The Old Testament: A Review

Three Readings of the Good Book

Dear Republic,

We are trying, actually, not to run 10,000 word pieces. But in this case we make an exception for the following reasons: 1.It is still Madness Week, of which Konstantin, as a charter member of our Mad Russian cohort, is a vital participant; 2.As much as I wanted to not run a 10,000 word piece, it made me laugh as soon as I started reading; 3.Beloved contributor

Tony Christini

recently accused us of having “quite short posts, even the supposedly long ones.” This being the very last thing we ever expected to be accused of, we have decided to prove Tony wrong.

I would note also that if you’ve never read TOT, this may be the best summary I’ve ever seen of it. And, even if it takes you more than one pass to read the whole piece, I would encourage you to not give up. The piece ends in a very different place from where you think it will.

-The Editor

THE OLD TESTAMENT: A REVIEW

Answer not a fool according to his folly, lest thou also be like unto him.

Answer a fool according to his folly, lest he be wise in his own conceit.

- Proverbs 26:4-5

I have read this book three times, and each time I have read a different book.

The First Reading

Whatever else we can say about The Old Testament (TOT), it has quickly become a cultural phenomenon. I was hesitant to read this book when it was just out, hoping that the hype around it would subside and we would be able to talk about it in a calm, rational manner. Evidently, I was wrong: the book immediately became a best-selling sensation, surpassing Paulo Coelho’s Alchemist and J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, with some claiming that it, in fact, surpassed the whole “Harry Potter” series altogether. Possibly, the only book with higher reported sales to date would be Mao Tse-Tung’s The Little Red Book, which is frankly not a comparison any book should aim for. The difficulty in estimating the sales of TOT lies partially in the fact that there are several versions of the book. For this review, I was using the version with 39 chapters (or “books”) that is deemed superior by most fans and experts. This is an in-depth analysis, so beware: there are spoilers abound.

This staggering success is, of course, notable in itself and should be the subject of rigorous research when the issue does become less iron-strikingly hot. In the same vein, I would also mention the unyielding fan community that seems to protect—in their own eyes, of course—this book from any critical slight and thus from any literary analysis. If you consider yourself to be a part of this community, I would ask you to stop reading this essay now. You will not find my arguments appealing, and I will not find your retorts convincing. Let us continue living unaware of each other’s existence. From my side, I can promise I will distance myself from any spiritual or religious aspects of TOT, limiting this analysis to its literary merits alone.

I also purposefully avoided the fan theories and fan interpretations of the book, which are many. Some of them may be amazingly astute, just by the law of large numbers if nothing else, but I prefer to test the waters by myself first, even if it means risking my own toes. One thing that I really appreciated about the fan community of TOT, though, is that they do create absolutely the best fanart I ever saw.

The Old Testament is a high-concept postmodernist fantasy saga. While its genre and popularity might suggest comparisons with Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter or Game of Thrones series, an even millimeter-deep structural analysis would find more similarities between TOT and Infinite Jest, Ulysses, and Pale Fire. Its contents are recounted to us by an unreliable narrator or, perhaps, several unreliable narrators. Its timeframe is non-linear and perhaps even non-monotonic. In addition, it is so jam-packed with literary allusions and quotes from other literature that at times I was struggling to read it, for the same reason the Narrator of Swann’s Way struggled through a madeleine cake dipped in tea.

There are cases in which these references are warranted and add to the overarching idea of the work, but overall, I find that an allusion for the sake of allusion, that is put there just to show the author’s erudition, is masturbatory at best. To distinguish between these, we would need to understand said overarching idea, and for that, we need to address the elephant in the room, which is the book’s author.

The Old Testament is written under a pseudonym; that, by itself, is not a new discovery in the literary sciences. Jane Eyre was first published under the name of Currer Bell, and Middlemarch author Mary Ann Evans still appears on book covers as George Eliot. However, taking the pseudonym “God” is certainly new and bold. God’s Amazon account shows only one entry in its many reprints and translations, and not even a single image. This is a well-kept secret indeed. God also has an X account, but whether it’s genuine is anyone’s guess.

God is also a prominent character in the novel itself, but he is always confusingly portrayed from the third-person perspective. To make sense of it, we need to answer a simple question: Who is God?

In the text, God is fittingly an omniscient and omnipotent being that has created the world and everything in it and is endlessly fascinated and captivated by a single tribe of people, and sometimes separate individuals in this tribe. As the book progresses, God strikes several covenants with these people, helps them to develop and build a sprawling empire, and then, dissatisfied and betrayed by them, destroys their cities and helps other tribes capture and scatter them. Additional materials include poems, songs, and auxiliary stories that help to widen and further explain the relationship between God and these people, making the whole book structure more similar to Silmarillion than to Lord of the Rings.

It is clear to me at this point that the whole God-people relationship is a metaphor for a relationship between an author and their book, making TOT an autofiction. The Author creates the world of a book and everything in it; he also creates the main story of the book, lets it develop and flourish until the inevitable end: the Author tries to publish, and even if successful, the book is not theirs anymore. The book is then scattered among the readers and lost to the Author completely. There is an element of betrayal in publishing and editing

We can go a step further if we recall Roland Barthes’ The Death of the Author, in which the act of releasing the book severs the bonds between the author and their creation not just finally but fatally. This allows us to see TOT’s author’s idea even clearer: they created a text that is a true “tissue of quotations,” drawn from “innumerable centers of culture,” allowing the Author, and therefore God to requiescat in pace. The “scriptor” passes, and only the “scripture” remains; that is the motif of The Old Testament. It is the Big Book of Deicide, Jorge Luis Borges’s final and ultimate “sacrifice of a god.”

