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The Socialist

Friends and Politics, Part 2: Irving Howe. The prominent critic and I worked on Yiddish translations together, but a dispute over Israel and its Arab neighbors ruptured our relationship—until we reconnected over literature.

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Irving Howe in his office at City College, circa 1989. (Wayne Geist)
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Like my friendship with Saul Bellow, my association with Irving Howe was cemented by a mutual devotion to Yiddish, but it was buffeted by stronger political winds.

Irving came to me out of need, which put us on an even footing. This was unexpected, since I owed him a considerable professional debt: In 1969, when I was completing my doctorate at McGill University and teaching sections of the English literature survey course, I petitioned the English Department for permission to introduce courses on Yiddish literature under its aegis. When my colleagues asked how they could justify the inclusion of a subject with no obvious connection to theirs, I pointed out that not a single course in the university dealt with any aspect of Jewish history or culture. Jewish studies would have to start somehow and somewhere: Did they think I’d do better in the German Department? Invited to supply a syllabus, I proposed a course on the Yiddish short story that was based largely on Irving Howe and Eliezer Greenberg’s Treasury of Yiddish Stories; almost entirely on its own, it won over my department.

Howe describes in his memoirs the emotional-political pressures of the early 1950s that prompted him to seek refuge in this project of Yiddish translation. Because he read his native language only haltingly, he partnered with a Yiddish poet called “Leyzer” Greenberg, who selected the authors and read his choice of stories aloud until Irving hit on the ones that he liked. In this way, he later quipped, he got to know the lesser Yiddish writers much better than the great ones. As the “outside man” on the project, he conscripted translators from among fellow writers who still knew some Yiddish from home. When Saul Bellow agreed to translate Isaac Bashevis Singer’s “Gimpel the Fool,” Leyzer likewise read the story aloud to him, and Saul sat at the typewriter, translating it sentence by sentence as if taking dictation. The result was so good (if slightly bowdlerized) that Bashevis Singer never allowed Bellow to translate another story, lest Saul be credited for any share of his achievement.

But I digress: I was making the point that Howe and Greenberg’s anthology allowed me to introduce Yiddish literature at McGill. The two men published several more anthologies of Yiddish poetry, essays and stories, until Leyzer’s death in 1977 left Irving without a partner on a project he had come to depend on as the link to his Jewishness.

The most ideologically rigid of the New York Intellectuals, Irving did not change his affiliation over a lifetime. As his fellow leftists turned neo-conservative and their publications edged rightward, he alone remained a socialist, conflating his socialism with what he called Yiddishkayt (Jewishness), so that he could not abandon one without appearing to betray the other. When Jewishness began to matter more to him, he looked for ways to become part of it without compromising his socialist faith, and he’d found a highly creative avenue for this linkage in the transposition of Yiddish literary treasures into English. Leyzer’s death forced him to find a new collaborator on the Yiddish projects that constituted the Jewish portion of his life, and that was how he came to me.

Our first joint venture, The Best of Sholem Aleichem, was conceived when Marty Peretz approached Irving with the idea for this collection to be published by New Republic Books, and Irving—the one with experience—got us to sign away all the rights for $2,000. Irving had composed the introductions to the books he co-edited with Leyzer, but he and I decided to do ours in the form of letters, which we sent back and forth in the days when mail took several days for delivery. Leon Wieseltier, who saw the proofs of the book, asked me whether I noticed that whereas my letters responded to Irving’s by incorporating his comments, his never referred to anything I said. I had noticed it, but it was beneath my pride to show Irving that I cared. And I felt beholden to him. It was his reputation, not mine and not Sholem Aleichem’s, that got our book frontpage coverage in the New York Times Book Review.

We began work on the Sholem Aleichem anthology just as Irving’s most ambitious book, World of Our Fathers, was about to appear. Irving worried that the Times would assign the review of it to Harry Golden, whose work he had panned. Instead, he won the National Book Award, made the best-seller list, and got to tour the country for respectable fees. But fate seemed to conspire against his triumph. His marriage to Ariel Mack, to whom he dedicated this book, was then coming apart. When we started working on the book, he lived with her in a spacious apartment on Riverside Drive; by the time we began our second project, he was in a smaller apartment on the Upper East Side.

