How to talk about We Never Talk About My Brother? First, note that it predates Bruno by more than a decade. But then what? Considering the astonishing range in this volume’s nine stories and single sequence of poems? Praising the characters’ odd corners that mark them as real people even when they’re inhabiting the best-known archetypes of myth? Marveling at the settings that Beagle brings to life in quick, indelible strokes of his pen? Counting the laugh-out-loud moments to see if there were more of them than heartstoppers?
Consider the first story, “Uncle Chaim and Aunt Rifke and the Angel.” The first-person narrator — David, though he is not named until quite late in the story — is ten and a latchkey kid in New York. Most days after school he goes to the studio of his Uncle Chaim, a painter, and just hangs out, reading comic books or “look[ing] through Uncle Chaim’s paintings and drawings, tr[ying] some of my own, and [eating] Chinese food with him in silent companionship, when he remembered that we should probably eat.” (p. 3) And then an angel appears.
It was very sudden: one moment I was looking through a couple of the comic books Uncle Chaim kept around for me, while he was trying to catch the highlight on the tendons under his models’ chin, and the next moment there was this angel standing before him, actually posing, with her arms spread out and her great wings taking up almost half the studio. She was not blue herself—a light beige would be closer—but she wore a blue robe that managed to look at once graceful and grand, with a white undergarment glimmering beneath. Her face, half-shadowed by a loose hood, looked disapproving. (pp. 3–4)
Uncle Chaim is nonplussed and says “I can’t see my model. If you wouldn’t mind moving just a bit?” The angel says he will paint no one else from this day forth. As if a celestial angel is going to push an artist around. “I don’t work on commission. … I used to, but you have to put up with too many aggravating rich people. Now I just paint what I paint, take it to the gallery.” (p. 4) And so it continues for a while, very droll, very Jewish. When the angel shows more of her radiance — “with the vast, unutterable beauty that a thousand medieval and Renaissance artists had somehow not gone mad (for the most part) trying to ambush on canvas or trap in stone” — Uncle Chaim wavers for a moment. “I thought maybe I should kneel, what would it hurt? But then I thought, what would it hurt? It’d hurt my left knee, the one had the arthritis twenty years, that’s what it would hurt.” (p. 5)









