lenin, were allowed to use the basement meeting room as a secret place to refine the philosophy that would have such a tremendous impact on the twentieth century. While personal safety didn't permit to see his actual room, the spirit of the neighborhood and of Rodinsky permeated the entire building and helped us focus our thoughts on what such an individual might have done and thought and experienced in this old Jewish neighborhood now, basically, vanished.

More a story about the author than the subject, ignore Sinclair's part.
This book is actually a projection of Rachel Lichtenstein's search for a particular type of Eastern European, Jewish past. It begins with a tale of an room, undisturbed since its solitary occupier - the Rodinsky of the title - mysteriously abandoned it in the late 1960's. Rachel Lichtestein begins the tale by trying to rediscover her Jewish origins, and discovers Rodinsky's abandoned room above a desolate synagogue in a part of the East End of London which was a Jewish area in the first half of the Twentieth Century.

While the narrative moves along Rachel's attempts to find out more about the life and circumstances of Rodinsky, however it becomes clear that she is overtaken by her imaginings and projects her increasing interest in cabbalistic thought and Jewish mysticism. Her search in London is rather mundane, however the book comes alive when she travels to Poland to visit abandoned Jewish villages in the borderlands of the present-day Poland and Ukraine. It was from this area that a significant number of the East End Jews arrived, following pograms in the late 19th Century. The impact of the devastation of the Second World War and the Nazi genocide is still palpable in the area, especially to Rachel and her companions. There are interesting insights into the devastated folk culture, in particular the Golem - a fictitious, menacing ogre, and the lamed vavnika, a collection of righteous, learned men, whose identities are secret. Their presence and their anonymity, prevent the world from being destroyed. It's a highly evocative tale of vengeful Deities, secrecy and scholarship. Rachel associates this with Rodinsky's fevered,multilingual note taking, and this is where the story is at its most tenuous.
The balance of the story is a straight-forward description of the twists and turns involved in Rachel's quest to piece together Rodinsky's last movements and, finally, his last resting place. Her motivation is to offer a prayer - Kaddish - over his grave, as she has done for others in Eastern Poland, is very moving. Usually Kaddish is offered by the deceased's next-of-kin, however both Rodinsky and the victims of genocide had no one to pray for them and Rachel feels the weight of this desolation. The book can be very deflating in terms of the cycle of woe which befalls the Jews - the Polish pograms of the 1890's, the genocide of the Second World War, and there are mentions of subsequent anti-Semitism in Poland of the 1960s. There is a hopelessness about the fate of the Jews in the storytelling which is belied by the energy of the storyteller in her research and in her real life. This does not gel with my experience of Israel/Palestine, which I know to be a highly energetic, cosmopolitan, diverse and troubled society, whose energy is its most appealing characteristic. That being said, the part of the story told by Rachel, while being somewhat incredible, is sincere and well told.

Have you ever experienced a bore at a funeral? Someone who is so intent on telling his/her own story with only glancing references to the deceased? For a reason, which is inexplicable to me, the story of Rachel's quest is periodically interrupted by irrelevant chapters by Iain Sinclair which completely break the flow of the narrative. He mentions `waiting for Godot', Bob Geldof, Harold Pinter, his own writings, the writing of some of his obscure friends, other Jewish legends, other people who are dead or missing - all tangentially related to Rodinsky or Rachel. Why? Sinclair shows up at the launch of the book and its readings, but he does not carry or contribute to the story. I can only surmise that Rachel was not confidant in her abilities to get the book started without him, but surely an experience editor should have intervened at some point in the books creation and dropped Sinclair;s contribution. As it is, the book can be quite usefully understood without bothering with Sinclair's pieces - indeed each chapter's author is listed, so perhaps the editor is making some effort at guiding us through the dross.

Through Rachel's recounting of the story, it is obvious that the room, abandoned by Rodinsky in the 1960's, has been used as a powerful metaphor by both writers and photographers since it's `rediscovery' in the 1980's. It becomes clear from the photographs of the room that various photographs have rearranged the `undisturbed' room to fit their own needs for a story over the years. I think Rachel is also guilty of the same transference, it is possible that Rodinsky saw himself as an autodictat, in splendid isolation or it may be that he was a disturbed, isolated and frightened man who lived and died in extreme poverty and loneliness. Once it becomes clear that Rodinsky's actual personality and possessions are not knowable at this remove, the story could have focussed more on the social life of the Jewish area of the East End, the story could have included social progression, increasing affluence and assimilation; instead I believe the narrative explores Jewish tragedy and isolation, the necessity to acquire and disseminate knowledge so as to leave a record which may survive the inevitable disasters that will be visited upon the population.

A thoroughly disappointing book! Both authors seem to have overlooked the obvious point that the world is full of sad, mad recluses poring over esoterica in their garrets, and that one is only more interesting than any other on account of their thought processes. While they hint that the room was full of his books and writings, these hardly feature in their text. Was Rodinsky just a substandard lexicographer or did he actually have some interesting insights. I am none the wiser for reading this book. Surely an exposition of his writing would have done far more to illuminate him than the discovery that he came to rest in a forgotten corner of the commuter belt. (Lichtenstein seems to think that how Rodinsky got from Whitechapel to Surrey is one of the great unsolved mysteries of our time - perhaps he got on the tube!) To her credit, she makes the disarming revelation three-quarters of the way through her text, that she lacks the background to analyse this material. This, and her entirely conventional description of her discovery of her Jewish roots, do not, however, do much to improve her book. At least one feels that she is sincere, so that her writing is actually more enjoyable than Sinclair's contrived and tired urban mythmaking. His idea that London's underworld/underground provides a mystical link with the past was an interesting one when it first emerged in the seventies. One nevertheless feels from reading his essays that he hasn't had any other bright ideas since then.