TOT, however, is not a quick and merciful death. The book, while dynamic and fast-paced at times, is tedious and indulgent at others. Its popularity is an achievement in the age of TikTok. Every little detail is mentioned, from the dimensions of the anti-Titanic, the life-saving boat (The length of the ark shall be three hundred cubits, the breadth of it fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty cubits. [Genesis 6:15]), up to an endless list of names of children’s children’s children ([...] Shammah the Harodite, Elika the Harodite, Helez the Paltite, Ira the son of Ikkesh the Tekoite, Abiezer the Anethothite, Mebunnai the Hushathite, Zalmon the Ahohite, Maharai the Netophathite, Heleb the son of Baanah, a Netophathite, Ittai the son of Ribai out of Gibeah of the children of Benjamin [...] [2 Samuel 23:25-29]). The former are not remotely helpful without any useful indication of what a cubit is. The latter demonstrates a conveyor belt full of characters, which most resembles a list of Kickstarter backers or Patreon patrons.

A matter of names is an interesting one as well. By a very modest estimate, there are more than two thousand names in TOT. One can only marvel at the resourcefulness of the author, capable of producing names as unique as Ikkesh, Mebunnai, or Heleb by the hundred. And yet, one of his most important characters is called David, which, according to a recent study, is the fifth most popular name in the United States.

This is like calling your magical elf prince Keith.

The Old Testament also unabashedly borrows names from world culture, making it part of the allusion onslaught that the reader experiences. Interestingly, the biggest victim seems to be American literature. Calling an eternal wanderer Ishmael and an evil king Ahab can seem slightly on the nose, but I am sure Herman Melville wouldn’t mind. Naming the son of a king, who is destined to fight with his father’s creation, Absalom does mirror the fate of Thomas Sutpen from Faulkner’s classic. And I am fairly proud of spotting an analogy between TOT’s Noah gathering the animals in pairs for salvation from a horrible flood, and Grapes of Wrath’s Noah Joad watching the others climb into the truck two by two: Connie and Rose of Sharon, Pa and Uncle John, and so on. Even science fiction classics got their due (And he called his name Gershom: for he said, I have been a stranger in a strange land. [Exodus 2:22]).

It is as if this book is trying to untwine the hundreds of books that make up our cultural core and thread them all into a new, impossible tapestry.

In this tapestry, there are also, almost inevitably, rotten threads. I wouldn’t characterize the book as anti-woke—after all, it does recount primitive, tribalistic times. However, Game of Thrones got some critique over its depiction of female characters, and TOT is on many occasions more violent, noxious, and psychopathic than Martin’s creation, strengthening the regrettable notion that “adult fantasy” necessarily equates to “plundering, abusive fantasy.” It is also strangely homophobic; maybe that’s why God is publishing under a nom-de-plume.

God has, apparently, slightly more to say on the topic of climate change. One of the most dramatic parts in the beginning of the book is a huge flood that nearly wipes out the whole of humanity and the rest of earth-bound life, to boot. (Apparently, God has nothing against fish.) The reason for such a catastrophic event is, of course, the will of the Author—this is a reason for any event in any book, by the way—but more specifically, the people incurred the Author’s wrath by multiplying too much and being too powerful and evil. The metaphor is quite clear here: “the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually. [Genesis 6:5] It basically stinks of late-stage capitalism.

God’s solution to that is basically hitting the restart button by flooding the Earth and beginning anew. There is no mention of melting ice caps, but forty full days of rain is certainly faster and more dramatic. It is also notable that the first thing God says to the few survivors is: “Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth.” [Genesis 6:5] “The Old Testament” is full of these little re-negs, tiny Catch-22s, to the extent that it might be on purpose.

The last thing I’d like to talk about is the title of the book. The word “Testament” is commonly used in the phrase “the last will and testament,” which again refers to the death of the Author. Another common meaning is “contract,” signifying the many covenants God made with various people in the text, which is a common leitmotif of TOT. The people never hold their end, though, which provides much-needed drama. But the word that intrigues me more is the word “Old.” Why is the book called “The Old Testament” and not “The First Testament,” “The Final Testament,” or simply “The Testament”? And then it hit me.

“Old” is comparative: if there is an old one, there ought to be a new one as well. The Author is planning a sequel.

Can God write a second book if he is dead after the first one? Perhaps yes, if the topic would be resurrection. We can only speculate at this point, but speculation is an amusing and generally harmless endeavor. So, what would the sequel look like?

We already know that the main notion of the second book should be resurrection and rebirth. But what about the book’s style? And what about its contents? We, the civilizational we, are a greedy bunch. We crave both the novel and the familiar, ingenuity and traditionalism. Writing sequels is a Sisyphean task. The audience, the fans, demand only two things: for everything to be completely different and for everything to stay exactly the same.

I would imagine a smaller book. There is no more need for worldbuilding, for dragging us along a tedious ride of rules and names. Brevity is a new, unexplored virtue. I would also imagine a shorter time period. A story of resurrection is not a story of a nation—it is a story of a single man, born, dead, and born again. There should, however, remain all the good parts of the book: drama, violence, wisdom. A good sequel would build upon these cornerstones but also revisit them in a new manner. It would also feature more auxiliary material, something in the vein of Proverbs or Songs of Solomon; these were among the best parts of TOT. I would expect God to try new forms, though. Maybe an epistolary chapter? I would also try to refrain from as many literary allusions, but here, I’m afraid, God just won’t be able to help himself.

A good groundwork for the sequel was already laid in the book of Jeremiah: “Behold, the days come, saith the LORD, that I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel, and with the house of Judah.” [Jeremiah 31:31] This line begs for a sequel, doesn’t it?

We are close to the finale, so allow me to summarize. What did I like about this book? The scope is ambitious, which expresses itself even in the Author’s pseudonym. The style is a mark of a truly brilliant hand, and the attention to detail is admirable. The overarching narrative is epic. The individual stories are hit-and-miss, but that’s somewhat expected from what is partially an anthology. My favorite smaller narratives were certainly Noah’s, Jacob’s, Esther’s, Daniel’s, Job’s. One of the first longer stories, that of Moses, has an incredible start but peters down into a never-ending list of rules and regulations and loses its momentum in the second half. God could have made the desert a more action-packed place.

