The Postman Has Rung Again
Late in December 1997, I sat at a table at a guest house in the Old City of Jerusalem. It was one of those bitterly cold Jerusalem nights, when the rain pours down as if the gates of heaven have opened up for a second flood.
But I didn’t care. In fact, I hardly even noticed the weather, because I was deeply engrossed in a book — a collection of prose by Willy Kyrklund. That December in Jerusalem I discovered the magic of Kyrklund’s prose, and until this day I still haven’t found anyone who can give literary form to pessimism, melancholy and losers in such a loving and comforting way.
יהיה זכרו ברוך
Entry filed under: Arts.