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In just under a year, three Jakov Lind books will be reissued (the Open Letter edition of is available now, with NYRB’s edition of coming out later this fall and our reprint of releasing in January), and to celebrate this rediscovery, Jeff Waxman wrote an interesting piece for the

Lind is not only a major post-Holocaust writer; he is also a modernist of extraordinary talent and vision. His writing shows an intriguing, Beckettian dissolution of reason, and it owes a clear debt to the absurdists, whose themes of obsession and the perversion of reality closely resemble LindÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s work. Born in Vienna a decade before the Anschluss, Lind also owes something also to the Austro-Jewish literary tradition exemplified by Stefan ZweigÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½”thereÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s a humanist regard that colors his work and tinges his cynicism with a smirking regret. This sort of weeping giddiness characterizes all of LindÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s writing, from his excellent dramatic efforts like The Silver Foxes Are Dead to his short stories and his extraordinary dark novels. [. . .]

Reading Lind, it becomes clear that heÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½”like so many of his fellow JewsÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½”never recovered from the Shoah that he somehow missed; his books are stuffed with the madness of that time, of hiding in plain sight, of those dark circumstances. Somewhere in lifeÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s meaninglessness, through LSD and hashish and stunningly good humor, Lind tried to find some structure, something beneath the insanity to cling to and make real. He found logic, because logic exists even divorced from reason. ItÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s from this bizarre worldview, from this confusion of ideas, that Lind wrote some of his best work. [. . .]

In a time when Günter GrassÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s is seeing a revival in an inspired new translation by Breon Mitchell, and when other lost post-Holocaust literature is reemerging (for example, the recently published, gorgeous by Hans Fallada), there is no better time for the reading public to reengage with this scarred, deeply alone survivor of tumultuous times. A writer who blended the deranged freedom of the 1960s and the death of reason in the 1940s into an extraordinary understanding of humanity in all its hopeful and idealistic depravity, Jakov Lind wrote the kind of books that are not to be missed.