I also really liked numbering every paragraph. It was confusing in the beginning, but it is actually ingenious in a text this size and certainly a brilliant marketing strategy. The numberings very soon stop being noticeable, and the reading experience is smooth as in any other book, but when you see a place you really like, it is extremely easy to mark it and find it later. I wish David Foster Wallace had thought of that.

There is, of course, the other side of the coin. The Old Testament is indulgently long and even fatty. At times, it is simply an exhausting read. The endless genealogical tables do show the passage of time, but one could have done it more efficiently. The insufferable three whole chapters of mostly rules and conditions do convey the mind-numbing tedium of forty years in a desert, and the very quick and brutal action chapters that immediately follow them do help, but a lot of that should have stayed in the Editor’s recycle bin.

The second truly problematic part of the book is its politics. In our age of post-post-irony, nothing should be taken at face value, but it is sometimes hard to keep that in mind while reading the more misogynistic, homophobic, and plainly cruel chapters. It might be irony, or it might not be. The times we live in are such that it’s just impossible to tell. In any case, the list of trigger warnings that should be mentioned in the preface of TOT might be longer than some of the lists of names inside it.

I do recommend this book to a careful, introspective reader who is not afraid to dip their toes into darker shades of human nature. They will be rewarded, as was I. However, I will likely not read it again.

Four and a half out of five stars.

The Second Reading

I was not entirely happy with the review I wrote for The Old Testament. The last several weeks I lived in a cheap hotel, and my evenings were mired in boredom and ennui. Imagine my surprise when, in a nightstand drawer near my bed, I discovered a copy of TOT. As I learned afterwards, that was yet another one of the several ingenious marketing campaigns by the book’s publishers, this one aimed at one of the most vulnerable and widespread demographics: sad and lonely people. It worked on me—I started to flip the pages and very soon was captivated by it all over again. As I was flipping through the beginning of the book, a question slithered into my brain: Why did God lie to Adam?

God creates man in Genesis 2:7 and then plants a beautiful garden for him to live in. But the first direct speech between God and man that is recorded in the book is, in fact, a lie. God tells Adam, “Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat. But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.” [Genesis 2:16-17]

We know it’s not true almost immediately. In the beginning of the next chapter, the woman and the man do eat from that tree. They do not die that day; in fact, later in the text, it is revealed that Adam lived for nine hundred and thirty years. So, why lie? Surely, God just could have said that he forbids to eat from the tree of knowledge without threats of immediate death. Surely, at this point in their relationship, that would have been enough.

The Old Testament did not give an immediate answer to this question, so I continued reading. Adam and Eve were banished from the garden and started to live their lives as regular humans. One of their sons killed the other one out of jealousy, which was a first hint of the violence and death to come.

The next big story is the story of Noah and the flood, which I already discussed. Perhaps an additional important part of that story is the agreement that God strikes with Noah after the flood, the second agreement after the one with Adam. The agreement was, basically, that God wouldn’t destroy all life on Earth again. God doesn’t ask for anything in return here, making it more like a promise than a double-sided contract.

Then there are several vignettes and a list of genealogical names, signifying the passage of time. That is important, because here we move from seemingly primitive to already developed communities, from tribalism to ancient civilizations. The next truly large story is the story of Abraham, to whom very soon God makes another promise: if Abraham leaves his current land and travels to the land of Canaan, God promises to make his descendants a great nation. In return, or maybe as a symbol of this covenant, God asks Abraham to circumcise himself, literally a blood oath. To test Abraham’s devotion, God, in one of the most cruel and bizarre twists, asks Abraham to kill his own son. He is ready to do that, and in the last moment God saves and miraculously replaces the child with a literal sacrificial lamb, saying, “For now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son from me.” [Genesis 22:12]

That also did not make sense to me. Abraham has already committed to this relationship, as it were, by cutting a part of himself. Surely, God did not need to test him all over again, especially with the life of his long-awaited and almost impossible son. Not to mention that God is all-knowing: “O LORD, you have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away.” [Psalms 139:1-2] “Great is our Lord, and of great power: his understanding is infinite.” [Psalms 147:5] If God truly was testing if Abraham had confidence in him, does that mean that God does not have confidence in himself?

After Abraham, the narrative follows his son, Isaac, and then his son, Jacob. Jacob has a more developed story: he tricks old and blind Isaac into giving him the birthright instead of his twin, Esau. He also fights God at some point and even wins, which prompts him to change his name to Israel: “Thy name shall be called no more Jacob, but Israel: for as a prince hast thou power with God and with men, and hast prevailed.” [Genesis 32:28]

Israel also sires thirteen children from four women; two “official” wives and two of their handmaidens. One of his sons, Joseph, is sold by his jealous brothers into slavery to Egypt, where Joseph, against all odds, rises up the corporate ladder and becomes an advisor to the pharaoh. He is reunited with his family, forgives them, and offers them a good life in Egypt. This is a great story, with emotions, action, and suspense.

The next book, Exodus, takes place several hundred years later. As opposed to the first one, this chapter is a single story. The narrator gives us a heads-up: during the elapsed time, the new pharaoh forgot all the good Joseph did for his ancestor and enslaved the Israelites. Fearful that they would revolt, he orders to kill their newborn boys. At this apex of crisis, Moses is born.

Moses is the first character to have more than an entire chapter dedicated to him. In fact, he’s the most mentioned character in the whole novel, sharing this honor with David. He is also the most powerful human in TOT. The plagues of Egypt mostly resemble a standard DnD spell plethora: there is summoning of various creatures, darkness, fire, hail, and diseases, culminating in direct child murder. High-level, certainly, but not overpowered. Parting the sea, however, is already a Yoda-level miracle.

