Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet

Consectetur adipiscing elit

“A few months ago, I opened my rusty mailbox to find a blue-and-white envelope containing a gold plastic card embossed with my last name, and, above it, in flowery letters, Frequent Flyer Club Gold. I showed the card to my wife in a pathetic gesture, hoping that this sign of appreciation from an objective, outside […]

sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua

“To Mickey. Your mother called. I hung up on her. Don’t you dare show your face around here anymore.”
“To Sinai. I’ll be home late tonight, but I left some cholent in the fridge.”
“To Feige. Where’s that tenner I lent you? You said two days and it’s a month already. I’m still waiting.”
“To Tziki. I admit that I acted like a shit. But if your sister can forgive me, so can you.”
“To Avram. I don’t care what the lab tests show. For me, you’ll always be my dad.”
“Bosmat, even though you’re with another guy now, we both know you’ll come back to me in the end.”
In retrospect, and after the slap in the face I got for that last one, I suppose I shouldn’t have written what I did for the tall guy with the Marine buzz cut who was buying a book for his girlfriend, though I still think he could have made a civil remark instead of getting physical.
In any case, I learned my lesson, however painfully, and since then, during every Book Week, no matter how much my hand itches to write in the books bought by some Dudi or[…]”

Excerpt From: Etgar Keret. “The Seven Good Years.” Apple Books.

Simon and Tini Story began

“When I was a kid, I always thought that Hebrew Book Week was a legitimate holiday, something that fit comfortably amid Independence Day, Passover, and Hanukkah. On this occasion, we didn’t sit around campfires, spin dreidels, or hit each other on the head with plastic hammers, and, unlike other holidays, it doesn’t commemorate a historical victory or heroic defeat, which made me like it even more.
At the beginning of every June, my sister, brother, and I would walk with our parents to the central square in Ramat Gan, where dozens of tables had been set up and covered in books. Each of us would choose five. Sometimes the author of one of those books would be at the table and would write a dedication in it. My sister really liked that. Personally, I found it a little annoying. Even if someone writes a book, it doesn’t give him the right to scribble in my own private copy—especially if his handwriting is ugly, like a pharmacist’s, and he insists on using hard words you have to look up in the dictionary, only to discover that all he really meant was “enjoy.”
Years have passed, and even though I’m[…]”

Excerpt From: Etgar Keret. “The Seven Good Years.” Apple Books.