“You might,” wrote my dissertation supervisor, “read Gershom Scholem’s Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism and Martin Buber’s Tales of the Hasidim. This might help you to understand Celan.”
A year previously, Professor Heinz Politzer z”l, a Jewish refugee from Vienna, who was one of the leading teachers in the German department at Berkeley, had introduced me to the poems of Paul Celan and suggested I write my dissertation about him. Celan was a Jewish Holocaust survivor who wrote very beautiful but cryptic poems in German; I knew almost nothing about Judaism and was both fascinated and baffled by the poems. A few poems of my own came in response to them, but when it came to writing about them in academic prose my mind went blank. Now I had gone to Germany for a year in the vague hope that a change of place might inspire me. It didn’t; but back in Berkeley Professor Politzer finally thought of suggesting those books to me, and that suggestion changed my life.
Those two books did eventually suggest an approach to Celan’s work. They also started me on the path toward Judaism. And the Hasidic stories, especially, spoke to me as an apprentice poet, one uncertain of her poetic vocation and what it meant. The encounter gave rise, in fact, to a view of poetic practice which I’ve been trying to talk about ever since.
I had been writing poetry off and on since childhood and had always felt somehow that it was important for me to do so.
During my college years I had almost talked myself out of it, intimidated by the atmosphere of the literary world. But in Berkeley, where I did my graduate work in German literature (how I’d drifted into that is another story), I minored in counterculture. Among other things, this meant starting to write poetry again.
At that time (1964-68) I was one of many people who were writing poetry in Berkeley, for the most part not with a view to publication, but simply as a way of sorting things out in a chaotic social and spiritual environment. There were open mikes, but much of the poetry was just shared with friends. A short poem by one of my friends, Clark Bromberg, expressed the spirit of the poetry of that time and place:
You may like my poems or
you may not. But in any case they are
I’d stopped writing partly because I was worried about whether my poems were “good enough.”
Everybody in the literary world worried about whether this or that poem was “good” (in some sense that was never quite defined). The editor of the Berkeley college poetry magazine almost took a few of my poems and then didn’t, and explained to me when we met by chance some time later, “Your poems weren’t borderline; we just couldn’t decide whether they were good or not.” Perhaps because Clark’s little poem was somewhere in the back of my mind, I didn’t feel altogether crushed.
At the same time, I began to sense that one’s poems are not only “mine” but also “ours.” A friend got me to audit a poetry class which met in the living room of a visiting professor (Peter Dale Scott). It was a group of eight or nine young men and women. Each of us had his or her own distinctive style; but in the course of the semester each of us, without imitating any of the others, seemed to expand and enrich his or her writing. I felt that I was building into my own poems various features that had struck me in the others’ work.
As I think about it now, the class was a kind of “real-time” analog of a process that I was going through more deeply with the work of Paul Celan.
Most of the poems I wrote at that time were in some way responses to his, in a dialogue that has still not ended. But the class, I think, helped me to see this dialogue not in isolation but in the context of a conversation with many participants.
The class ended with the close of the spring semester of 1968, and the following fall I left for Europe. Of the people I knew who were writing poetry in the ’60’s, only two, as far as I know, became published poets. And their published poetry didn’t speak to me like the things they had shared with friends. I myself have by and large resisted the call to keep “submitting” to editors whom I don’t know and whose standards, judging by what they publish, are not mine. I don’t believe in “persisting despite rejections.” If you do that your poetry eventually gets shaped by what the editors will accept, which may have nothing to do with the reasons why you wanted to write poetry in the first place. My refusal has had a price; that I don’t regret it, is partly due to my having read Tales of the Hasidim in Munich in 1968.
In Tales of the Hasidim I found the following anecdote:
A man had taken upon himself the discipline of silence and for three years had spoken no words save those of the Torah and of prayer. Finally the Yehudi sent for him. “Young man,” he said, how is it that I do not see a single word of yours in the world of truth?”
“Rabbi, said the other to justify himself, “why should I indulge in the vanity of speech? Is it not better just to learn and to pray?”
“If you do that,” said the Yehudi, “not a word of your own reaches the world of truth. He who only learns and prays is murdering the word of his own soul. What do you mean by ‘vanity of speech’? Whatever you have to say can be vanity or it can be truth. And now I am going to have a pipe and some tobacco brought for you to smoke tonight. Come to me after the Evening Prayer and I shall teach you how to talk.”