Domestic matters apart, I was under the impression that Irving felt more comfortable in smaller spaces. He seemed attracted to socialism because he considered it a losing cause in America, and to Yiddish for the same reason, interpreting it as the culture of what he called the “little man.” When he toured to promote his book, he complained that the well-heeled audiences at synagogues and Jewish community centers were nothing like the garment workers and union organizers whom he had so lovingly portrayed in his book. I pointed out that he had memorialized only those parts of the Lower East Side that had not endured in America. His audiences were made up of the synagogue-goers, Zionists, and immigrants who had made good. The ironies of this ought to have been cause for celebration, but, for Irving, they were instigators of regret.


I don’t think Irving would have dignified me as a “political adversary” in the first years that we worked together. Feminists may snigger, but I sensed that he felt protective toward me, trying to shield me from the battles he had been fighting since his teens and to which he now seemed condemned. He obviously enjoyed writing and teaching about literature more than duking it out politically, and he may have wanted to grant me the respite he could not allow himself. “Try to understand that I genuinely did not wish to get into a fight with you,” he wrote after he had treated me to a public putdown at a nasty conference on Jewish literature we had both attended in Berkeley, Calif.:

[This] was not because I dismissed you. It was … in part because I know that polemics exact a heavy price from you in pain and suffering, and I keep saying to myself that it would be best to avoid them. But also, to be honest, I don’t think you’re very good at political polemics, certainly not as good as you are in literary discussions; I feel it’s not your métier, that you force yourself to do it out of a sense of obligation (with attendant anxiety). But I don’t want [to] make it seem that it has been only my goodness of heart—though it’s there—which prompted me to refrain from public argument with you. I think you have no idea how aggressive and combative and provoking you can be, indeed were in San Francisco, and that this elicits strong responses in turn.

Admitting to “contradictory feelings in the matter,” he expressed satisfaction in our ability to remain collaborators and friends, “perhaps the best that can be done under the circumstances.” This was seductive. But though I shared some of his contradictory feelings, he did not have my number. His description of the anxious polemicist, including of her abrasiveness, seemed (then and now) truer of him than of me. In wanting to attain for the Jews the political unexceptionalism to which they were entitled, I was anxious about the outcome, not the process. As between the two of us, he was the one more often accused of harshness, while people were always saying (to my irritation) how nice I was despite my out-of-favor views.

Indeed, Irving and I drew very different conclusions from the Yiddish culture with which we were engaged together. Yiddish wit once observed that Jews had turned links (left) because they were denied their recht (rights). Irving saw some such connection between political weakness and moral strength. I, who was spared the fate of European Jewry by parents who brought me to Canada in 1940, could not romanticize the politics that had allowed my cohort to be turned into fertilizer. While I would not have chosen to be anything but a Jew, it was precisely the study of Yiddish that had taught me not only the dangers but also the corrupting potential of powerlessness. Whereas Sholem Aleichem fully recognized the deformities that poverty bred, and loved Jews despite the humiliation to which they were subject, some of his contemporaries considered weakness a sign of distinction and decried achievement and prosperity as such. I was also aware, from studying Yiddish, that prolonged repression had produced a rash of informers and converts to other faiths, who often outdid gentiles in malignity. Although Irving and I both admired Jewish resiliency, I had come to recognize Jewish political dependency—a corollary of exile—as a deeply flawed political ideal.


On November 10, 1975, the United Nations General Assembly passed Resolution 3379, defining Zionism as a form of racism. I was convinced that this charge, lifted straight from the Communist playbook of the 1930s, would greatly advance the Arab war against Israel. By transposing their rhetoric from “We will crush the Jewish State” to “The imperialist Jews are despoiling us,” Arab rulers had forged an anti-liberal alliance among despotisms, autocracies, and dictatorial regimes across the political spectrum. European anti-Semitism in the 1870s had cast the Jews, the beneficiaries of liberal democracy, as its conspiratorial exploiters, so that destroying them became a necessary defense against their alleged domination. By adding the trendy indictment of “racism” to the toxicology of anti-Jewishness, Arabs and Muslims would henceforth rally to their cause Marxists who picked up Stalin’s charge of Zionist-imperialism, internationalists who insisted that Jews should transcend their particularism, and rightists who could now turn the Holocaust indictment of racism against its victims. Talk about a big tent.

Continue reading: an editorial spat, anti-Jewish ammunition, and Robert Frost. Or view as a single page.

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I printed out your essay above for reading at a later time. Seeing your work in Tablet Mag. pleased me so. One, I usually enjoy your writing but my thoughts are more like Saul Bellow’s than yours. Two, because I can send you this note. Some time ago we were both students at Jewish Peoples School in Montreal, on Waverly Street. If you have the time and the inclination I would like to share with you some of my remembrances of that time, short, and especially of the time when we were both “mittle shule” students. Do you have an e-mail address that I can write you at?
Leshalom, Y

Mr. Zlotnik, did you have a Yiddish teacher in Montreal called Chaver (Leibel)Basman, my father?

