The Magic Barrel by Bernard Malamud

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Although I didn’t care much for Angel Levine, Bernard Malamud completely won me over with The Magic Barrel, which totally lives up to the hype. The writing is smooth, flowing with such ease with a climax that is both bizarre and profoundly moving, culminating in one of the most unforgettable final sentences I’ve ever come across in a short story:

“Around the corner, Salzman, leaning against a wall, chanted prayers for the dead.”

Fantastic stuff. 

Of course, context matters, so let me elaborate a little bit more on why this story resonates on such a deep emotional and spiritual level without spoiling too much. 

Blending Jewish folklore with a shimmer of magical realism, Malamud pulls off something remarkable. The story walks a delicate line between humor and aching sadness, especially in the way it explores the protagonist’s loneliness and wavering spiritual grounding. The plot is simple enough: Finkle, a rabbi-in-training, reluctantly hires the matchmaker Pinye Salzman to find a wife. With his diminutive stature and horn-rimmed glasses, he is an elusive, eccentric figure whom the narrator playfully calls a “commercial cupid,” “Pan,” and “trickster.” Those nicknames fit him perfectly. His methods involve embellishment, misdirection, and a kind of theatrical manipulation that increasingly irritates Finkle, who only wants honesty but instead finds himself tangled in half-truths and emotional confusion.

This exhausting search for a partner becomes more than a series of awkward dates. It becomes a crisis of faith. Finkle’s disappointment with Salzman’s tomfoolery and his inability to find the “right” match begins eroding his confidence not just as a future rabbi, but as a person searching for meaning. The emptiness he feels grows heavier, pushing him into a fog of doubt, insecurity, and spiritual despair. His loneliness becomes almost metaphysical, an ache of the soul.

And then something miraculous happens. Finkle discovers a photograph Saltzman left behind. An image of a young woman that grips him instantly and almost supernaturally. He becomes consumed by the need to meet her, as though the photo has awakened something dormant within him. A spark. A longing. Perhaps even a sense of destiny. Ironically, the moment he finally wants Salzman’s guidance, the trickster vanishes. It’s unclear (deliberately so) whether Salzman is a flesh-and-blood matchmaker or a folkloric figure who slips between the spiritual and physical worlds.

The ending brings all of these threads together with a beautiful mix of irony and transcendence. Finkle meets the mysterious woman, but what he encounters is not the simple, romantic resolution he imagined. Instead, he steps into a moment that forces him to confront the complexity of love, brokenness, and grace. The final image of Salzman chanting prayers for the dead is haunting and somewhat comedic: Is he mourning the past selves they must shed? Is he blessing their union? Is he signaling that love, to be real, requires the death of illusion before rebirth can occur? Could these prayers be asking God's forgiveness for these two lonely souls? 

You decide.

In that single gesture, the story ties together its central themes. Faith is not steady. It’s something tested, lost, and rediscovered in unexpected ways. Love is not a neat fix but a transformative, often painful force. Redemption comes when Finkle finally opens his heart, not to perfection, but to imperfection and vulnerability, which are the very things he once resisted.

It’s an ending that’s ironic, mystical, and deeply human all at once.

You can read this story HERE.