This is an exciting time for North American Jewish literature. In the past ten years, there has been an explosion of writing by new and established authors. In the field of fiction alone, the shelves have filled with titles by such fine talent as Pearl Abraham, Melvin Jules Bukiet, Michael Chabon, Nathan Englander, Myla Goldberg, Ehud Havatzelet, Dara Horn, Jonathan Safran Foer, Joan Leegant, Tova Mirvis, Jon Papernick, Jonathan Rosen, Aryeh Lev Stollman, and many others, as well as new works by veteran writers such as Allegra Goodman, Thane Rosenbaum, and Steve Stern. Add to these names the preeminent Cynthia Ozick, and don’t forget Philip Roth, whose productivity continues unabated and whose latest novels include some of his strongest work ever. A variety of striking themes has come to the fore in this new wave of literary creativity. Notable trends include an unprecedented attention to religion (especially Orthodox Jewish life); a fascination with women’s lives and with questions of gender and sexual orientation; a concern with the experiences of the second and succeeding generations of the Holocaust; a nostalgia for and rediscovery of the old country; a consideration of new Americans in the 1980s and 1990s; and a rethinking of what it means to be a Jew in Israel and in the Diaspora.

That Jewish literature in North America is an altogether secular venue has long been regarded as a truism among many influential literary scholars. Indeed, for much of the twentieth century, the fiction of Jewish immigrants and their progeny wrote its way into American and Canadian culture through narratives that captured the process of acculturation by distancing itself from Jewish traditional practices, construed mockingly or nostalgically as relics of a European life left behind, a wellspring of historical or textual memories that oppress or elevate. The few departures from this trend—fiction that represents Judaic ritual and experience sympathetically, with complexity and depth—are exceptions that prove the rule: Chaim Potok’s novels, for example, beginning in the late 1960s and continuing through the close of the twentieth century, and a handful of women novelists negotiating Jewish feminism in stories and novels of the 1980s and 1990s.

The Haskalah of the late eighteenth century, it is often observed, dealt a major blow to many traditional Ashkenazic institutions, including the rabbinate. Formerly extolled by their communities in nearly God-like superlatives—such as “Chief shepherd, a dignitary in the land … Prince among princes in Torah and wisdom”—rabbis became the object of trenchant criticism during this period. The maskilim, formerly denizens of the yeshivot, cast special aspersion on rabbis and their assertion of the authority of Jewish law, charging that the rabbinic insistence on stringencies and legal minutiae was the source of all that was wrong with Diaspora Jewish life. Much of the critique of the rabbinate targeted the culture of yeshiva learning that supported it; the maskilim promoted the study of philosophy, science, Hebrew literature, and the scientific study of Judaism. Often, this literary and philosophical assault on the authority, role, and Talmud-centeredness of the rabbinate took the form of a critique of arranged marriages and the unequal status of women in Jewish law.

In recent years, we have witnessed a significant increase in writing by scholars and literary and cultural critics on the genre of the comic book, corresponding to an increased legitimacy given to the comic book industry and its writers and artists more generally. Part of this phenomenon no doubt stems from the attention lavished on the field by mainstream fiction and nonfiction writers who consider comic books a central part of their own and America’s cultural heritage, such as Michael Chabon and Jonathan Lethem. It may also stem from the changing nature of the industry’s finances, which now employ a “star system” revolving around writers and artists, not merely the major companies’ storied characters; though the days of the big houses that control the major characters are by no means gone, in the last two decades, numerous specialty imprints have been developed to publish characters that are owned outright by writers and artists, to say nothing of profit-sharing deals with major stars, even at some of the major companies.

In his study Reading for the Plot, Peter Brooks defines plot as that which “makes us read forward, seeking in the unfolding of narrative a line of intention and a portent of design that hold the promise of progress toward meaning.” Plot proves to be a rich and multifaceted concept to explore in reading Philip Roth’s novel The Plot against America (2004), in which counterfactual histories, personal plotlines, a cluster of subplots, and the reader’s awareness of metanarrative (“masterplot”) all contribute to the complex shaping of the text.

Last year, a friend drew my attention to the lyrics of a famous song in Leonard Bernstein’s Candide, the composer’s first attempt in 1956 to write the “Great American Opera.” The song, “I Am Easily Assimilated,” remains one of the best-loved musical numbers from the play and includes the following lines: My father came from Rovno Gubernya.But now I’m here, I’m dancing a tango….My father spoke a High Middle Polish.In one half-hour I’m talking in Spanish:Por favor! Toreador!I am easily assimilated.I am so easily assimilated. The irreverent lyrics are often credited to Bernstein himself and refer to the biography of his father, Sam, who immigrated to America from the province (gubernya) of Rovno. This Jewish tango exhibits a musical pastiche of Hispanic and Klezmer traditions in its instrumentation and displays a manic shift from Russian to English to Spanish that mirrors the composer’s playful notation that it be played “Moderato Hassidicamente.” The song is both a parody of and a monument to the assimilatory spirit. My friend, however, thought I would be interested in the song because my last name is Rovner; he expected that I would want to track down Bernstein’s reference to the area, Rovno, that lent my family its patronymic.

The 1980s saw the introduction of postmodern literary theory into the field of rabbinic literature, in particular into the study of midrash, which began to be explored as anticipating or aligning with many of the claims of modern literary theorists. This new interest intersected oddly at times with the prevailing historicist mode of inquiry. For many scholars, the notion of textual indeterminacy supported the idea of the interpreter of the text as essentially an “eisegete,” who reads the text from his or her own historically embedded perspective, rather than as an exegete, who at least attempts to find out what the text “really means.” Thus, scholars who embraced this new perspective often rejected an inquiry into midrash as biblical interpretation in the classic sense of the word. “No one believes anymore,” someone pointed out to me after a session on midrash in a conference during the mid-1980’s, “that texts have meaning.”

The Book of Ben Sira is a wisdom composition written in Hebrew toward the beginning of the second century BCE. It is well preserved in a Greek translation that, according to its prologue, was done by the author’s grandson, and a Syriac translation of a few hundred years later is preserved in the Peshitta. Between fragments found at Masada and in the Cairo Geniza, some 60 percent of the book survives in Hebrew.

Though much has been done in the past half century to clarify boundaries and crossing points on the religious-intellectual maps of “Ashkenaz” and “Sepharad,” a large body of evidence that advances this complex exercise in cultural cartography has been wholly neglected: supercommentaries on Rashi’s Commentary on the Torah. Though it was produced in that part of Europe that Jews came to call (perhaps under Rashi’s influence) “Ashkenaz,” the Commentary traveled to points far and wide. Among the diverse responses that it elicited in its new homes, the vast supercommentary literature that came to surround the Commentary stands out. Though scholars working in diverse cultural orbits produced this literature, Sephardic and Ashkenazic writers created most of it. This genre continues to flourish, at times in new forms. Yet although some of the major rabbinic figures (e.g., Judah Loew of Prague) produced Rashi supercommentaries, and although these works reflect significant trends in premodern Judaism, the genre’s neglect among scholars has been well-nigh total.