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In this non-kosher house, Reb Israel partook only of bread and tea, which he brewed in his own teapot on the small gas-stove. Occasionally, Basheleh, his granddaughter, would buy him herring and an onion or a radish.

Some writers begin to write with talent, quickly earn a reputation among readers and critics, and then are suddenly silenced forever. We had two such men at the Yiddish Writers’ Club in Warsaw.

This essay was adapt­ed from two arti­cles, orig­i­nal­ly pub­lished in Yid­dish in the Forverts, deal­ing with ques­tions of cen­sor­ship in lit­er­a­ture: “ ​‘Inde­cent’ Lan­guage and Sex in Lit­er­a­ture” (April 21, 1963) and ​“Why Cen­sor­ship is Bad for Lit­er­a­ture” (July 10, 1966).

Since moving to the country, I find myself growing sleepy by ten o’clock at night. I retire at the same time as my parakeets and the chickens in the coop.

Editors’ Note: This story, by Isaac Bashevis Singer (1902-1991), was first published in Yiddish in 1970, and is appearing here in English translation for the first time.