They sat together the whole night. When morning came, the young mans apprenticeship was over. (II, 228)[i]
I guess that passage must have reminded me of various sessions I had experienced in Berkeley, generally not with the aid of tobacco. But besides that, it gave me the idea that there is a “world of truth” to which every true word spoken by the individual contributes. (“But in any case they are/ mine.”)
One of Celan’s (and my) favorite poets, Osip Mandelstam, also seems to have had this sense of a poetic community.
His widow, Nadezhda Mandelstam, wrote:
The people M. referred to as “we” were those he continued to converse with all his life, even when they were no longer here. There were three of them–but apart from these three, there was also the whole world of poetry, which knew no bounds of time and space. It does not matter what place a poet has in it, however small it may be. The very smallest place — just a couple of successful lines, one good poem, one well-said word — entitles him to enter the fellowship of poets, to be one of “us,” to partake of the feast. (…) The pass to poetry is granted only by faith in its sacred character and a sense of responsibility for everything that happens in the world.
Another Hasidic anecdote that struck me on that first reading was this one:
The Bird Nest
Once the Baal Shem stood in the House of Prayer and prayed for a very long time. All his disciples had finished praying, but he continued without paying attention to them. They waited for him a good while, and then they went home. After several hours when they had attended to their various duties, they returned to the House of Prayer and found him still deep in prayer. Later he said to them: “By going away and leaving me alone, you dealt me a painful separation. I shall tell you a parable.
You know that there are birds of passage who fly to warm countries in the autumn. Well, the people in one of those lands once saw a glorious many-colored bird in the midst of a flock which was journeying through the sky. The eyes of man had never seen a bird so beautiful. He alighted in the top of the tallest tree and nested in the leaves. When the king of the country heard of it, he bade them fetch down the bird with its nest. He ordered a number of men to make a ladder up the tree. One was to stand on the other’s shoulders until it was possible to reach high enough to take the nest. It took a long time to build this living ladder. Those who stood nearest the ground lost patience, shook themselves free, and the whole thing collapsed.” (I, 54)
This confirmed the sense I had acquired in Berkeley that poetry, for all the apparent solitude that envelops the act of composition, is also a communal effort.
In Berkeley, there had been a sense that in our conversations and our poems we were moving toward some kind of general clarification and repair of the world. On one level this sense was wildly mistaken, since we were actually engaged in wrecking the world by breaking down the fences of morality and cultivating expressiveness at the expense of consequential thought. But it has been said that sometimes a great spark comes to the world enveloped in an especially thick husk. There is a reason why the world still looks back with nostalgia to the ’60’s (see Ben Ackerman’s recent novel Open When You Are), and I still hope that the husk will be cracked and the spark finally extracted.
Another perception that the Tales of the Hasidim confirmed for me had to do with the relation to one’s predecessors and teachers. In the Western literary world there is a feeling that one must be “original,” “go one’s own way,” that it is bad to be obviously influenced. Harold Bloom speaks of an “anxiety of influence” that prompts poets to conceal their debts to others; one has to do this, in his opinion, to be a “strong” poet. Now it was clear to me that in relation to Paul Celan I was never going to be a “strong” poet. Thus I found refreshing a saying attributed to Rabbi Mordecai of Lekhovitz:
The zaddik cannot say any words of the teachings unless he first links his soul to the soul of his dead teacher or to that of his teacher’s teacher. Only then is link joined to link, and the teachings flow from Moses to Joshua, from Joshua to the elders, and so on to the zaddik’s own teacher, and from his teacher to him. (I, 91)
Or this from Rabbi Barukh:
“He who wants to understand Abayyi’s words must link his soul to the soul of Abayyi; then he will learn the true meaning of the words as Abayyi himself utters them. And after that, if he wants to understand Raba’s words, he must link his soul to the soul of Raba. That is what is meant in the Talmud when we read: “When a word is spoken in the name of its speaker, his lips move in the grave.” And the lips of him who utters the word, move like those of the master who is dead.
This reminded me the way Celan has of letting other writers come through him. In his “Meridian” speech especially, and in the poems associated with it, you feel their presences.
But Hasidism also addresses the question of the relationship to a living master, which was acute for me in 1968-1968.