Professor Wisse still professes not to understand what was wrong in 1988 with referring to the Arabs of Palestine as “people who breed and bleed.” So here’s a reading suggestion: study the emotional effects Jonathan Swift got with the word “breeder” in “A Modest Proposal.”

Or try to remember what happened to the now forgotten Ross Perot after he addressed an NAACP convention as “you people” — and try to think through why it happened.

Or imagine boarding a time machine, getting off in a gay bar circa 1970, and hearing the mutters of “Ugh, a breeder.”

In 1988 the editors of _Dissent_ called such language dehumanizing. The editors of _Dissent_ were better readers then than Professor Wisse is now, after all these years.

A.L. Bell says:

The Tablet seems to assume that everyone here knows who Wisse is, and that makes the memoir excerpts posted here a little hard to understand.

I think it would be good to run a short bio along with something like this.

I went to see Irving Howe speak at the Medical Sciences Building at the University of Toronto when I was about 21.

I asked a question — awkwardly because I suggested a possible answer — and, man, he smacked me down for doing that way. He gave an abrupt reply and said, with disdain rather than humour something to the effect of “Does anyone have a question that’s not like that one.”

jzsnake says:

Ms Wisse knows the time for niceties is over. The Arabs of Palestine are not innocent bystanders.

Itzik Basman
I am trying to remember the names of the teachers I had at Yiddehse Folk Shulen, Jewish Peoples School but can only think of 3. Lerer Weisman, Lerer Dunsky, and Lererin Schecter. There was another teacher whose name I can’t recall. Perhaps it was Basman. I recall he had just come from the DP camps of Europe and was very sensitive. I unintentionally caused him some pain for which I will never forgive myself.

To Ruth Wisse
I enjoyed your essay on Irving Howe. I always cherished his treasury of Yiddish stories. When we had to downsize and give away many of my books his books were among the last to go. Knowing you went to a Labor Zionist elementary school I could never figure out how come you became such a conservative. Reading the Howe essay I feel as if you are my kind of conservative. Perhaps I will change my mind after I read your essay #3 about Norman Podhoretz. Sounds like you are into writing “memoir like” essays. I would be interested in reading about your family’s move to Montreal and how they came to be staunch supporters of the Yiddeshe Folk Shulen, Jewish People’s School,JPS. I also recall hearing that your folks hosted intellectual evenings at your home. My brother and I attended JPS but we did not pay ANY tuition. Somebody must have picked up the slack. I will always be thankful for the fine education I received at JPS. At many times in my life I have had occasion to thank JPS for the ability to speak and read Yiddish and for my love of Israel.
Leshalom, Yitz

gabriel ben abraham says:

An interesting article, well written and informative. And yes, the German Dept. would be a better syntax for the study of Yiddish literature, in my modest opinion. I just can’t understand why such an intelligent and coherent writer finds they need to justify, after many years of obvious reflection, a callous, belligerent and insulting remark. But I know why, it’s because the right-wing echo chamber is tone deaf. Like all true bullies, it’s just too much to expect them to walk in someone else’s shoes; everything is us against them. And then you wonder why the left wing bullies (aka Walt & Finkelstein….(but not Chomsky) turn it against you?
Why don’t you just apologize like a MENSCH?

Hershl says:

Dr. Wisse shouldn’t have wasted her valuable time with the pedant and self-hating Jew, Irving Howe.

He and his ilk are going the way of the dodo and good riddance to all of them. Socialism and Communism are dead, thank god. Been there, done that.

Jews owe absolutely nothing to our enemies, the Muslims and their non-Muslim fellow-travelers.

The left is Israel is dead. The people have spoken and they don’t want those who claim to represent them like Howe and his ilk.

Long after the last mosque, folks shule and left-wing anti-Israel group has entered the footnotes of history we, the Jewish people, will continue on.

Am Yisrael khai ve’kayam.

I’ve said that least 541580 times. The problem this like that is they are just too compilcated for the average bird, if you know what I mean

I am a bit confused by this article. Is Ruth Wisse saying that she did, or did not, write that Palestinian Arabs, were “people who breed and bleed and advertise their misery”?


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The Socialist

Friends and Politics, Part 2: Irving Howe. The prominent critic and I worked on Yiddish translations together, but a dispute over Israel and its Arab neighbors ruptured our relationship—until we reconnected over literature.