I just finished reading Isaac Bashevis Singer's novel, The Magician of Lublin. I'd never read it before and it was an impulse buy at the SFPL $1 sale a couple of years ago. I've loved Singer for years, since childhood, really, when we would read his stories of the people of Chelm in Hebrew school. This edition is a pocket-size one, and the illustration on the cover, a line drawing of two scantily dressed women and a man in a bow tie, make the book seem much more potboiler-y than it is.

The Magician of Lublin felt fresher than I'd thought it would - shame on me. The story of Yasha, a magician, and his struggle as a Jew, and as a man, juggling his unusual career as well as a handful of lovers. Singer is very good at illuminating the lives of shtetl dwellers, city folks, the underclass and all of the subtleties involved. I heard myself gasp out loud at a particularly sad moment.

The entire time I was reading it, I kept thinking I was reading Bioy Casares or Borges. They have a lot of the same quality in their writing. This has happened to me before, confusing these three literary gents. I'm not sure why, but my interest in Singer has kicked me back to reading Bioy Casares, and Borges is never far from my mind.

I'm now reading Bioy Casares' Asleep in the Sun. It is funny and a little creepy, a good companion read to The Magician of Lublin.