It was a working class bar and everyone was painfully drunk–that manly near death atavistic Viking berserk hallucination of everything, the star that flew through you on your way to the wedding and the dropped, cosmetic eyes of the old soldier strangely now in your own pocket. After all these years so many wounds and so few praises. That was when a man I did not know turned to me and said: “You are a Jew!” “You’re right,” I said, because I was young and in love with poetry, “I am a Jew!” It was the first time I had ever felt the pins of anti-Semitism, I, a Lutheran with a long beard. He reached for me then but missed and grabbed another man. “You are a Jew!” he shouted. “No, it is I,” I said, “I am the Jew!” But it was too late. They were on the floor and cursing, two men who had forgotten the oldest notion of them all: in Jewish history there are no coincidences.
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Planet of the Blind 