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Ben Lerner’s tale of three hotels is a lyrical novel of loss and human potential
Transcription
By Ben Lerner
Farrar, Straus and Giroux. $25, 144 pages
As we scroll through the final portion of human history before it gets permanently revised by AI, Ben Lerner has written a lyrical novel of loss.
This three-part novel from the author of Leaving the Atocha Station, 10:04, and the Pulitzer finalist The Topeka School, presents loss in many forms: loss of recognition which leads to a confusion of identities; loss of memory which prompts whole new stories; or just, in a banal but usefully metaphorical way, the loss of the unnamed protagonist’s iPhone when he drops it in the sink near the start of the first section, “Hotel Providence.” This tech misadventure means that he will have to use an old landline to dial up his daughter before her bedtime and to rely on his frail human memory to remember the final interview he has with Thomas, his mentor and father figure.
As in his previous autofictional trilogy, Lerner uses a narrator — a writer who, like Lerner, went to Brown University — who hovers between being him and not. A writing assignment has brought him back to his alma mater, but the visit to his professor is more than just a work project. The initial piece and, as it turns out, later pieces about the trip, will be labors of love — with all the agita that accompanies those. The absent digital transcript of his interview at Brown seems to be what gives this book its name as well as what marks him as brave or foolhardy in the eyes of his peers at a later colloquium about Thomas. But the existence of the book as a “transcription” also avows the possibilities of human creativity in the face of transmission losses.
Transcription begins on a train journey and, just to prove that it is about moving away from the here and now, its first words also imply the start of a dream state: “I was falling asleep on a train.” Through the narrator, Lerner tells us as clearly as he can, that he is writing (script) in transit — and investigating how it is to rewrite from a place that is not your own. As the narrator along with Max — Thomas’ son who becomes a second narrator — recount their travels into adulthood, the book’s journey into the unknown is haunted by Freud’s dictum “where id was, there ego shall be.” Caught between fatherhood and filiation, they navigate a world that seems equal parts Escher and Kafka.
The book comprises three sections, each named for a hotel — a place to stay while dislocated: “Hotel Providence,” “[Hotel Villa Real],” and “Hotel Arbez.” The first is set punningly in Providence, the second is set in a hotel referred to in square brackets as if interposed later by editors, and the final one sits half in France and half Switzerland. Indeed, Max is named for the wartime owner of the hotel, since “during the German occupation, the Nazi soldiers could enter the French side of the hotel, but not ascend to the upper rooms, where Max Arbez helped shelter Jews and members of the Resistance. A kind of impossible staircase.”
Hotel Providence, which is located near Brown, is a name to conjure with, and Lerner — a decorated poet as well as a Fulbright, Guggenheim, and MacArthur fellow — conjures with it briefly as he takes his narrator to the interview. On the way, every landmark has either changed or been infused by memory, every person he sees is overlaid by his imagination. Without his phone he feels hypersensitive to his surroundings — “my body was able to convert the strangeness of being screenless into a kind of supersensitivity” — but unlike augmented reality, his senses overlay meaning, not information.
As the narrator walks through Providence, the ghosts of his time frame his vision — “the older woman in the long down coat leaving the List Art Center as I passed became Caroline Sharpe, a professor who told our class, after someone complimented her necklace, that she kept a cyanide capsule in its opal locket for use in case of nuclear war.” Generational perception, shaped by how his daughter Eva views the world, also changes how he sees the streets around him. Plus, he has to actually deal with the real world in the shape of a woman who hails him by name. She “approached me with the confidence of someone sure she’d be recognized” but when she is not recognized, “she discerned my confusion and offered, mercifully, Chloe.”
Reminded by Chloe of their mutual friend Anisa, the protagonist drifts off into one of his more significant digressions, detailing the web of lies she spun, that took him further away from his college girlfriend after a split. That girlfriend, Mia, is now his wife and mother of his child, yet we never hear how the rupture was mended. In a slender volume of scarce novella length, the story of Anisa’s lies takes up valuable real estate and hits us before we get to the ostensibly major characters. The “botanical models made by glass artists” that he and Anisa see at the Natural History Museum at Harvard become the underlying metaphor for how art is created. Their story is the story upon which this story is written.
Transcription works by exploring the specific and allowing it to stand in for the general. For example, almost no one understands the magic of technology but the narrator’s parenthetical aside about a text to his dead iPhone “(I don’t understand where a message lingers, or for how long, when there isn’t a device to receive it.)” has almost spiritual connotations for a novelist who is also an award-winning poet. When he asks Chloe about Anisa, social media is able to complete the specific web of acquaintance but at the same time we remain deeply unconnected: “We’re not in touch, Chloe said, but I know from Instagram that she’s in Atlanta.”
