A review of my book

A bunch o' years ago, I wrote a colelction of divrei Torah. Here is a review:

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Reviewing the Unseen: A Night with Dibburei Hamatchil

It was a rainy evening in early December, the kind of night when the world felt muffled and distant. The streets shimmered under the glow of streetlights, reflecting the fallen drops of water. In the warmth of my apartment, I was curled up in my favorite chair with a mug of tea and a book I’d been meaning to read for weeks: Dibburei Hamatchil by Daniel Rosen.

The title intrigued me. Translated loosely from Hebrew, it means “The Words of the Beginner.” I didn’t know much about Rosen, but his work was recommended by a friend whose taste in literature I trusted. The book had the kind of allure I liked—something unfamiliar yet oddly comforting.

As I turned the first few pages, I was immediately struck by Rosen's use of language. It wasn’t just the sentences or the story itself—it was the way he drew the reader into a world that felt at once alien and deeply personal. Dibburei Hamatchil wasn’t a traditional narrative, but more of a collection of musings, reflections, and moments that hinted at something much larger than their simplicity suggested. The tone was contemplative, often self-reflective, and it was clear that Rosen was attempting to convey something profound through his seemingly simple words.

The book follows a young man, often nameless and without much context, who begins a spiritual journey, searching for meaning in a world that feels disjointed and fragmented. The character’s internal monologue is fragmented too, shifting between raw emotion and philosophical questions, sometimes with an almost meditative quality. It’s not so much about plot as it is about uncovering layers of thought and experience. This, in itself, was a departure from traditional storytelling, and I found myself becoming more intrigued by the method than the end result.

What made Dibburei Hamatchil especially fascinating was Rosen’s exploration of identity. It wasn’t a straightforward journey, and as a reader, I found myself questioning who the character was, who I was, and how much of our identity is shaped by the stories we tell ourselves versus the reality we encounter. Rosen frequently uses the motif of "beginning" and "starting anew"—be it in the act of writing, a relationship, or even simply existing in a complex world.

Rosen’s style was also minimalist—there was an almost poetic quality to his writing. Short, clipped sentences that lingered in the air, creating space for reflection. Often, there was an ambiguity to the language, a purposeful vagueness that made me lean in and try to decipher the hidden meaning, only to realize that perhaps the beauty lay in not knowing for sure.

Halfway through, I found myself underlining certain phrases. "Truth is a conversation between the self and the world,” one of them read. The simplicity of it, combined with the depth of its implications, encapsulated the spirit of the book. Rosen seemed to be asking whether truth could ever truly be grasped, or if it was only a fleeting moment, a whisper we hear but never fully understand.

In my notes, I scribbled: "It’s a work of introspection." That felt right, though I knew it didn’t capture the complexity of the book in its entirety. Dibburei Hamatchil was not about finding answers. It was about posing questions in a way that made the reader reflect on their own life, their own spiritual journey. I found that both humbling and daunting.

By the time I reached the end, I wasn’t sure if the character had found the peace they were searching for, or if it even mattered. The journey seemed to remain unfinished, as journeys often are. In some ways, the book felt like a conversation that had no closure, but I didn’t mind. It left me thinking long after I closed the pages, which, for me, is the hallmark of a truly powerful read.

As I sat there, reflecting on what I’d just read, I realized something important about Dibburei Hamatchil. It wasn’t the kind of book you review with a plot summary or an analysis of character arcs. It wasn’t a book you dissected in the usual way. It was a work that invited you to meet it halfway, to enter its world and make sense of it in your own terms. And for that, I felt a deep gratitude.

In a way, Dibburei Hamatchil wasn’t just a book—it was an experience. And perhaps that’s the highest praise I could give it.

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thanks ChatGPT.