Paul Celan at that time was still alive though not very well, residing in Paris, and I was expected to go and see him. This thought gave me a severe case of fear and trembling, which was not made easier by a general sense, in the academic world, that one was not supposed to feel awe. The teacher to whom I had been referred at the German university said to me something like “I don’t like this attitude of discipleship toward Celan” – “disciple” being a word that could only be used with irony. So it was uncomfortable to read, while trying to gather courage for the interview with Celan, a saying like this one from Rabbi Mordecai Leib: “I did not go to the Maggid in order to hear Torah from him, but to see how he unlaces his felt shoes and laces them up again.”
I’ve since gathered that Celan made many people feel a little as though they were in the presence of a tzaddik. But they had no experience of how to act toward a tzaddik; moreover, Celan himself, from what I have gathered, would have strongly disclaimed such a role — even as the poems pleaded to be taken seriously (puts the reader in a double-bind). One reason, I’m sure, was that he was deathly afraid of the phoniness which seems to attach in our time to anything that becomes public. And of course, from any Torah point of view, Paul Celan was no tzaddik at all; but like nearly all who encountered him in the literary world, I was approaching him from a place very far from Torah, and was sensing the Torah somewhere behind him!
From the point of view of Hasidism, Celan represents a link in a twice-broken chain.
He grew up in Czernowitz, and his mother came from the nearby town of Sadagora which was a Hasidic center. But his parents were no longer strictly observant, his mother was a devotee of the German classics, and so aside from what may have lingered in the atmosphere of his childhood, his knowledge of Hasidism stemmed mainly from Buber’s anthology. And Buber likewise does not seem to have learned about Hasidism from a tzaddik and was not prepared to play that role. A friend of Celan’s whom I met in Israel, David Seidmann z”l, told me that Celan had sent his first two books to Buber but received only a perfunctory response.
And yet Buber’s collection includes one long anecdote, “The Impure Fire,” which emphasizes the importance of learning Torah from a tzaddik one knows personally. In this story, a disciple of the Seer of Lublin stops in a small town and encounters a rav who says the prayers with unusual fervor. The disciple asks the rav if he has studied with a Hasidic master and the rav says no, he read about Hasidism from books. The disciple invites him to come with him to the Seer. The Seer receives them harshly and later explains to the disciple that in the rav he had seen that the image of G-d was “tainted.” The fervor that comes from learning outside the context of a personal relationship is an “impure fire.”
Why is it an “impure fire”?
One thing that comes to mind is an episode in Marcel Proust’s The Search for Lost Time where a character weeps while reading about the symptoms of a certain disease but then turns around and treats a person actually suffering from those symptoms with cruelty. If one relates to the “virtual realities” of literature without engagement with the real other, one does not get out of one’s own selfishness.
I did not fail to mention Tales of the Hasidim in my interview with Paul Celan in August, 1969; his response, however, was that he had attended Hebrew school, but only at his father’s insistence: “I was a Communist!” And yet there were during the interview two or three moments when I felt that he was “operating” on my soul, as the tzaddik is often shown operating on the soul of the hasid. His friend Gerhard Baumann has left us a portrait of Celan that recalls the tzaddik’s uncanny insight into others’ destinies; and the late David Rokeach, a Hebrew poet who had known Celan, spoke to me of his “X-ray vision.”
My guess is that on that day he was reading my mind with some accuracy. And yet I had a sense of a failure of communication. In the background there was the dialogue with the reader which the poems seek and establish; in the foreground there was a meeting between a prominent writer and a rather clueless dissertation student. I did not know what to say to him, could not even formulate a letter afterward although he had invited me to keep him informed of my progress. I felt paralyzed and had a terrible sense that I was failing him, which of course only deepened after his life ended tragically the following spring.
Leaving aside thoughts about what I could have said or should have said, I think that without that face-to-face meeting, it might not have been as clear to me that poetry is, in the end, a matter of life and death. Without the memory of a person with whom I had actually spoken, the words on the page might not have confronted me so starkly with the question: do we mean something to you or not? If not, what other words do mean something to you? We were written by someone who had sense of responsibility for everything that happens in the world; where is your sense of responsibility?
At bottom is the question of the relation to the word.