Thomas, the mentor who left post-War Europe for Rhode Island, is described by his son, Max, as “kind of a cross between Wonka and Bergman.” Max, who is the main narrator of the third section “Hotel Arbez,” is only a year older than the narrator and the two were friendly for a while at college. Thomas confuses them with one another as, increasingly, we do as readers. Their lives, their young daughters, their relationship with Thomas, merge. Max recounts the difficulty of looking after a distant elderly parent, while bringing up a child. He feels the distance from family, as many of us did, most keenly over the pandemic. The scenes of phone calls and visits that take place during and after the COVID period are intensely moving: what is done and what is said, despite what cannot be said.
The narrator’s relationships with Anisa and Mia, the near twinning of Max and the narrator, the fraught, heavy, insecure filiation of Max, narrator, Rosa and the others at the colloquium with Thomas, all of these spill over one another in ways that are endlessly reflective.
Many have written about the difficulties of conveying meaning from one person to another, from one generation to another, from one language to another. Translation, for example, is often viewed with distrust — “translation is treason” as the saying goes — but for Lerner, transcription is a new way of thinking about how we write meaning down or across or over. The concept becomes a way of thinking about translation, transmission and also, in the sense of over-writing, palimpsests — pages written over previous writing. Transcription is a function that our machines and AI can produce, but it is also the word that we use for expressing our genetic inheritance: DNA code expresses its nature through transcription into RNA.
In our age of Zoom, where we meet through machines and delegate our next steps to transcriptions and AI, it makes sense for Lerner to probe the nature of those pregnant gaps between humans that we all too often assume are filled with facts and decisions.
In the second part “[Hotel Villa Real],” the narrator continues to think about the Anisa episode about which Chloe reminded him. He googles Andrés, the Spaniard that Mia had had a fling with decades ago, an episode embroidered and extended by Anisa at the time. As if to compare the nature of testimony, he is made aware by his friend Rosa, a curator at the host institution, that his colleagues felt that he had “falsified” Thomas’ “testament” in the paper he had given, confessing that he had not recorded the final interview. Rosa says they feel his account of the night is a “deepfake.” The narrator finds it inconceivable that he is not trusted, but revisiting that evening, especially in the wake of the Anisa episode, makes it feel somehow suspect.
There is a convenient transactional conceit that a transcription will be complete or accurate but it is a convention intended for business, not for life. Everyone knows that even if Zoom transcriptions were not filled with errors, inconsistencies and nonsense, they would be woefully inadequate records of how humans experience one another. What we hear can have transactional value but, without context of the whole gestalt — the smells, the sounds, the body language of the person that we are interviewing — to claim that a recorded and transcribed interview is more accurate than a curated memory by a trusted author is to mistake the idea of veracity itself.
The closing epitaph from an artisan about how to “become a glass modeler of skill” is just the final example of how the glass touchscreens that enclose our lives are the least interesting of the ways of understanding our existence. We have no “secret apparatus” to form our worlds, but we increase our abilities by honing them from parent to child, “the touch increases in every generation.”
For Lerner, the Jewishness of his writing is in what he cannot escape: whether that is noticing the fringe cultists of Neturei Karta holding Free Palestine signs at a protest in the background of his daughter‘s FaceTime as he talks to her from abroad, the quirk of Hotel Arbez that gave Jews safe harbor from the Nazis, or the murky European history of his mentor with his Holocaust survivor wife. But in the end, what is more Jewish than a book written to study how we write and how we transmit wisdom, knowledge, information, behavior, and mistakes from generation to generation.
The post Ben Lerner’s tale of three hotels is a lyrical novel of loss and human potential appeared first on The Forward.
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At California Universities, Students Rally to Support Terrorists and Criticize Victims
University of California, Berkeley students on March 11, 2025. Photo: Reuters via Reuters Connect
Universities are supposed to expose students to difficult perspectives, not shield them from uncomfortable ones. But on many campuses, Jewish and Israeli voices are increasingly treated not as viewpoints to engage with, but as problems to manage or condemn.
Few recent incidents captured that shift more clearly than the reaction to a former Israeli hostage speaking at the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA).
On April 14, UCLA Hillel hosted former Israeli hostage Omer Shem Tov to speak about his experience being held captive in Gaza following the October 7 attacks.
For most universities, hosting a survivor of mass kidnapping and terrorist violence would not seem particularly controversial. At UCLA, however, the event triggered a formal condemnation from the student government that quickly made national headlines.
Rather than merely protesting the event or disagreeing with its message, UCLA’s Undergraduate Students Association Council accused the visit of promoting “one-sided narratives that erase systems of oppression and occupation.” Student leaders further expressed “concern” that having Omer on campus would somehow “marginalize” and “silence” Palestinian and Arab students.