With this newly found magic, Moses helps his people escape from Egyptian slavery. In a strange turn of events, God is also actively prohibiting them from leaving. He hardened the Pharaoh’s heart not once, not twice, but seventeen times: after Moses bested his court magicians in a duel, after each of the plagues, and so on. Even after Pharaoh finally lets the Israelites go, God hardens his heart again, and the Egyptian army starts to pursue them, which ultimately leads to the sea parting scene, probably the most dramatic in the whole book.

They flee to the desert, where Moses, under God’s guidance, gives the people the Ten Commandments, signifying yet another covenant between God and his chosen people. Unfortunately, the exciting part of the chapter ends and the tedious one begins, sprawling into three more long chapters. The next one, Leviticus, is a weird combination of rules, instructions, and general healthcare advice. There is a bit of action in the next, Numbers, and in the next, Deuteronomy, but overall, they are as dry and boring as the desert our main characters walk through. At the end of Deuteronomy, Moses passes just before stepping into the goal of their journey, the Promised Land.

God’s next chosen and Moses’ natural successor as a leader is Joshua. If Moses was a wizard or a sorcerer, Joshua is a fighter. As if compensating for the desert’s tedium, his cognominal book is probably one of the most violent pieces of modern literature, or even literature in general, comparable only with Game of Thrones, Titus Andronicus, or the Iliad.

Violence in the chapter of Joshua is probably less gratuitous than those above but possibly occurs on a larger scale. Throughout the whole piece, Joshua’s warriors capture kingdom after kingdom, and each time something like this happens: “When the people heard the sound of the trumpet, and the people shouted with a great shout, that the wall fell down flat, so that the people went up into the city, every man straight before him, and they took the city. And they utterly destroyed all that was in the city, both man and woman, young and old, and ox, and sheep, and ass, with the edge of the sword.” [Joshua 6, 20-21]

That is a stark difference from what we previously read. TOT has always been violent, but most of the death toll until now has come from God himself, burning cities and drowning armies. This time, fighting for their home, the people of Israel begin to show initiative and cruelty.

The last lines of the chapter seem to confirm that. Joshua, after a series of successful conquests, gathers his people, divides the land between them, and gives a speech, in effect making a new covenant between themselves. The next book, Judges, is a series of shorter stories, most of which have a similar plot: one of the Israelites’ tribes sins, their enemies start defeating them, the people repent and pray to God, he chooses a leader, and he (or she), with force and strategy, defeats the enemy.

This story repeats itself time and time again until a clear message is formed in the head of the reader: for any sort of stability to be reached, the tribes of Israelites must unite around a single leader. The hope is that a unified rule would serve as an anchor against the sea of constant trouble and strife.

The two books in which this hope is finally realized are called Samuel 1 and Samuel 2, and they are probably the most important ones since Exodus. They tell us about a wise prophet, Samuel, a good but flawed king, Saul, and a truly great king that comes after him, David. All three of these characters are crucial to the plot, so I will briefly discuss each of them.

Samuel is God’s man, first and foremost. He, as the Author poetically puts it, “did let none of his words fall to the ground.” [Samuel 1 3:19] His role is basically that of a mediator between God and the people, and more specifically, between God and the king. This, as we learn, is not an easy role.

In a time of need, God sends Samuel to find Saul, the first man fit to be king over all the twelve tribes. Saul is a great leader and warrior; he brings the people a long-awaited victory, and Samuel crowns him king. But he also makes sure that everyone knows who’s the real boss here in Samuel 1 12:13-25:

Now therefore behold the king whom ye have chosen, and whom ye have desired! and, behold, the LORD hath set a king over you. If ye will fear the LORD, and serve him, and obey his voice, and not rebel against the commandment of the LORD, then shall both ye and also the king that reigneth over you continue following the LORD your God: [...]Only fear the LORD, and serve him in truth with all your heart: for consider how great things he hath done for you. But if ye shall still do wickedly, ye shall be consumed, both ye and your king.

Now that is yet another hidden covenant between God and the people; God recognizes people’s need for a unified leader but doesn’t really want to share power, so he, through Samuel, makes very clear what would happen to those who go astray.

What is the first thing Saul does next?

He goes astray.

But does he? Does he pray to other gods, or break one of the ten commandments, or even one of the hundreds of smaller rules that we were exposed to while Moses and his people were strolling in the desert? No. Basically, Samuel told him to wait for him for seven days, after which they should meet, and Samuel would pray and give a sacrifice to God. However, “and he tarried seven days, according to the set time that Samuel had appointed: but Samuel came not to Gilgal; and the people were scattered from him.” [Samuel 1, 13:8]

Saul does everything as ordered, except for waiting for Samuel, who was late, and he still gets punished. Indignant, Samuel tells him: “Thou hast done foolishly: thou hast not kept the commandment of the LORD thy God, which he commanded thee: for now would the LORD have established thy kingdom upon Israel for ever. But now thy kingdom shall not continue: the LORD hath sought him a man after his own heart, and the LORD hath commanded him to be captain over his people, because thou hast not kept that which the LORD commanded thee.” [Samuel 1, 13:13-14]

Isn’t it excessive? If Samuel is just pissed at Saul, then there is no sin here, and there should not be a punishment. But the punishment is inevitable, meaning that it is actually God who is unhappy with Saul.

That gave me pause. Is this reasonable? Isn’t it similar to when Abraham was asked to sacrifice his only son to prove to the already all-knowing God that he trusted him?

The character of God comes off as really self-conscious in these stories, paranoid even. Only a person who is very unsure of himself would test their loved ones this much. Which is even more strange, given that God is the Author of this book.

