Georges Perec, employing lyrical prose meditations, lists, and inventories, conjures up the sixteen million people who, between 1890 to 1954, arrived as foreigners and stayed on to become Americans.... This description may be from another edition of this product.
At four pages, eleven paragraphs (not incuding the introductory quote), thirty five sentences, and (sorry Georges) more words than I really wanted to count despite how cool it would have looked here, Ellis Island is a tome. It made me more intensely examine my own identity than all three hundred pages of What Color is Your Parachute even came close to doing. (Actually, I only read about four pages of that one too, but I could tell where it was going.) Ellis Island, however, was a complete surprise. The bit about what it means to be a Jew and the fact that that aspect of his identity is more concretely definied by its abscence than its presence, is profound. I mean, other people have said it, certainly, but this is, without a doubt, the clearest presentation I have encountered. I think it's particularly telling that he should set these musings in America, at Ellis Island. We, as Americans, particularly as white Americans, have a watered down and dissapated culture defined not by who we are, what we love, how we live etc., but what, ultimately, we are not. This small work was a four-page invitation to examine my relation to my roots, my country, and my culture. Ugh. I loved it.
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