I just finished devouring Amos Oz’s Chekov marinated 1991 novel Fima. (a Father’s Day gift — thanks Shosh) The novel is about a divorced poet-political commentator-abortion clinic receptionist who happens to be the son of a cosmetics magnate. His name is Efraim – hence the nickname ‘Fima’ and he stumbles about Jerusalem and eats quite a bit of bread with jam. Most importantly, he waxes poetic about the legacy of the ’67 war and what it has done to the Israeli soul. 15 years after publication, the political ideas are still wet. In fact, in some ways the escalation of violence and the rise of Hamas are foreshadowed… it is a bit chilling that Oz was so accurate about the elusivity of peace. But mostly it is funny and brilliant and it rolls along beautifully and Oz reminds us what it means to be alive in a world that is in a constant state of entropy. Five puffy stickers.