Call It Sleep: A Novel by Henry Roth
Dickens Flavor Of Pre-Ww Ii New York Jew [T][75][78]
One of the few genuinely distinguished novels written by a twentieth-
century American. -Irving Howe, The New York Times Book Review When
Henry Roth published his debut novel Call It Sleep in 1934, it was greeted
with considerable critical acclaim though, in those troubled times,
lackluster sales. Only with its paperback publication thirty years later did
thisnovel receive the recognition it deserves-and still enjoys. Having sold-
to-date millions of copies worldwide, CallIt Sleepis the magnificent story of
David Schearl, thedangerously imaginative child coming of age in the
slums of New York.
Personal Review: Call It Sleep: A Novel by Henry Roth
A 1934 novel depicting life in pre-World War II New York City, Henry Roth
cleverly utilizes the young and impressionable mind of David Schearl to
explain the complexities interwoven with great simplicities of the 7 year
old's life.

The book commences with an introduction to his father who left for the
promised land to earn enough money to achieve financial capabilities to
deliver his wife and toddler son. The meeting is less than warm and could
be explained as reproachful and with disdain.
Fast forwarding a few years, the book delivers us to Manhattan kids in
Jewish ghetto and how their thick accents contradict and compliment the
eastern European or Germanic accents of the parents.
This is really a Kosher Angela's Ashes; or since it predates Ashes,
Angela's Ashes is an Irish Call It Sleep. Like the ever successful Angela's
Ashes; , the poor kid in the big city offers hope in the doldrums of the gray
life delivered by the "hood" or poverty.
The mind of young David warps - either through constant exposure to the
city's ever-emitting poisons, or through a fermenting process experienced
when exposed to the city's vices. Innocent David loses innocence many
times over. David's befriending Irish Leo winds up being a sexual violation
upon his cousin Esther. He is bullied by adult men for some of his fathers
milk cart's bottles, and then witnesses his father beat one of the crooks
with a horse whip. He even sees good Jewish boys pull fast ones on
Rabbi Reb Yidel at their Hebrew school. No one, no matter how young, no
matter what their faith, no matter what their gender, is immune to what
David experiences. This New York is the equivalent to Upton Sinclair's
The Jungle.
In the end, David speaks to himself in mumble jumble, garbled think
speech, through a very awkward stream of consciousness. Hard to read, it
is the author's valiant depiction of the broken psyche of David's whose
book-ending act is either a product of contemplated act, or youthful
ignorance. You hope for the latter, but cannot rule out the former.
In any event, he must escape the world in which he lives, at least for part
of the time. And, his mother cuddles him to take a nap, have some rest so
that he can forget about what happened. Or what is happening about him.
And, he shuts his eyes to this tranquil retreat within the borders of the city's
chaotic atmosphere, and placates his mind and body in a restful feeling -
one that ". . . he might as well call it sleep." And, enjoy it he should, as in
only a few years, his Austrian relatives and many more are going to
experience much worse than what he has had to endure in America.
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