The Rabbi's Cat

Let me forewarn you. The Rabbi's Cat, by Joann Sfar, is just one of those novels that you read through once and go, "Wow, that was really good, but what in the HUELL did I just read?" ("Huell" is how you say "hell" after the magnitude of this novel gives you a crippling speech impediment). At the point of writing this blog post, I've read it through once, trying to pay attention to the words and the panels as two combating stories working toward the same ultimate message. The only problem is that every page is so packed with a blend of symbolism, wit, heart-rending sadness, and general good storytelling that it's difficult to comprehend everything being handed to you at once. Even more, to push past the initial whimsy and read this book on a deeper level is a challenge of its own that I'm still trying to surmount. I'd almost dare call this a flaw in the presentation of the book, but the fact is The Rabbi's Cat is a story so multifaceted and welcoming that one could read it at any different stage in their life and take a unique personal experience out of it after each read. Younger readers could certainly relate to Zlabya's "grass is always greener" complex while more seasoned readers can relate to the Rabbi's moral dilemma in finding oneself uprooted and still finding higher ground to resettle on.

The first thing I noticed about this novel is how starkly different the characters

are, but how they all work together as a family to overcome adversity. As in classic novel writing, the cat goes unnamed and thus seems to represent the people of Algeria as a whole, but you get into his head so much more than in a normal short story or textual novel.

Even though the cat doesn't give the whole story, you see through his world view and thus can draw your own conclusions on situations through people's expressions and other contextual clues. Then you have the Rabbi, a holy man who still struggles with his own human characteristics, but ultimately ends up being lovable because he is so perfectly human. We aren't supposed to see that he's perfect, we're supposed to see that he makes mistakes and gets pissed off and smiles just like the rest of us, and this theme of "everyone's still human, no matter what title they're given" gives this book its momentum. Then, his poor, naive daughter who has no idea what she wants out of life but acts completely on opportunity realizes that she'll never be happy until she's happy with herself; this kind of moral is something I wish we saw more of in our little model world we've made up in our brains. Best of all, every side character gives another little perspective, another inherent truth that the cat and rabbi learn from and assimilate into their lives. By the end of the novel, through all the tribulation that the Rabbi has endured in his grand uprooting, he learns a funny lesson. He learns that people just don't know. He doesn't know, and he learned everything he knows from people that don't know, so by proxy, he doesn't freakin' know if what he's been doing this whole time is right. So his answer? Well, may as well keep doing these rituals cause I'm good at them, but get them done fast so he doesn't get yelled at by his apprentice's wives.

I guess the reason I like this book so much is because it speaks to me as a fairy-tale rendition of Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut. Through all the trial and all the worry and everything that we put ourselves through in order to fulfill some book's definition of success, the world's not really gonna change that much. The birds will still chirp before and after we all kill each other in endless wars. The world's still going to turn even if you break a few silly rules, and you're certainly not going to be struck down by a vengeful creator with nothing better to do. Going back to my dubious disclaimer from before, I have only read this book once - these are my initial findings on some Rosetta Stone-magnitude material that's going to probably take me five good readings to get a proper grasp on. But wow, that was really good.