Furthermore, the letter, which reportedly passed with unanimous consent, was drafted on Yom HaShoah, the day set apart to mourn the Jewish victims of the Holocaust. More disturbingly, the student government intentionally excluded USAC General Representative Talia Davood from discussions surrounding the letter, despite her direct involvement in organizing the event with Hillel.
This reveals that the people condemning the event had little interest in actually hearing from anyone who disagreed with them — and proves they clearly did not act in good faith.
Davood was later questioned regarding the funding for the event, even though it did not come from the student government’s budget. So what exactly was the concern supposed to be, other than hostility toward the community that she, Hillel, and Omer represent?
The students’ reaction to Omer’s appearance exposed that rather than engage with voices they disagree with, these liberal students are trying to silence any voices or viewpoints they oppose.
When UCLA organizations such as Students for Justice in Palestine are freely permitted to organize activism on campus while Jewish cultural events are scrutinized and condemned, it reveals a deeply ideological and hostile climate at UCLA.
When pro-Palestinian activists on campus engage in violence, prevent Jewish students from attending class, and destroy university property, the administration drags its feet. But when Jewish students try to invite a speaker to campus, the administration refuses to support them.
For UCLA student Amit Cohen, the message communicated something much larger than disagreement over Middle East politics. “What I took from the letter is that Jewish students don’t belong on campus,” he said. “They condemned our story. They didn’t want to listen to it. It’s the most hypocritical thing I’ve ever read.”
But this hypocritical hostility extends beyond UCLA.
In the same month, UC Berkeley students hosted a convicted failed suicide bomber and justified the event using the same language about standing in solidarity with Palestinians. Of course, the event did not receive condemnation from Berkeley’s student government either.
The contrast would be laughable if it were not so revealing.
A moral inversion of reality is beginning to dominate parts of university culture. Certain forms of violence are granted moral context and institutional patience, while Israeli and Jewish suffering increasingly appears politically inconvenient to acknowledge too sympathetically.
When platforming a literal terrorist is framed as giving voice to the marginalized while a former hostage speaking about his captivity is considered beyond the pale, something is deeply wrong with the culture of those academic communities.
Students at UCLA have the power to influence the culture of their campus. They should not only speak out against this letter, but actively refuse to participate in the atmosphere that these disappointing student leaders are helping to cultivate.
The good news is that Jewish students at UCLA remain undeterred. As Amit Cohen affirmed, “We’ve been keeping our heads up. The UCLA Jewish community is going to stay strong.”
Destiny Lugo is a third year International Relations and Journalism student at Oral Roberts University in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She is a fellow for the Committee for Accuracy in Middle East Reporting and Analysis (CAMERA). The views expressed are the opinion of the author, and don’t reflect those of CAMERA.
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How Israel Adds Economic Value and Technological Advancement to the United States
The lobby of Tel Aviv’s stock exchange. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.
In much of the public debate in the US, the relationship between Israel and the United States is often reduced to a simplistic and misleading story of unilateral American support. According to this view, Israel is portrayed as a dependent state sustained by American generosity.
Such a framing may be politically convenient for critics, but it fails to reflect the complexity and the mutual benefits of one of the most consequential alliances in modern geopolitics.
A more accurate reading shows a partnership that delivers strategic depth, military advantage, technological innovation, and economic gains for the United States, while reinforcing stability for allies around the world.
From a strategic standpoint, Israel functions as a critical anchor of stability for American interests in a region defined by volatility and shifting power struggles. It is one of the few consistent democratic partners the United States can rely on in an area where state collapse, militant movements, and authoritarian regimes often intersect. Israeli experience in counterterrorism and unconventional threats also contributes to this strategic value.
The economic dimension of this relationship is equally significant and often misunderstood. American assistance to Israel, frequently cited as evidence of imbalance, is in practice deeply integrated into the United States domestic economy. A substantial portion of defense related funding is actually a windfall for American defense contractors, supporting skilled employment across multiple states. This includes engineering, manufacturing, research, and logistics sectors that sustain high quality jobs and reinforce the American industrial base.
Beyond defense production, the technological ecosystem known as Silicon Wadi has become an important extension of global innovation networks. Major American technology companies maintain significant research and development operations in Israel, not out of symbolism but out of necessity.
Israeli engineers and entrepreneurs have played central roles in advances in cybersecurity, semiconductor development, artificial intelligence applications, and medical technology. These contributions are embedded in everyday American life, from secure banking systems to consumer electronics and enterprise infrastructure. Thousands of companies founded or co-founded by Israelis operate in the United States, contributing to job creation, tax revenues, and technological competitiveness.
