The Novel, When Everyone Was Convinced He Had One in Him

"The novel is that art form that burns most easily. It so happened that in the middle of the nineteenth century, all the citizens of our shtetl —every man, woman, and child—was convinced he had at least one novel in him. This period was likely the result of the traveling Gypsy salesman who brought a wagonload of books to the shtetl square on the third Sunday of every other month, advertising them as Worthy would-be worlds of words, whorls of working wonder. What else could come to the lips of a Chosen People but I can do that? More than seven hundred novels were written between 1850 and 1853. One began: How long it’s been since I last thought of those windswept mornings. Another: They say everyone remembers her first time, but I don’t. Another: Murder is an ugly deed, to be sure, but the murder of a brother is truly the most ghastly crime known to man. There were 272 thinly veiled memoirs, 66 crime novels, 97 stories
of war. A man killed his brother in 107 of the novels. In all but 89 an infidelity was committed. Couples in love wondered what the future would hold in 29; 68 ended with a kiss; all but 35 used the word “shame.” Those who couldn’t read and write made visual novels: collages, etchings, pencil drawings, watercolors. A special room was added to the Yankel and Brod Library for the Trachimbrod novels, although only a handful were read five years after their composition.
Once, almost a century later, a young boy went browsing the aisles.
I’m looking for a book, he told the librarian, who had cared for the Trachimbrod novels since she was a girl, and was the only citizen to have read them all. My great-grandfather wrote it.
What was his name? the librarian asked.
Safranbrod, but I think he wrote it under a pseudonym.
What was the name of his book?
I can’t remember the name. He used to talk about it all the time. He’d
tell me stories from it to put me to sleep.
What’s it about? she asked.
It’s about love.
She laughed. They’re all about love."