By Ron Leshem
By way of turns subversive and darkly comedian, brutal and smooth, Ron Leshem’s debut novel is a world literary sensation, winner of Israel’s best award for literature and the foundation for a prizewinning movie. Charged with brilliance and bold, hypnotic in its depth, Beaufort is right away a searing coming-of-age tale and a singular for our times—one of the main strong, visceral photographs of the horror, camaraderie, and absurdity of warfare in sleek fiction.
Beaufort. To the handful of Israeli squaddies occupying the traditional crusader fort, it's a little slice of hell—a forbidding, fear-soaked enclave perched atop acres of land in southern Lebanon, surrounded via an enemy they can't see. And to the 13 younger males in his command, Twenty-one-year-old Lieutenant Liraz “Erez” Liberti is a taskmaster, confessor, and the one desire within the face of assaults that pop out of nowhere and missions likely designed to get all of them killed.
All round them, stress crackles within the air. lengthy stretches of boredom and black humor are punctuated by means of flashes of terror. And the specter of demise is continuous. yet of their stony haven, Erez and his infantrymen have created their very own little global, their very own ideas, their very own language. And the following Erez listens to his males construct castles out of phrases, telling tales, telling lies, speaking continuously of ladies, intercourse, and lifeless comrades. until eventually, within the ultimate days of the career, Erez and his squad of fed-up, pissed-off, worried younger infantrymen are given one final order: a undertaking that would shatter all last illusions—and stand as a testomony to the common, gut-wrenching futility of war.
The foundation for the Academy Award-nominated movie of an identical identify.
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Extra info for Beaufort
I did this secretly, since I feared the PPS comrades might expel me if they knew. Eventually I mentioned the secret of my attending the Socialist Party gatherings to Hassan, and he, in turn, brought it up at a meeting, questioning whether such an act could be at all beneficial. I sat there, expecting to be thrown out, sweating with anxiety, but found they never went beyond a threat of expulsion. At that point they were too convinced of my loyalty and enthusiasm, but Hassan, as usual, took me aside to lecture me on how he had introduced me into the party and how I should therefore watch every step and word.
Once again, there was my mother's pale round face, a dimple on her chin, her eyes blue, her hair fair. There were her plump hands, her blue silk dress, the black veil which masked her features. '' At times I saw myself kicking at the vines with my shoes until the grapes fell as her lover ran, holding me up in his arms and squeezing me and staring at the bruises on my thigh. I saw her in her full house-dress, sitting on the floor, her head in his arms. I watched her show photographs to her friend, for whom I never cared.
Another grew more outspoken still, and spat, swearing and shoving the dish aside: "I spit on the human being. '' My mother would lean on a neighbor to visit the bathroom. Then she would return to bed, pale, yet with happiness almost jumping from her glistening eyes. She didn't want to have children by my father. She would mention the word "divorce" every time we visited grandfather in his tobacco booth, and always he would reproach her, ''For repentance, Fatme. Acknowledge God. " The feelings of disgust and fear that I felt for my uncle made me wary about everything and constantly watching to avoid any embarrassing situation.