I looked at the prompt, which were both from the reader's guide for this book supplied by NYRB Classics (I forgot to mention that earlier under the prompts, oops), and it intrigued me. I thought that I would attempt to dissect it a bit. When I started writing down my observations I realized that many of my notes throughout the book are regarding these depictions. I feel like these carefully inserted brushstrokes of vivid sketches give Salih a moment to remove the reader and himslef from the political, socio-economic assertions. These images are not colorful or inspiring to me. They are a simple part of a feeling or memory. To me, all of these different moments of detail are drawn in a muted hue of rouge or burnt umber. Everything feels like hardened clay and smells like a hot day by an overfull river. I can feel mud between my toes and sand in my nose, it tickles and is spicy.
"Entering by the door of the spacious courtyard, I looked to right and to left. Over there were dates spread out on straw matting to dry; over there onions and chillies; over there sacks of wheat and beans, some with mouths stitched up, others open. In a corner a goat eats barley and suckles her young. The fate of this house is bound up with that of the field: if the field waxers green so does it, if drought sweeps over the field it also sweeps over the house. I breathe in that smell peculiar to my grandfather's house, a discordant mixture of onions and chillies anddates and wheat and horse-beans and fenugreek, in addition to the aroma of the incense which is always floating up from the large earthenware censer" (60-61).
yes, I sort of got lost because of his description. there are a lot of arabic words I kept wanting to look up, names of trees or pieces of furniture or types of wood, and then I have to remind myself what was happening before all that when people start talking again. Maybe it's just because I'm scatterbrained with all the different things I'm studying and reading, but I kind of got confused when the narrator (whose name is Effendi as Victoria pointed out is mentioned on page 71) would trail off into some poetic sentiments about the Nile or something and then return to the story in the middle of something going unexplained going on (or that's how it seemed to me). Also a couple times he seems to drift into the mind of Mustafa Sa'eed, as if the two perspectives were interchangeable. No complaints, its just dizzying when read in brief spurts on bus rides and in between philosophy and english classes. Anyway, what is the deal with the intense connection between Mustafa and (Effendi)? Why did Mustafa appoint him guardian of his children? Was he supposed to marry his wife?
ReplyDeletefavorite quote:
"He had told me to spare them the pangs of wanderlust. I would do nothing of the sort... Everyone starts at the beginning of the road, and the world is in an endless state of childhood" (74).
Even having now read the entire book, I too, still don't quite understand the intense connection between Effendi and Mustafa. Except, perhaps, that Effendi serves as Mustafa's mirror...through Effendi we know Mustafa? Likewise, through Mustafa's deeds we learn of Effendi's quality of character (or lack thereof) based on how he responds to/interacts with Mustafa's story. For me the descriptiveness also helped to set the stage, add quality, to the discussion of cultural politics...the philosophical reflection for which the narrative serves as vehicle.
ReplyDeleteI'm attempting to complete the book. I found all the descriptions to be somewhat interesting but perhaps an intentional distraction. The narrator seemed almost overwhelmed by the memories, in a displaced sort of way. The descriptions of the hometown were so constant that it felt as though it would only make sense to be for a person who has been absent for long enough that all the things around him are more apparent. Which was the case, anyway. I thought it was the author's way of conveying that emotion. A very strong feeling of nostalgia. There are a lot of feelings going on constantly mixed in with the nostalgia, almost hidden. Having all of these feelings mixed together to make a jumbled story seems the most accurate way to portray how one would narrate their own story, remembering it and reciting it. It makes it a bit more convincing, but more difficult to follow. I'm finding it interesting how unsure the narrator is of himself regarding Mustafa, how after his perhaps death he finds the memory of him to be like a lie. As Mustafa claimed himself to be. A ghost that haunts him by chance, being brought up with those he meets.
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