SEPTEMBER 16, 1970
THE JERUSALEM POST
Ari Epstein, born Aryeh ben Yisroel, the world’s first native Hebrew speaker since the Romans expelled the Jews from Jerusalem in 136 CE and author of the bestselling English language novel “Water Water” (םימםימ), a dreamlike, science-fictional meditation on the end of the world, dog-eared by beatniks and artists all over the world and inspiring Earth Day this past April, has died in his studio apartment in New York City.
“Every writer wishes they had written a book like ‘Water Water’ because it transcends itself. The reader sees exactly what they need to see,” said Epstein’s friend, author Anne Frank. “The hippies see a warning about a dying planet, the artists see the power of art to resist tyranny, the sci-fi fans see an exciting near-future thriller. It’s not perfect by any means, but most complaints about Ari’s work are from cranky novelists who wish they were more famous.”
In Epstein’s near-future 900-page tome, the plot, such as it is, is alternately fluid and fragmented—mimicking the nature of water as both droplet and larger body. It is now considered an early example of postmodern literature and, depending on the critic, either transcendent or aggravating. There are no humans in the book. The main character is a molecule of water (called “Water”) trying to survive a global drought while on a voyage of discovery to learn there were once other droplets like itself. Eventually, Water hears a rumor of something called “Ocean,” a community teeming with others just like itself. Water makes the long journey, only to discover Ocean had long ago dried up. Ultimately, Water makes peace with its aloneness and truly begins to appreciate the miracle of its own life. It dies at the end, and to many readers this was seen as a happy ending.
But not all: “The book is competently written, but dour and relentlessly bleak. That is, when one can even understand what is going on,” wrote one critic. “It’s clear Epstein fancies himself a beatnik author, but he is too old to be jumping on that bandwagon, and writing a long book does not a masterpiece make. I fear this will fade into the background like so many of these failed literary experiments.”
Ari Epstein was born on July 8, 1896, the second son of Yaakov and Hadassah ben Yisroel. Yaakov was a fervent champion of the burgeoning Zionist movement, specifically and intensely focused on the resurrection of the Hebrew language as the national language of Palestine. When they emigrated from Lithuania in the First Aliyah, he changed the family name to ben Yisroel from Epstein, and renamed himself and his wife Yaakov and Hadassah, from Aleksander and Soreh. “I decided I could not live a moment longer as the groveling namesake of Alexander the ‘Great’ who deigned, ever so mercifully, not to kill us,” he wrote in one of his many columns in “Ha-Melitz,” a Hebrew language newspaper published throughout the Russian Empire, in 1893.
On the day Ari’s older brother, Amram, was born, the story goes, Yaakov made a pact with his colleagues that none of them, nor their families, would speak another word in any language except Hebrew. By the time Ari was born, eight years later, Hebrew would be the only language he could speak for the first 20 years of his life. Yaakov was so intent that his sons be ideal Zionists, models of purity and devotion, that he would not permit them any friends outside the family, lest their language be corrupted by the majority Yiddish and Russian and German speakers who populated the rest of their community. Hadassah, not as adept in language-learning as her husband, would occasionally slip up and speak to her sons in Yiddish, and was punished for it.
“Language to Ari meant rules. Rules meant loneliness,” said Frank. “His entire childhood, he could only speak to three other people, and those people lived in his house. Any unapproved words carried the threat of physical punishment.” In interviews, Epstein would often refer to the “tomato moment” as the inciting incident that made him want to become a writer.
The Hebrew language itself was a work in progress, a ritual and liturgical language that had not been spoken conversationally since the Second Jewish Revolt and subsequent expulsion of the Jews from Jerusalem in 135 CE. At that time, the Middle East had not yet been introduced to tomatoes and had no word for them.
Yaakov’s cohort suggested the Hebrew word be agvania, based off the German liebesapfel, which translates to “love apple,” and was already in common usage in the markets. It seemed a natural and commonsensical choice. However, the translation of agvania was closer to “lust apple” and shared a root with “syphilis,” among other words Yaakov disapproved of. He pushed instead for badurah, which was a variation on the Arabic word for tomato—bandora—which was itself a variation of the Italian word for tomato—pomodoro—or “golden apple.” It did not catch on.
