the headline said, "There He Is, At 60." This incredible
old fellow. And rm still at it, even more amazing.

Q: Then, how did it feel to win the National Jew-
ish Book Award?

A: It felt very good. I felt justified. The critical reception
has been absolutely superb. The Prince of West End Av-
enue has been translated into a great many languages,
Finnish, Polish, Greek, Swedish.
It became a best-seller in Germany, and I went on a tour
with it. Very interesting. The Germans
thought there was something very suspicious
about me. They were convinced I was the off-
spring of German intellectuals, and conclud-
ed my name was not Tsler (pronounced Tsslef)
but Eisler. It was all very flattering; you've
got them convinced of something that is quite
untrue.
The book will come out next year in He-
brew.

But then I had children. I have four children and two
stepchildren. We went to Ontario [for a teaching posi-
tion]. I sent my children to the local school, and they came
back one day singing some song about Jesus loving them.
I can't tell you the magnitude of that shock. I enrolled my
children in cheder. So I did raise them with Judaism, but
in a very loose way.
On the other hand, there were times I'd feel I had to
[wake up] the family's Judaism, and so I accepted a po-
sition as visiting professor at Tel Aviv University one
year, simply so I could take them all over there.

it aside. Then I realized I had to mold what I had actu-
ally produced into something that was a story.
But it's much easier to write a novel. You can go on and
on. There are those who master [short stories]. Many of
mine are quite extended; that's why I speak of them as
novellas. I haven't actually done a genuine short story.

Q: Your work is often compared to that of Saul Bel-
low and Isaac Bashevis Singer.

A: That's really ridiculous. rm not known for my modesty,
but I think that's really comparing great things
with small. You've got two Nobelists there, pret-
ty great writers. I mean, Fm OK I think I do a
lot better than a lot of the rubbish that appears
without any difficulty in print, but I'm not in
that class.

Q: Will you teach again?

Q: Your new book, The Bacon Fancier,
is often described as telling of "the Jew-
ish experience in a gentile world."

A: It's not my fault; I didn't call it that. Real-
ly, any Jewish writer, or anyone, whose char-
acter is a Jew, it's bound to the "Jewish
experience." It doesn't matter what kind of
book it is. It could be about baseball. I'm not
necessarily trying to make any point here: rm
not fighting society. I'm dealing, essentially,
with what it means to be a Jew in a world
which is overwhelmingly not.
I feel there are false expectations of me as
a "Jewish writer." I find it amusing that I am
supposed to have a mantle of knowledge on
my shoulders which is simply not there. How
could it be? It's always amused me, particu-
larly since I started writing, how easily one
can convince people, a readership, certainly,
that you know a hell of a lot. But you don't
know very much at all.
Hone sprinkles one's writing and one's con-
versation with the odd allusion to this, that
or the other — I could mention Copernicus or
Maimonides — and you would fill in the
blanks, you see. You would suppose it's com-
ing out of my head, but in fact it's your knowl-
edge of Copernicus and Maimonides. And
that's, I suppose, what makes con men.
I acknowledge the importance of those who
maintain and retain the religious and spiri-
tual aspect of Judaism. If Judaism were the
likes of me, it would disappear, and I would
not want that. If you were to ask me why it's
important, though, I could not say, other than
that in my own lifetime there were horrors
perpetrated of unimaginable magnitude. It
seems to me a betrayal of them if it were to
disappear. I suppose that attitude in some Alan Isler on The Bacon Fancier "I'm dealing, essentially, with what it means to be a Jew in a
way affects how I write and what I choose to world which is overwhelmingly not."
write about.

Q: As a self-proclaimed secular Jew, was it then
important to you to instill Judaism in your chil-
dren?

A: When I came to America as a young fellow, it was such
a relief to be in New York, where one could be a Jew with-
out having to be a Jew. You didn't have in New York the
hypocrisy that was in the smaller Jewish community
in England.
But New York was free. So I really got out of the habit
of everything: going to shul on Rosh Hashanah; I didn't
pay attention to Yom Kippur. I was liberated. I was at
last a free thinker, like my parents.

Q: The Bacon Fancier is your first collection of short
stories. Were they difficult to write?

A: I found it very difficult. This didn't begin as a planned
collection of four interlinked novellas. It started off with
what is now known as "The Monster." I wanted to write
a picaresque novel with this Shylock character meeting
all kinds of things. I was going to take him to Spain to
meet Cervantes, and move him all around. After all, the
Renaissance is my period of specialization, that's where
I am supposedly an expert.
The amount of research that that required, simply to
do the material that appeared in 'The Monster" — I would
have spent the rest of my life doing this book. So I put

A: No, Fm free, free. I live in England now be-
cause my wife, Ellen, was offered a job whose
headquarters are in London. She is director gen-
eral of the World ORT Union, and the outgo-
ing president of the World ORT Union is one
of your native sons, David Hermelin. So the op-
portunity to go to London, coupled with a re-
tirement offer from my university, tripled with
the publication of the books, it all came togeth-
er at once — so off we went.
I imagined a retirement in a slippered pan-
taloon. I didn't expect anything of this sort. I
wouldn't mind doing an occasional lecture and
I do do that, but no one invites me to lecture on
Shakespeare anymore. I'm much more conscious
of that as work, rather than this which I've come
to regard as pleasure. Though, it was nice to talk
about serious intellectual matters with an au-
dience of like-minded people.

Q: Where do you find your inspiration?

A: On the benches of Broadway, where the old
folks sit.
I think one begins to look around and one be-
gins to listen in different ways than the way one
once did. And it lingers. That fellow Korner [from
The Prince of West End Avenue], he stayed with
me for a good six-nine months after the book was
completed. I found myself thinking, "What would
he think of such a thing, how would he respond?'
But I do know something about English lit-
erature, and that's a great help. It entertains
me, particularly in The Bacon Fancier, to place
my views in the most unexpected company.
My Cardoza, he meets the young Coleridge,
and Oscar Wilde appears. That sort of thing
amuses me. And it awes me. Because there's no
reason in the world that people who did appear
in such circumstances and in such places
shouldn't appear in Patagonia or Alaska. It just
strikes me as so strange.

Q: At heart, do you consider yourself to be
a teacher or a writer?

A: If I were shaken awake in the middle of the night, I
would say Fm a writer. I hope if there's a didactic strain in
my writing, it's not too strong. I don't admire that in fic-
tion. Perhaps Fm a writer who uses some of his teacher-
ly skills.

Q: How do you feel about the corporate bookstore
chains?

A: I don't like [them]. These other places can't afford to stay
in business. And when there's nothing but [chains], they
will determine what is in stock. It's really dangerous; it's
tyrannical in its potential. 0

