On Borrowed Words: A Memoir of Language
by Ilan Stavans
Overview
From the Publisher
Yiddish, Spanish, Hebrew, and English -- at various points in Ilan Stavans's life, each of these has been the prominent and controversial scholar's primary language. His family's immigrant experience took them from Eastern Europe to the Jewish ghetto of Mexico City, which Stavans abandoned for Israel and subsequently the United States. In this rich memoir, the linguistic chameleon outlines his remarkable cultural heritage from his birth in politically fragile Mexico, through his years as a student activist, a young Zionist in Israel, a student of theology in New York to his career now as a noted academic and writer.
Since survival has meant borrowing other people's languages and pretending they were his own. Stavans offers a view of his journey from the perspective of words. Along the way, he introduces his remarkable family: his brother, a musical wunderkind; his father, a Mexican soap opera star; his grandmother, who emigrated from Eastern Europe to Mexico in 1929. Masterfully weaving personal reminiscences with a provocative investigation into language acquisition and cultural code-switching. On Borrowed Words is a memorable exploration of Stavans's search for his place in the world.
My thoughts
I thought his book sounded soooooooooo good, but so far it's left me wanting. I'm invoking Nancy Pearl's Rule of 50 a little early, but I'm invoking it just the same! I made it to page 47 before I gave up the ghost. It just wasn't fun opening the book, and although I carried it with me to work, I found myself going back to my desk early rather than pulling out the book to enjoy the lunch hour.
A review shown on the first page of the book by Ariel Dorfman reads: "A droll intellectual journal..." That says it all!
Favorite Passage
I stop for a respite. The sofa nearby has been a favorite reading spot. I take some volumes with me, sit down, and browse around. Soon I realized that ninguno, not a single one, of the books I took with me years ago from Mexico is -- sorpresa, sorpresa - about Mexico itself. Do I really need them now? Is it time to let them go?
I left Ciudad de Mexico in 1985, eight years ago. Have I missed it? Perhaps at the very beginning, when my father flew with me to New York, made sure I had everything necessary in my little room, and said goodbye a block away from his hotel at Lexington and 53rd Street. But the city never truly spoke to me. Yes, I love its Basilica, its baroque downtown buildings, but what else? And why didn't I love it? Why didn't I make myself miss it? Perhaps because I had been born and raised in it, and it is difficult to appreciate our surroundings until we suddenly lose them.