In the Western literary world there is a sense that the successful poet is the “master” of the words. He uses them to fashion works of art, but the words themselves are not binding on him nor on the reader. I had always felt vaguely uncomfortable with this, and so it was refreshing to read this saying, from the maggid of Mesritch:
“I shall teach you how to say Torah. You must cease to be aware of yourselves. You must be nothing but an ear which hears what the universe of the word is constantly saying within you. The moment you start hearing what you yourself are saying, you must stop.” (I, 107)
That, it seems to me, is also the way one writes a poem. And this one:
Rabbi Moshe of Kobryn said:
“When you utter a word before God, then enter into that word with every one of your limbs.”
One of his listeners asked: “How can a big human being possibly enter into a little word?”
“Anyone who thinks himself bigger than the word,” said the zaddik, “is not the kind of person we are talking about.” (II, 169)
In a sermon which Rabbi Mikhal once gave before a large gathering, he said: “My words shall be heeded.” And he added immediately, “I do not say: ‘You shall heed my words,’ I say: ‘My words shall be heeded.’ I address myself too! I too must heed my words!” (I, 143)
When Celan speaks of his poetic practice, in “The Meridian,” his words reveal a similar willingness to “go into” the word, to be carried by it, to be its listener as well as its speaker:
The poem is solitary. It is solitary and on its way. Whoever writes it remains given to it for the journey.
Along with the devotional attention to the “universe of the word,” Celan shared that mistrust of aestheticism which distinguishes the writings of the Torah world from what we know as “literature.”
One sabbath, a learned man who was a guest at Rabbi Barukh’s table, said to him: “Now let us hear the teachings from you, rabbi. You speak so well (schön)!” “Rather than speak so well,” said the grandson of the Baal Shem, “I should be stricken dumb.” (I, 94)
Similarly, Celan wrote in a letter: “Es geht mir nicht um Wohllaut, es geht mir um Wahrheit (I am not interested in euphony, I am interested in truth).”
Only, of course, Celan as a poet could not resist giving even this utterance an aesthetic form, setting the liquid l and rounded vowels of Wohllaut against the harsher r and unrounded vowels of Wahrheit! And I heard from at least two of his fellow-Czernowitzers, whom I looked up afterward in Israel, that he was regarded as a leyts – that is, someone who does not take the word seriously. I think it was something like the situation with the counterculture: a mighty spark clothed in a very thick klippah.
As said, I had been writing poetry since childhood, but had largely stopped in my college years, due to self-doubt.
I had started again in Berkeley, as a way of sorting out my perceptions about what was going on there, and what had gone on in my own life to date. A sort of landscape of meanings began to take shape, composed of the people and things that had in some way spoken to me. It was a half-conscious process; but just before being introduced to Celan’s poetry, I began to sense that it was leading me somewhere.
At the same time, I became conscious of a desire for community; I was very sick of living in a Darwinistic world. A friend of mine, a till-recently-Orthodox Jew, was trying to start a Utopian community, and for a time I was tentatively associated with this enterprise, which proved short-lived. He envisioned an association of small groups, each of which would be engaged in some small business enterprise. But there was no spiritual basis for the association, and no standard for resolution of the personal conflicts that inevitably arose.
In the encounter with Celan’s work, the inner landscape which I had begun to explore – and which was, of course, composed of reflections of the outer world, seen in the light of the soul – opened onto the landscape of another human being. And this landscape, in turn, incorporated many other landscapes, those of the authors with whom Celan had in some way identified. It was a form of surveyorship.
Surveying, as you may know, is the process of map-making.
In its oldest and simplest form, two people stretch out and measure a line between them, and then each measures the angle between that line, and his or her line of sight to a common point in the distance. By simple geometry the length of the sides of the triangle, and hence the exact location of the distant point, can be determined, and from a number of such measurements the map is constructed. Surveying is used, among others, by geologists to map the outcroppings of different rock formations. My father a”h was a geologist, and my mother had been a student of geology, and in the first summer of their marriage they surveyed a certain area of New England together. For several years my father worked for the U.S. Geological Survey, which combined the maps made by many surveyors. The metaphor of surveyorship was built into my inner world.
Thus when I realized the significance of my encounter with Celan, I saw it as the start, so to speak, of a “poetical survey”: people would put together their poetical observations, and they would add up to a picture of the world and of its possibilities for improvement. This, in my mind, was the practical application of Celan’s second-to-last poem, which speaks of a “common truth” that needs “each grassblade.”
