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    Tsim Tsum
    Tsim Tsum
    Tsim Tsum
    Ebook83 pages50 minutes

    Tsim Tsum

    By Sabrina Orah Mark

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Sabrina Orah Mark follows up her critically acclaimed debut, The Babies, winner of the Saturnalia Books Poetry Prize in 2004 chosen by Jane Miller, with a second collection of prose, Tsim Tsum, centered on two characters, Walter B. and Beatrice, first introduced in The Babies. Unbeknownst to them they have come into being under the laws of Tsim Tsum, a Kabbalistic claim that a being cannot become, or come into existence, unless the creator of that being departs from that being. Along their journey they encounter many beguiling characters including The Healer, The Collector, Walter B.'s Extraordinary Cousin, and the Oldest Animal. These figures bewilder and dislodge what is at the heart of the immigrant experience: survival, testimony, and belonging.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSaturnalia Books
    Release dateOct 1, 2013
    ISBN9781625172723
    Tsim Tsum

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      Book preview

      Tsim Tsum - Sabrina Orah Mark

      I

      say goodbye – a banquet – the last bite of fish -- the timbrelist – the thief – an egg filled with red sugar – disasters – goat song – a booth – between worlds

      The Departure

      You do not know anymore, sighed Walter B., what is real. Goodbye, said Beatrice. Goodbye, said Walter B. Goodbye, said Beatrice. Goodbye, said Walter B. Where will you go? asked Beatrice. To the banquet, said Walter B. Beatrice stared at him. She wished he would break like the sky once did and drown her in flowers. Weren’t we once, asked Beatrice softly, a little like a banquet? You do not know anymore, sighed Walter B., what is real. Walter B. and Beatrice stood in the dark. They held hands, and watched the wagons pass by. Walter B. was not in any of them. Goodbye, said Beatrice. Goodbye, said Walter B. Goodbye, said Beatrice. Goodbye, said Walter B. Where will you go? asked Beatrice. To the banquet, said Walter B. Behind them the horses were slowly gathering in the frozen field. Weren’t we once, asked Beatrice softly, a little like a banquet? You do not know anymore, sighed Walter B., what is real. Goodbye, said Beatrice. Goodbye, said Walter B. Goodbye, said Beatrice. Goodbye, said Walter B. Where will you go? asked Beatrice. To the banquet, said Walter B. Walter B. and Beatrice stood in the dark. They held hands, and watched the wagons pass by. Walter B. was not in any of them. Goodbye, said Beatrice. Goodbye, said Walter B. Goodbye, said Beatrice. Goodbye, said Walter B.

      Walter B. Needs Some Time

      When Walter B., one evening, explained to Beatrice that he needed time, Beatrice pulled the last bite of fish from Walter B.’s mouth and shook it at him. She wished he had said instead that he needed a timbrel, and off they would have gone together to the spectacle where the timbrelist often played. But Walter B. did not need a timbrel. Walter B. needed time. So Beatrice wrapped what was left of the fish in a red wool cloth and set out to find him some. It was cold outside. If I was time, wondered Beatrice, where would I be? She watched the humans in the distance breathe into the grass. If I was time, wondered Beatrice, how would I remind myself of where I was? She held the last bite of fish up to her mouth for warmth. It began to feel heavy in her hands. She wished he had said instead that he needed a timbrel. She wished she was for Walter B. the time he needed. But she was not. She unwrapped the last bite of fish and studied it. It reminded her of a world inside of which Walter B. was mostly gone. She rubbed her arms with it. She buried her face in it. It began to grow around her like a soft, white house. It grew, and it grew, until at last Beatrice was inside. She slowly walked through its rooms. In the first room, a pile of shovels. In the second, a pitcher of milk. When she stepped inside the third, Walter B. and the timbrelist were helping each other on with their coats. If you were time, called out Walter B., where would you be? Before Beatrice could answer, Walter B. saluted her, took the timbrelist by the hand, and left her alone in the soft, white house. Beatrice sat on the floor. Much later she would drink from the pitcher of milk. She would lean against the pile of shovels. But for now all Beatrice could do was sit on the floor. She would sit on the floor of the soft, white house until she grew hungry again for Walter B.’s last bite of fish.

      The Definition of a Thief

      Walter B., as he rummaged through Beatrice’s blouse pockets, asked her carefully what the word thiefmeant. He had heard this word before. Once in the great field. And once in the kitchen. It felt like a word with great distance. For years it had already seemed too late to ask. But not with Beatrice. Not now. With Beatrice he

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