Saul continues to violate God’s mandates, which, after hearing “now thy kingdom shall not continue”, seems only natural. Our story jumps to the next person God chooses to be king: David. From the text, it seems like God is choosing him for his looks: “Now he was ruddy, and withal of a beautiful countenance, and goodly to look to. And the LORD said, Arise, anoint him: for this is he.” [Samuel 1, 16:12] That sounds a little like God showing Samuel a girl that he likes at a disco, and not picking a next king, but we’ll let that pass: this novel already has a complicated relationship with sexuality.

David, in addition to his good looks, is a good harp player. Saul also likes him and his music and makes him his armor bearer. It turns out David is an amazing warrior as well, and he’s being quickly promoted to general. Eventually, Saul becomes jealous of David and tries to kill him, but David escapes every time.

The next bit is a little like Game of Thrones, with plot twists, battles, chases, captures, and ultimately, deaths. It is fairly dramatic and well-written, but a little rushed. In the end, King Saul is killed by the enemy along with his three sons, which allows David to accept the king’s crown.

With his armies, he captures the land back from multiple enemy tribes that besieged it, and finally, he captures back his capital city. There, he plans to build God a temple suitable for his magnificence, but God, surprisingly, refuses, promising that David’s son will be the builder instead. This is explained later, in the book of Chronicles 1: “because thou hast shed much blood upon the earth in my sight.” [Chronicles 1, 22:8] Moreover, God tells David that this time, “thine house and thy kingdom shall be established for ever before thee: thy throne shall be established for ever.” [Samuel 2, 7:14]

David agrees, and the rest of this double book of Samuel is dedicated to winning wars and more game-of-throning. It also has some poetry.

The next book is called Kings, and it has one of the highest highs of the novel, as well as one of the lowest lows. And the highs, to be honest, are very brief. The beginning of Kings tells us of the last days of David and about his son, Solomon. And he, indeed, was a great king. He was a great politician, warrior, and judge, and the book is not shy about showcasing his virtues. He also finally builds the Temple, according to God’s precise instructions, signifying the peak of the relationship between God and the people.

God is pleased, but in his praise there is another covenant and another threat: “I have hallowed this house, which thou hast built, to put my name there for ever;[…] And if thou wilt walk before me, as David thy father walked, in integrity of heart, and in uprightness, to do according to all that I have commanded thee, and wilt keep my statutes and my judgments, then I will establish the throne of thy kingdom upon Israel for ever, as I promised to David thy father, saying, There shall not fail thee a man upon the throne of Israel. But if ye shall at all turn from following me, ye or your children, and will not keep my commandments and my statutes which I have set before you, but go and serve other gods, and worship them. Then will I cut off Israel out of the land which I have given them; and this house, which I have hallowed for my name, will I cast out of my sight; and Israel shall be a proverb and a byword among all people.” [Kings 1, 9:3-7]

Solomon, in all his wisdom, immediately breaks this covenant: “And Solomon did evil in the sight of the LORD, and went not fully after the LORD, as did David his father.” [Kings 11:6] After which, the fate of the whole country is sealed, and the inevitable decline begins.

The double chapter of Kings ends dramatically and bloodily, with the splitting of the country into two parts, corruption, degradation, and the eventual capture of each part by enemies. The last lines describe the destruction of the capital city, Jerusalem, and of the temple that Solomon built by a Babylonian king with the best name in the book—Nebuchadnezzar.

If we look at TOT as a book with a standard three-act structure, this would be the end of act two. All is lost, and only hope remains. In act three we would expect the revival of the Israelites, their return to God, and the eventual recapture of their land. In act three we would expect a happy ending.

God is not that kind of Author.

Instead, the remaining part of the novel is a collection of stories that took place before, during, and after the decline of the relationships between God and his people and the fall of Jerusalem. Some of them retell this story from a slightly different angle (Chronicles 1-2), some describe the much later fall of Babylon, and the political attempts to rebuild the Temple (Ezra), some even recontextualize and reflect upon the destiny of Jerusalem and the future of the people (Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel). These, although beautifully written, with some of the most harrowing imagery in the whole book, seem like an afterthought, a way to understand the tragedy that occurred by looking at it from different points of view. And, yes, to grieve it—no wonder one of the books in this list is called Lamentations.

But the plot of The Old Testament is over with the destruction of Jerusalem. The rest is commentary. I am sure that in the hands of a harsher book editor, it would be skipped, although it does contain some of the best writing in the whole novel.

There are many questions swarming in my head while I finish the second reading of TOT, the main one being: why did they all fail? All the covenants, I mean. How could this be when the stakes were so high each time? Time and time again, after the conditions of each new covenant are revealed, it is almost immediately broken within a few pages. From the pattern of the book of Judges, to Saul, then to Solomon and his descendants, there was nobody good enough for God. David was the closest, but he was a warrior king and therefore unfit to be a priest king and ultimately rejected as well.

Sometimes, if everyone disappoints you, the problem is not with everyone but with you.

I return to the questions that I asked myself during this reading. Why did God need to test every person he comes into contact with, sometimes with cruel and almost impossible tests? Why all the covenants, for that matter? And why is God, the all-knowing and all-powerful entity that he is, often portrayed as vulnerable, self-conscious, sometimes even self-contradicting? And why did God lie to Adam in the beginning of the book?

I didn’t find an answer to these in TOT. But after some deliberation, I came up with a theory that could serve as a partial explanation. It is controversial, to say the least. And it starts with a “what-if” type question, as many controversial theories do.

What if God is not the Author of this book?

What I mean is, what if “God” on the book cover and “God,” the character inside, are two different entities with different agendas? And the point of this novel, the underlying leitmotif in it, is to show the intrinsic fragility of power, of ego, to push this idea to the extreme? What if the true author of The Old Testament is not “God,” but “the people,” and the switch they pull is a literary trick, the point of which is to strengthen the effect? This theory was missing something, but I couldn’t see what. I also did not see a way to prove it conclusively.