I was soon reminded, however, that the idea of a common truth to which every individual insight contributes was very foreign to the literary world. Literary life in the Western world seems to go on under the shadow of an attitude expressed once and for all by the Roman poet Horace:
I have crafted a monument more lasting than bronze,
and loftier than the royal pile of the pyramids,
a thing which neither biting rain nor the obstreperous
North Wind can destroy, nor the countless run of years,
The flight of time.
I will not totally perish…
The poem, in short, as monument to the ego.
A Midrashic comment on monuments and statues (a propos of Cain as builder of cities) is, “That is the way the wicked immortalize themselves”.
The problem with this attitude is not only that it is an expression of gaavah (pride), but that it prevents poets from being open to one another’s words, to one another’s worlds. The jealousy among poets is proverbial. One of the Russian poets once said he could tell a good poem by the stab of jealousy it caused him. Petrarch, the greatest poet of the generation after Dante, is said to have refused to read the Divine Comedy, because he didn’t want to be influenced by it. The Hasidic tales, however, encouraged me to think that it doesn’t have to be this way – that individuality does not need to mean dissociation from other individuals.
Rabbi Rafael asked his teacher: “Why is no face like any other?”
Rabbi Pinhas replied: “Because Man is created in the image of God. Every human being sucks the living strength of God from another place, and all together they make up Man. That is why their faces all differ from one another.” (I, 127)
There is an archetypal pattern of which the individuals are different manifestations.
To the extent that each individual has the archetypal pattern imprinted in the depth of his soul and strive to represent it, community among individuals is surely possible. Another saying attributed to Rabbi Pinhas: “Let us be like the lines leading to the central point of the circle: all come to one point and unite there. But let us not be like the parallel lines which are always separate.” (This one is from Louis I. Newman’s Hasidic Anthology.) And in still another of Rabbi Pinhas’ sayings:
Rabbi Pinhas explained: “Before the building of the tower (of Babel), all people had in common the holy tongue, but each people had its own language besides. That is why it is written: ‘And the earth was of one language,’ that is, the holy tongue, and ‘of one speech’ means that besides the holy language they had in common, each people had its own special tongue. This they used to communicate with one another, while the holy tongue was used between different peoples. When God punished them, he took away the holy tongue.” (I, 134-135)
Coming to Buber’s collection as a Western reader, I did not immediately understand that the phrase “the holy tongue” (lashon ha-Kodesh) ordinarily refers to Hebrew, and so I imagined a kind of trans-lingual language, a language of Understanding that would be to the individual languages as the Divine image is to each human face. And perhaps something like that was also intended.
Each person represents a potential unique realization of the common pattern.
Asked how the ordinary Jew was supposed to hope that his works would approach the works of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the maggid of Zlotchov replied:
Just as our fathers invented new ways of serving, each a new service according to his own character: one the service of love, the other that of stern justice, the third that of beauty, so each one of us in his own way shall devise something new in the light of the teachings and of service, and do what has not yet been done. (I, 147)
This belief in the poet’s inalienable individuality can be distinguished from the quest for “originality” that often involves shutting oneself off from others’ vision. The individuality of any poet is present from the first, like a fingerprint, a signature, even the “fist” of the Morse coder whom other Morse coders could learn to identify.
Rabbi Pinhas said: “When a man embarks on something great, in the spirit of truth, he need not be afraid that another may imitate him. But if he does not do it in the spirit of truth, but plans to do it in a way no one could imitate, then he drags the great down to the lowest level―and everyone can do the same.” (I, 135)
As I conclude these reflections, some lines by Ezra Pound (not, on the whole, a friend) come to mind:
“Go, my songs […] Seek ever to stand in the hard Sophoclean light/ And take your wounds from it gladly.” Sophocles, the great tragic poet of the Greeks. My question is: could there be a poetry that could stand in the light of the Hasidic tradition, and the Jewish tradition generally?
HaRav Kook believed that poetry would play an important role in the revived Jewish commonwealth, and in the redemption generally, but he stressed repeatedly that for his to happen poets and poetry would have to “sanctify themselves.” Obviously this means avoiding certain types of content. But if I have seen aright, it also would mean a transformation of relationships among writers.
