Israeli Boy—A Story by Orian Morris

Sunk in my bath, much depressed under the water, I was thinking, as always, of the great masters. As an artist of very small caliber I was constantly obsessing on the world famous contemporary Israeli novelists. I was envious as hell. Suddenly, in my stupid wrath it dawned on me: “If these guys are so internationally acclaimed, and have already tired of the Hebrew rabble, and write about the Hebrew scene purely for export, no longer for local consumption—only faking locality to seem authentic—why not admit the pretense? Why not talk directly to the buyer, admit to your expansionist desires, and write a little memoir of a young failed Israeli writer? A portrait of the artist as a sunk man,” I thought it might be called. So, here goes.

I want to tell you the tale of an Israeli boy. But first, it must be said, that you are far too interested in this country than you ought to be. It really is not so very interesting. True, Jesus Christ was born here. Roamed these hills and walked the plains, and so forth. He really was a tzaddik, a holy loner. Today he would naturally fall under the category of a borderline personality, for who else would advise you to abandon the love of your sister and your mother? Freud would have none of that and neither would we. We shall not be redeemed. We are mother-fucked.

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