I knew that these ideas warranted another reading, but life intervened, and I had to put the book aside for better times.

The Third Reading

I wasn’t able to come back to The Old Testament for a while, and during this time, I had ample opportunity to think and reflect. Some of this reflection was connected to the book, but most of it was about myself, my character and my personality, and how these affected other people in my life, people close and dear to me. I then tried to make amends—not always successfully, but always honestly.

One would think this little bout of exhibitionism is wholly unnecessary in a backlogged book review, but I need to establish my new point of view because, serendipitously, it gave me not only a new outlook on life but also on TOT. And a lot of it was germinated by my ex-wife, who tried to explain to me that I have a habit of complicating and obfuscating reality, of masking my own misgivings under a layer of unnecessary and superficial complexity.

“What if it’s simpler than you think?” she told me.

I did apply this simplification principle to my life, with mediocre success. But eventually I tried to apply it to The Old Testament as well, in a doomed attempt to penetrate its mysteries. Perhaps the best explanation for that is given in TOT, in the book of Proverbs 26:11: “As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.”

What is the simplest foundation of this book? Plainly speaking, what is this book about? The historic development of a tribe to a nation and to a country? No. The disappointment of a divine being in mortal creatures? No. A world of miracles, wizards, and dragons? No.

The core of The Old Testament is the relationship between God and his chosen people.

What is the simplest form of a relationship? That between a king and his country? No. That between the creator and the created? No. That between the powerful and the powerless? No.

The most common form of relationship is that between two lovers.

What if the whole 39 chapters of TOT—the whole multi-millenia story of epic proportions, the whole magical and terrible ordeal—is a metaphor for a single relationship between two lovers?

What will we see if we look at this book through this lens?

The first approach to demonstrating something like that is to show that God is also human. When you read TOT with this idea in mind, some things tend to be more visible. They may seem tiny, but given the right context, they can crack the thick metaphoric layer that the Author has painted over the truth. You begin to see petty human behavior even in clearly divine deeds: “And the thing which he did displeased the LORD: wherefore he slew him also.” [Genesis 38:10] (By the way, the displeasing thing is masturbation). “For thou shalt worship no other god: for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God.” [Exodus 34:14] “And the children of Israel did evil again in the sight of the LORD: and the LORD strengthened Eglon the king of Moab against Israel, because they had done evil in the sight of the LORD.” [Judges 3:12]

In these moments and many others, God doesn’t seem powerful and mighty; he seems thin-skinned and vulnerable. The only thing he truly needs is external confirmation of his power, of his agency. He forgives if you ask him nicely: “But when the children of Israel cried unto the LORD, the LORD raised them up a deliverer…” [Judges 3:15]

This approach immediately explains why God lied to Adam in the very beginning of TOT: who didn’t exaggerate, who didn’t make themselves more exciting and dangerous on the first encounter with someone they liked?

Based on this circumstantial evidence, I will try to finally decipher this mega-metaphor that traverses the whole novel and is divisible into dozens of smaller metaphors, like a tree into branches. As per our axiom, the book tells us the story of a relationship between two lovers. Based on the nature of their relationship and their power dynamics, we may assume that God represents a man, and “the people,” from Adam until the very end of the novel, represent a woman.

Please take into account that no metaphor is a perfect mathematical analogy, nor should it be. That is especially true for such a complex metaphor. Certainly, the Man did not literally create the Woman. But we could interpret it as he met the Woman that he dreamt of—the one that he would have made.

The beginning of the novel is a history of their early acquaintance. I will not decipher each little story separately, that would make a nice exercise for an inquisitive reader. Suffice it to say that the first covenant, Noah’s covenant, seems to represent friendship: it is unconditional and generous. It also has a lot to do with food, and sharing food is a common friends’ activity.

Abraham’s covenant already implies some serious sacrifices and eternal devotion, appropriate only for the closest friends, and the third covenant, Moses’s covenant, seems to represent romantic relations. It also occurs after God saves the people of Israel from slavery in Egypt, which may represent a bad break-up with an ex. Forty years of travel in the desert surely make an apt metaphor for romantic longing.

The third covenant also introduces the reader to an exhausting and exhaustive set of rules, which is what we also typically learn about our loved ones when we start dating.

Following that logic, entering the Promised Land must be moving in together. It immediately creates tension between our lovers—many smaller fights that begin and end within short periods of time, symbolized by the short stories in the book of Judges.

The next part of the book mirrors the next step in this relationship, and that can only mean one thing: marriage. In the first book of Samuel, Samuel himself, Saul, and David all represent the different stages in this relationship: devoted love, pre-marriage jitters and frustrations, and finally, marital bliss. God makes a speech here that is considered yet another covenant, this time unconditional. He asks David if he’d make them a home (“Shalt thou build me an house for me to dwell in?” [Samuel 2, 7:5]), then he pledges his protection (“neither shall the children of wickedness afflict them any more, as beforetime” [Samuel 2, 7:10]), and finally he promises that they would stay together and happy forever: “And thine house and thy kingdom shall be established for ever before thee.” [Samuel 2, 7:16]

David, on the other hand, praises God, and says there is nobody quite like him: “Wherefore thou art great, O LORD God: for there is none like thee, neither is there any God beside thee.” [Samuel 2, 7:22]. And later, in Samuel 2, 22, in a poetic section, there are clearly lines of a person in love and a person who feels loved, protected, and saved: “The God of my rock; in him will I trust: he is my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my high tower, and my refuge, my saviour; thou savest me from violence.” [Samuel 2, 22:3]. And further: “For thou art my lamp, O LORD: and the LORD will lighten my darkness.” [Samuel 2, 22:29]

I feel these are words of true love. Incidentally, another word for “covenant” is “vow.” These are their wedding vows!

