It's Passover Eve. Jerusalem has been divided into lockdown-specific areas.
The clusters where people have gathered – the supermarkets – are now packed with police officers. The masses have been feeding their anxiety demons through a feeding frenzy: non-stop grocery shopping, stockpiling the pantry and fridge.
We make sure not forget the garlic and the watermelon. Charities, also driven by hysteria, harp on our collected strings of kitsch, asking us: "What about those who would not be able to have a real Seder? Open your wallets, and you heart."
Passover has never had an effect on like Yom Kippur does. Passover is the holiday of the constant feasting, which I have always disdained. This tradition has been taken out of its original context and become artificial, and even the kids no longer think that the lettuce can somehow serve as the bitter herbs and undo the calorie- and sugar-laden dishes.
Much is different, much has changed since we had to flee the Land of the Nile, with its plentiful fish, and wander in the blinding sun of the desert with trench feet. The feet now have brand-new shoes and our dying body has celebratory and fashionable clothes.
The bread that had baked in a hurry is now part of an industry of matzah, with its flurry of variants and editions tailored for each palate. The human fears are compensated with words. For hungry people, it is through the proliferation of recipes, and the big question is: What will we eat this year at the Seder?
The purity, the clean and the pristine are what define Passover. Just like standing next to a blank page that blinds me and awaits me at every start of an unwritten chapter.
Several years ago I visited Charles Dicken's house, which was turned into a museum. There was the wine cellar, his living room, the porch, but nothing caught my eye more than the bin for papers in the corner of the room for the many drafts and revisions. I took a photo of that bin from every angle, and then deleted all the pictures.
I can't think of a more liberating experience than that of destroying drafts, throwing them out, or deleting them. Even before I write a full paragraph, I already want to destroy and bring the blank page back to its former white and shining glory.
When I finish writing, I usually throw out the drafts and destroy any evidence to what my train of thought was. This once had me lock horns with an archivist in the National Library. He said I had to keep everything. But I never worried about not understanding Kafka without knowing what his relationship with his father was or what he liked to eat.
Anyone with a feverish mind that never stops projecting plots, must look with envy at the crystallization and the focus of Pär Lagerkvist and Aharon Appelfeld.
I like the cleanliness that their works offer and their use of codewords, and their simplicity. All this allows, through a handful of words, to breathe and feel things that were never said, which have their own weight.
Through this clarity of thought, I will welcome the Seder this week.
