Wow! I finished reading Chaim Potok's I Am the Clay last night. First, I was surprised to find the book at Barnes & Noble this summer. I became a Potok fan in the 1970s when I read My Name Is Asher Lev, and I thought I'd kept up with his writing pretty well until his death a few years ago. Turns out I was wrong—which means more books on the to-be-read list. Like it's not long enough already!
Anyway, I Am the Clay reminded me of a Stephen-King-recommended book, The Road by Cormac McCarthy. The Road describes the adventures of a father and son, traveling the highways of America after the atomic bombs have been dropped. Potok's I Am the Clay tells of the struggles of an old man, an old woman and the injured boy they rescue as they travel south to avoid battles in the Korean War. Both books are amazingly powerful; both writers use similar techniques to achieve that power. Characters are not named. Specifics of what led to the wars remain vague. The stories are of the survival of Everyman-like characters.
Specifics from I Am the Clay that grabbed me.
1) "The old man looked fearfully at the soldier. Short, thin, a hooded fur-lined combat parka and gloves. Closed, arrogant face, the face of magistrates and bureaucrats, the face of landowners." (page 115) All over the world, for ever and ever.
2) The boy observes aircraft. "Machines on the ground and machines in the air. The foreigners seemed to have an endless supply of machines. … Do the foreigners live this way in their own land, machines everywhere?" (page 197) Yes.
3) Eventually the old woman dies, and the old man is forced to acknowledge some truths he has always denied. "Now the spirit of the woman seemed to be everywhere around him, even when he went to the town with the carpenter to forget his sorrow and one morning, as he watched the boy climb the hill to the grave wearing the hat of mourning, he felt deep within himself a slow and torturous turning and then an opening of doors to deeper and deeper recesses within himself, caves leading to caves, and his heart raced and he wondered if this was meant by the word love, which he had heard spoken from time to time, this baffling sensation of trembling warmth and closeness he now felt for this boy, and of course he said nothing of it to the boy and not even a word of it to the carpenter." (page 229) I read things like the above and think of my husband who is apparently quite vocal about his feelings for me—when I'm in a coma.
I recommend I Am the Clay—but not for everyone.