Every American uses products and technologies that were developed in Israel, by Israelis.
The impact of Israeli innovation extends well beyond the United States as well. Agricultural technologies pioneered in Israel, particularly in water management and irrigation efficiency, have been deployed in countries facing severe food security challenges. India has incorporated such systems to improve agricultural yields and resource efficiency across large farming regions. Across Africa and Asia, desalination and water reuse technologies developed in Israel are helping communities adapt to climate-related scarcity.
These examples illustrate a broader reality. Israel functions as a hub of applied innovation, often developing solutions under conditions of constraint that are later adapted globally. This dynamic produces a multiplier effect that benefits not only the United States but also a wide range of international partners.
At a time when global politics is increasingly defined by technological competition, asymmetric warfare, and resource insecurity, the value of this partnership becomes even more apparent. The United States and Israel form a cooperative model that enhances both national security and economic resilience.
The suggestion that Israel represents a burden on the United States does not withstand close examination. It overlooks the strategic advantages, the economic integration, and the technological interdependence that define the relationship. Rather than a one sided arrangement, this alliance operates as a mutually reinforcing system that strengthens both nations and extends benefits to allies across the democratic world.
The partnership between Israel and the United States is not merely a matter of foreign policy tradition or diplomatic preference. It is a strategic asset that advances shared interests in security, innovation, and global stability. In an era of increasing uncertainty, such alliances are not optional. They are essential.
Sabine Sterk is the CEO of Time To Stand Up For Israel
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How the Jewish People Can Unite: A Lesson From Yavne and the Mishnah
Image of the first complete Mishnah. Photo: The British Library.
On May 13, at a national conference in Jerusalem dedicated to repairing Israeli society and building a shared civic future, Israel’s President, Isaac Herzog, warned that division had become the country’s most urgent internal threat.
I was surprised to learn recently that Jewish unity was elusive even in the dire circumstances of the 1943 Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, the largest Jewish revolt against Nazi Germany during World War II — when a few hundred poorly armed Jewish fighters held off a much larger and far better equipped German army for almost a month. (The uprising ended 83 years ago, on May 19.)
During the uprising, there were two Jewish rebel forces: the ZOB (members of left wing groups, such as HaShomer HaTzair and the Bund), and a parallel organization, the ZZW (made up of youth from the political right — Betar and the Revisionists). While the two organizations cooperated to some extent and fought the Germans in parallel, they were never a unified force. Of course, it didn’t really matter. The German army was far too powerful for a few hundred inadequately armed insurgents.
Obviously the current day State of Israel — and its 78 year history — proves that Jewish cooperation does happen. Another example that comes to my mind is the Jewish experience nearly 2,000 years ago at Yavne, a town on the coastal plain of the Holy Land. That was when Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakai ensured Jewish continuity after the destruction of Jerusalem and the Second Temple in 70 CE, by establishing a Jewish academy at Yavne and reconstituting the Sanhedrin.
Jewish society during the lead up to the First Roman-Jewish war was a sectarian society dominated by two groups — the Pharisees, the group responsible for the establishment of the synagogue as a focus of Jewish life outside the Temple, and the Sadducees, the priestly caste that administered the Temple.
Both groups shared the same written scriptures and many traditions. But they differed in that the Pharisees believed in resurrection after death and in the authority of the Oral Law, as well as the Torah. The Sadducees did not.
One American scholar, Shaye J. D. Cohen, describes how the rabbis who gathered in Yavne ended Jewish sectarianism and created a society that tolerated and even encouraged vigorous debate. The result was the abandonment of sectarian labels such as Pharisees and Sadducees, and the writing of the Mishnah.
In all likelihood, most of the rabbis at Yavne were Pharisees, and the centerpiece of Sadducee life, the Second Temple, was gone. However, there is no indication that the rabbis of Yavne were motivated by Pharisaic triumphalism. The goal was not exclusivity, but rather elasticity. Cohen notes that the Mishnah is the “first work of Jewish antiquity which ascribes conflicting legal opinions to named individuals who, in spite of their disagreements, belong to the same fraternity. This mutual tolerance is the enduring legacy of Yavneh.”
A year before he passed away, the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks published what he titled Seven Principles for Maintaining Jewish Peoplehood. The list includes points such as the need to keep talking, to listen to one another, and to respect one another. But most important of all, never seek victory. I think this is what the rabbis at Yavne understood very well. Rabbi Sacks’ message to the diverse factions that make up Israel’s political and social fabric would be, “Do not think in terms of victory or defeat. Think in terms of the good of the Jewish people.”
Jacob Sivak, a Fellow of the Royal Society of Canada, is a retired professor, University of Waterloo.