II

  When the great Tao is forgotten,
  goodness and piety appear.
     TAO TE CHING

To introduce his poem, the author retells a legend that was already ancient centuries before he was born. It concerns a righteous man who for no reason has been deprived of all the rewards of his righteousness; in the midst of great suffering he remains steadfast and perfectly pious, still blessing the Lord as before. “You have heard of the patience of Job,” the Epistle of James says, and it is this legendary, patient Job — not the desperate and ferociously impatient Job of the poem — who, ironically enough, became proverbial in Western culture.

We can respect the legend on its own naive terms, and can appreciate the skill with which the author retells it: the chilling conversations in heaven; the climax where Job submits, as if he were a calmer, more insightful Adam who has just eaten the bitter fruit of the Tree of Knowledge and, eyes opened, sees that he is naked. But if we read the prologue more seriously, less objectively, we may be slightly repu lsed by its hero’s piety. There is something so servile about him that we may find ourselves siding with his impatient wife, wanting to shout, Come on, Job; stand up like a man; curse this god, and die! The character called “the Lord” can do anything to him — have his daughters raped and mutilated, send his sons to Auschwitz — and he will turn the other cheek. This is not a matter of spiritual acquiescence, but of mere capitulation to an unjust, superior force.