When Ari was 10 years old, Yaakov dispatched him alone to the market and insisted he buy a tomato using the word badurah. If the merchant didn’t recognize the word, Aryeh was to lecture him, in Hebrew, about how it constituted proper usage. Aryeh, embarrassed, asked meekly for an agvania, at which point Yaakov sprung out from behind a nearby display of oranges and smacked Aryeh across the face, forcing him to give back the tomatoes and buy them again properly. A crowd formed. Something hardened in Aryeh, and he refused to comply. He kept asking for an agvania, and his father continued to slap him, until Aryeh’s cheek was raw and Yaakov’s was red with rage. Ari did not give in. He had realized the power of words.
Aryeh’s older brother, Amram, also rebelled. He began to sneak out at night to carouse with forbidden friends in forbidden languages. This was too much for Ari, torn between love for his brother and fear of his father. Ari caved, Amram was punished roundly for his escapades, and he stopped speaking to Aryeh entirely. “His tiny world was shrinking,” Frank said. “Then tragedy hit.”
Two years later, both Amram and Hadassah died of cholera. And even then, Yaakov would not permit any outside non-Hebrew influences to infiltrate Aryeh’s life.
In 1913, against his father’s wishes, Aryeh left Tel Aviv to study in London, where he learned English, “gobbling it up like a man starving,” according to a former classmate. He enlisted in the British Army in 1915 at the age of 18, after seeing a recruitment poster featuring two lions—Aryeh means “lion”—and the message The Empire needs men.
Ironically, the war would take him back to Palestine, where he fought among men who spoke all the languages of the British Empire. Aryeh demanded his fellow soldiers speak to him in their native tongues and not in English, believing this was the respectful approach, and that there was some element of selfhood that could not be translated. He tried to explain that they would be able to communicate better if they could not understand one another’s words.
He was not taken seriously. That is, until he was promoted to captain and could legally punish those who spoke English. “He was proud of this,” said Frank. “He honestly did not see the connection between the punishments of his father for not speaking Hebrew and the punishment he meted out to the conscripted soldiers when they spoke English to him.”
When Aryeh was wounded by an exploding mine, he would not permit his rescuer, Private Joseph Maganga of Kenya, to communicate with him or the medical brigade in English, even when Maganga insisted that his first language was English and not Swahili. Aryeh nearly bled to death, and Maganga was later court-martialed for cowardice and sentenced to hard labor for 20 years. Aryeh deeply regretted his behavior and, too late, attempted to testify on Maganga’s behalf. He was not permitted in the courtroom.
Racked with regret, Aryeh escaped to New York City, where he met and married a schoolteacher. He changed their name back to Epstein and wrote several novels, gaining him some early acclaim in intellectual circles. The couple divorced and Epstein’s father Yaakov died in 1940, eight years before the formation of the State of Israel. Epstein’s ex-wife died of breast cancer in 1956, and none of their children could be reached for comment.
“We met, appropriately, through writing. He wrote me letter after letter in 1957, right after the English translation of my first novel came out,” said Frank. “He was not in the custom of traveling, being very shy around most people and having no real friends. We became pen pals. We didn’t meet for years—not until he showed up at one of my readings in Chicago. And no, I won’t publish our letters, so don’t bother asking.”
With Frank as confidant, Epstein settled into a life of solitude, severing ties with remaining friends and family, including his own children, and writing “Water Water,” published in the United States in 1959 and dedicated to Frank. It would become an instant bestseller.
In some eyes, Ari Epstein lived every writer’s dream—fame, adoration, parties, wealth. “And yet,” said Frank, “he lived alone in a tiny studio apartment, hoarding his wealth and never enjoying it. He had one suit, and he would put on a good show at parties, but the rest of the time he sat at home, unshaven in old rags.”
At the time of his death, Ari was in the midst of writing a memoir about his childhood, encouraged by Frank (who, some claim, has refused to publish her own childhood diary). His death was discovered by his publisher after he “stopped responding to phone calls and cashing royalty checks.” It seemed he had been starving himself for weeks, with no indication as to why. “We plan to do our best to cobble together what material we can,” said his publisher.
It is easy to see the suffering child Aryeh ben Yisroel in the character Water, and interviewers often asked Epstein if this was the case, to which he often agreed. In his final interview in the New York Times, however, Epstein responded differently.
“In a mirror, everyone sees themselves,” he said, “but they forget to see the mirror. How would the mirror prefer to be seen, I wonder.”