I feel an urgency about this, have felt it ever since Celan’s death in 1970.
He seemed to me more than an individual; in its cryptic way his work sums up the Western tradition, you can hear it as a kind of parliament of those voices in the Western world that have carried that sense of responsibility Nadezhda Mandelstam speaks of. A lot of things contributed to his shipwreck: the trauma of the Holocaust, his distance from Torah and false position as a Jewish poet in the German literary world — but also the shrinking audience for poetry in technocratic society, which means that, as he put it, “no one bears witness/ for the witness.” Over the next year, as I struggled to find a response, a poem in several parts called “Earthwake” took shape. It began:
All winter the scholars
kept their houses,
went out rarely, discussed
“the death of literature.”
“The Death of Literature” was the title of a lecture given in the German department of the university where I’d started teaching in the fall in 1969.
To this day, it seems to me, most poets have not yet grasped the full implications for them of the media revolution. Still less, to my knowledge, does the Torah world perceive this as an area of major concern.
The traditional practice of poetry assumes an audience of friends and neighbors whose feelings and perceptions the poet crystallizes in verse. The poem is entertainment, but it is also a way of strengthening memory, concentration, imagination and empathy. Poetry is recited in school, in family gatherings, sung in the tavern and the marketplace, printed in the newspapers and the magazines. Regardless of the content, it helps people to stay in tune with one another, and so promotes the social dialogue. In this situation it is not fatal if poets compete and ignore one another. The community of readers absorbs their work and makes use of it for its own purposes, and on the whole tends to favor poems that strengthen social values.
The media, however, tend to transmit messages that are formulated not by members of the community for their neighbors, but by strangers who want to sell them things.
The media take over the function of entertainment, short-circuiting the imagination with strong stimuli. The person who listened to Homer’s recitation of the Iliad, or who read Milton’s Paradise Lost, had to imagine the scenes of battle or the drama of temptation. The person who watches an action film doesn’t have to imagine anything. He or she has no ownership of what happens, and so it takes more and more violence to get any kind of response. Lately I went to a museum that showed a film about Jewish history. (These days more and more museums seem to be showing films.) The film was shown in a room with special benches that shook violently at portions of the film that were supposed to be especially moving. Apparently the story of the Jewish people in itself was no longer considered to be sufficiently moving.
It is common knowledge that while the computers and the media get more and more sophisticated, our language abilities have been declining. Our sages (following Aristotle) define man as medaber – the creature that speaks. Language, therefore, is the central human function. And poetry, the art that focuses on words and their inner meaning, is arguably its quintessence. The fact that so many people don’t even see the use of poetry any more should be seen as a danger sign, no less than global warming.
In this situation it makes no sense for poets to see themselves as isolate creators competing for the attention of an audience that has vaporized.
They can’t count on people choosing poetry over other forms of entertainment. Poetry needs to be chosen not as entertainment but as a way of preserving the tselem elokim. And poets need to see themselves those to whom something very important has been entrusted, and to see one another as partners in this guardianship.
In this task the inheritance of Hasidism, of mussar, of Pirkei Avot should be able to help us. Pirkei Avot, especially, can be read as a textbook on how speakers who have something important on their mind should treat one another. Mussar invites us to confront the particular forms in which the yetzer hara presents itself to poets specifically, and in doing so bring our craft to a new level. (For instance, the Russian poet mentioned above had learned to use the sting of jealously to identify and presumably to acknowledge good poems by others.)
I dream of the formation of chavurot of poets, committed to keep meeting, sharing, learning from one another and deepening their common vision, and reaching out to everyone concerned about the human future, to rebuild an audience on the basis of common concern. I dream of a reshaping of the poetic canon in the light of Torah values, whereby the best is gathered from the past to become the background for new utterances in its spirit. I pray that something like a guild of poets will yet take shape, dedicated both to producing poetry of ever higher quality, and of regaining poetry’s place in the conversation that is society.
- [Related posts: “‘An Invitation‘ and “Desperate Love for Pirkei Avot,” “So Why Are We On the Internet, Anyway?“]
[i] Excerpts from TALES OF THE HASIDIM by Martin Buber, copyright © 1947, 1948, copyright renewed by Penguin Random House LLC. Used by permission of Schocken Books, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.