However, this idyllic situation, full of mutual love and respect, ends abruptly. And here we have to make another conjecture about what happened underneath the layer of metaphor, in the “real world.” The Man and the Woman were happy. They made a home together in their Promised Land. They even got married. But on the next step, something goes wrong. What is the usual next step?

They have a kid. The book says so directly: “I will set up thy seed after thee, which shall proceed out of thy bowels, and I will establish his kingdom. [...] I will be his father, and he shall be my son.” [Samuel 2, 7:12-14]

Now, this child is probably the best-hidden secret in the whole novel. As far as I could find, he is alternately represented by three metaphors: their child as David’s son, Solomon; their child as a temple to God that Solomon built, and their child as the city of Jerusalem. Whatever the metaphor, all three meet similar fates: eventually, they all perish.

I believe this further sophistication of an already exceptionally complex metaphor is a sign of the Author’s mental struggle with the reality of losing one’s child. In the most difficult book of Kings, the Author’s psyche begins to defocus and degrade. Only by being sure of the main decoding of the text—TOT is about the relationship between two lovers—can we understand what is going on at the deepest level of the novel: the Woman, represented by the people and their king, is confused and extremely conflicted. This is described in the text as the kingdom splitting in two. The Man, represented by God, however, is adamant: he blames his partner for everything and accuses her of infidelity, claiming that was the reason for their son’s death.

In the end, he leaves her alone to face her own horror, grief, and guilt. He literally kicks her out. We can see this exact moment in Kings 2, 17:14-20:

“And they caused their sons and their daughters to pass through the fire [...]. Therefore the LORD was very angry with Israel, and removed them out of his sight […] And the LORD rejected all the seed of Israel, and afflicted them, and delivered them into the hand of spoilers, until he had cast them out of his sight.”

I wrote above that this marks the end of the main book plot. I was wrong. The last parts of the novel turn out to be instrumental in our understanding of the true reality of the novel. This series of disconnected tales, praying, begging, bargaining, taking offense and pleading innocence, reciting poetry, recounting the catastrophe time and time again—all that is what whirled inside the Woman’s mind after the worst had happened. These are not appendices but direct continuations of the plot; we are left with a broken person, and these are the pieces they broke into.

This is also the part where the thick paint of the metaphor begins to crack further, revealing the true plot of the novel. I will cite here some of these craquelures, but there are so many towards the end of the novel that citing all of them at times would be just copying the whole text.

For instance, in Jeremiah 31:32, the Author says, “which my covenant they brake, although I was an husband unto them, saith the LORD”. The book of Psalms is also full of these little lines, which can be easily seen as the Woman praising the Man: “I laid me down and slept; I awaked; for the LORD sustained me.” [Psalms 3:5] “When thou saidst, Seek ye my face; my heart said unto thee, Thy face, LORD, will I seek.” [Psalms 27:8] “When my father and my mother forsake me, then the LORD will take me up.” [Psalms 27:10].

In the book of Ezekiel, there is, possibly, one of the most erotic and, at the same time, co-dependent passage of them all: “Now when I passed by thee, and looked upon thee, behold, thy time was the time of love; and I spread my skirt over thee, and covered thy nakedness: yea, I sware unto thee, and entered into a covenant with thee, saith the Lord GOD, and thou becamest mine.” [Ezekiel 16:8]

Overall, in these last chapters of the novel, there is much more darkness. There are, of course, other instances of codependence: “In the day when I cried thou answeredst me, and strengthenedst me with strength in my soul.” [Psalms 138:3] “Lord, I cry unto thee: make haste unto me; give ear unto my voice, when I cry unto thee.” [Psalms 141:1]

There are also instances of grief, of bleak depression: “O daughter of my people, gird thee with sackcloth, and wallow thyself in ashes: make thee mourning, as for an only son, most bitter lamentation: for the spoiler shall suddenly come upon us.” [Jeremiah 6:26] “For the hurt of the daughter of my people am I hurt; I am black; astonishment hath taken hold on me.” [Jeremiah 8:21] “Cursed be the day wherein I was born: let not the day wherein my mother bare me be blessed. Cursed be the man who brought tidings to my father, saying, A man child is born unto thee; making him very glad.” [Jeremiah 20:14-15]

There are some attempts to fight the gaslight, to shift blame back to the source: “O LORD, thou hast deceived me, and I was deceived; thou art stronger than I, and hast prevailed: I am in derision daily, every one mocketh me. For since I spake, I cried out, I cried violence and spoil; because the word of the LORD was made a reproach unto me, and a derision, daily.” [Jeremiah 20:7-8]

Even further, there is clear domestic abuse: ”He hath led me, and brought me into darkness, but not into light. Surely against me is he turned; he turneth his hand against me all the day. My flesh and my skin hath he made old; he hath broken my bones.” [Lamentations 3:2-4] And later, even more harrowingly: “He hath filled me with bitterness, he hath made me drunken with wormwood. He hath also broken my teeth with gravel stones, he hath covered me with ashes. And thou hast removed my soul far off from peace: I forgat prosperity.” [Lamentations 3:15-17]

There is a passage that feels directly taken from an extremely heated argument, with accusations, threats, and attempts at reconciliation, all at the same time, in Ezekiel, 16:20-62: “Moreover thou hast taken thy sons and thy daughters, whom thou hast borne unto me, and these hast thou sacrificed unto them to be devoured. [...] Thou hast also committed fornication with the Egyptians thy neighbours, great of flesh; and hast increased thy whoredoms, to provoke me to anger. [...] Thou hast played the whore also with the Assyrians, because thou wast unsatiable; yea, thou hast played the harlot with them, and yet couldest not be satisfied. [...] Wherefore, O harlot, hear the word of the LORD: [...] And I will judge thee, as women that break wedlock and shed blood are judged; and I will give thee blood in fury and jealousy. [...] And I will establish my covenant with thee; and thou shalt know that I am the LORD: That thou mayest remember, and be confounded, and never open thy mouth any more because of thy shame, when I am pacified toward thee for all that thou hast done, saith the Lord GOD.”

In the same angry rant, there is another stunning line. It is written to inflict pain, but we read it as a revelation, as a confirmation of our theories: “Thou art thy mother's daughter, that loatheth her husband and her children.” [Ezekiel 16, 45] This might seem excessive, but I try to give the reader a fuller picture of the abuse and vitriol found in these last chapters, interspersed with tender poetry and confessions of love. And then there is the book of Hosea.

The book of Hosea is a metaphor turned inside out, which makes it, probably, the most accurate retelling of the “real” story that we can find in the novel. It starts with Hosea marrying a woman named Gomer, and not just a woman, a “wife of whoredoms and children of whoredoms: for the land hath committed great whoredom, departing from the LORD” [Hosea 1:2]. She bears him three children, of whom we never hear again. God is also an active participant in the story. He says: “Plead with your mother, plead: for she is not my wife, neither am I her husband: let her therefore put away her whoredoms out of her sight, and her adulteries from between her breasts.” [Hosea 2:2] In this chapter, God and Hosea revealingly switch places, and the chapter jumps from the third to the first person perspective quite freely. “And I said unto her, Thou shalt abide for me many days; thou shalt not play the harlot, and thou shalt not be for another man: so will I also be for thee. [...] Afterward shall the children of Israel return, and seek the LORD their God, and David their king; and shall fear the LORD and his goodness in the latter days.” [Hosea 3:3-5]

The next parts of the book describe in full the grounds for separation between God and the people, the grounds for divorce, mixing reality with the overall TOT metaphor. “They have dealt treacherously against the LORD: for they have begotten strange children” [Hosea 4:7].

This is a fairly schizophrenic read, but this is also where the truth is most clear, most vulnerable. The narrator laments the infidelity of Israel (“They are all adulterers…” [Hosea 7:4]), fears for their well-being (“Israel hath cast off the thing that is good: the enemy shall pursue him.” [Hosea 8:3]) and curses them in anger (“Give them, O LORD: what wilt thou give? give them a miscarrying womb and dry breasts.” [Hosea 9:14]). In the end, he also tries to persuade them and begs them to return: “O Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself; but in me is thine help.” [Hosea 13:9] “O Israel, return unto the LORD thy God; for thou hast fallen by thine iniquity.” [Hosea 14:1]

This is a full-on tantrum of a bitter, controlling man who was broken up with.

It is also very clear from this chapter that the only thing the Man wants is to get back with the Woman, and continue to be with her: “And I will betroth thee unto me for ever; yea, I will betroth thee unto me in righteousness, and in judgment, and in lovingkindness, and in mercies. I will even betroth thee unto me in faithfulness: and thou shalt know the LORD.” [Hosea 2: 19:20]

So why doesn’t he?

My guess is that she doesn’t want him back.

In the previous reading of TOT, I had the theory that the true Author of the book is not God but the people. Building on that, we will see that the Author of this book is not the Man, but the Woman. That would explain the bouts of poetry, weepings, and multiple relivings of the same event—the deep dive into the Woman’s psyche in the last third of the novel. That would also explain the ending, where it is clear that the lovers do not reconcile after their bitter divorce (which is depicted as a military takeover of a whole country and destruction of its capital). It also may explain—but not justify!—the misogynistic tone of the novel: few hate us as much as we hate ourselves.

The Woman writes TOT from the perspective of the Man, of God, and we first see him as he sees himself: all-powerful, all-knowing, and in perfect control of the situation. He meets the woman of his dreams, they date, they move in together, they get married. There are quarrels, but in the end, they always make up. But throughout the novel, we see that the veneer of control is waning. The Man is exceptionally rigorous and demanding, but he is also vulnerable, touchy, and often unsure of himself. He never trusts the Woman and comes up with ridiculous tests for her love for him. Finally, they have a kid, and the Man is happy, but the happiness is short-lived. A tragedy strikes, and the Man blames the Woman, specifically her infidelity. He divorces her but still desires her; he wants her back.

Since the book is written from the perspective of the Man, we don’t know if the adultery took place. He was wrong about it before. He is presented as paranoid. It’s also entirely possible, however, that after living through the tragedy and not finding solace and understanding with her husband, the Woman does seek the company of others.

I don’t think it truly matters.

There is no reconciliation either way. There is no teary reunion, no mutual forgiveness, no begrudging respect. There is only scorched earth left in this relationship—only bitterness and regret. The last word of this half-a-million-word novel is “curse.”

Another word for “testament” is “bond,” as in a marriage bond. The Old Testament can therefore be re-read as “My First Marriage.” The sequel, if there ever is one, should not be about returning to the old horrors. It should be about a new marriage, a new husband, and an amazing woman who sees her personal history as a high-concept postmodernist fantasy saga.

And this novel does not require a happy ending. In one of the most poetic and philosophical chapters, Ecclesiastes, the Author writes:

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.” [Ecclesiastes 3:5]

These are words of catharsis, of understanding. These are words of letting go. These words should be the true ending of this labyrinthine and inside-out nonsensical book. But then again, the Author does not make things easy for us, perhaps because they were not easy for her as well.

The Old Testament is a love story that is abusive, co-dependent, and at times even violent. It is also a love story that is passionate, tender, and beautiful. Both can coexist within one story, within one nation, and within one person. Is this interpretation correct? I don’t know. Does it have a right to exist? Nabokov called a writer’s world “a magic democracy,” and I believe the reader has a right to vote.

I have read this book three times, and each time a different man has read it.

Konstantin Asimonov is an aspiring and yet unpublished Berlin-based writer. His blog, Tap Water Sommelier, features his thoughts on random culture topics, elaborate and unfunny jokes, and translations of the weirdest and the most haunting things Russian culture can provide.

Art by Ernst Barlach