Laila Lalami

My review of Alain Mabanckou’s Broken Glass and African Psycho appears this weekend in The National. Here is the opening paragraph:

In Africa, when an old person dies, a library burns. When the Malian writer and ethnologist Amadou Hampâté Bâ uttered these words at a Unesco assembly in 1960, he was attempting to draw attention to Africa’s tradition of oral storytelling. Little did he know that his aphorism would turn into one of the most persistent clichés about the continent, one that unfortunately reinforced the erroneous idea that there was no tradition of written literature in Africa prior to European colonialism. Early on in Alain Mabanckou’s new novel Broken Glass (to be published this month in translation from French to English), the proprietor of a seedy bar in Brazzaville, who is referred to only as Stubborn Snail, hears the slogan and derisively responds that it “depends which old person, don’t talk crap, I only trust what’s written down.”

In fact, Stubborn Snail is so sure of the power of the written word that he gives a notebook to his most regular customer, an old schoolteacher nicknamed Broken Glass, and asks him to write his customers’ stories. Broken Glass takes up the challenge, though he quickly warns the reader that “I’m writing this for myself as well, that’s why I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes when he reads these pages, I don’t intend to spare him or anyone else.” One suspects that Mabanckou shares these feelings, that he has no time for pious and well-meaning clichés about Africa, and that he intends to write as irreverently and as freely as he pleases.

You can read the entire piece here.

I’ve had a copy of the collected journals of Susan Sontag (Reborn: Journals and Notebooks 1947-1963) in my office for a while, but somehow haven’t managed to get to it yet. Luc Sante’s thoughtful and generous review makes me want to read it. Here’s the opening paragraph:

You might say there are two kinds of writers: those who keep a journal in the hope that its contents might someday be published, and those who do not keep a journal for fear that its contents might someday be published. In other words, no journal-keeping by a writer who harbors any sort of ambition is going to be entirely innocent. The complicated, somewhat voyeuristic thrill the reader might derive from seemingly prying open the author’s desk drawer is therefore, to a certain extent, a fiction in which both parties are complicit.

This notion inescapably comes to mind when one reads the entries by the young Susan Sontag collected in Reborn: Journals and Notebooks 1947-1963 (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, $25). Like any author’s journal worth reading, it contains items that anticipate prominent themes of her later published work, as well as others that seem terribly private. What’s unusual, maybe, is that sometimes the intellectual items sound more naked and the private items more hedged.

You can read the review in its entirety here.

In April, Penguin will be releasing Gods and Soldiers, an anthology of contemporary African writing edited by Rob Spillman.  It includes fiction and non-fiction by writers from all over the continent, including Chris Abani, Chinua Achebe, J.M. Coetzee, Nawal al-Saadawi, Alain Mabanckou, Binyavanga Wainaina, Doreen Baingana, Leila Aboulela, Ngugi wa Thiong’o.

Gods and Soldiers also includes an essay I wrote (titled ‘The Politics of Reading’), which I hope you will enjoy reading.  The book comes out April 28.

A bad case of sciatica has been keeping me from this blog.  For the last couple of weeks, I’ve basically been migrating from my bed to my desk, getting work done or sleeping.  I’m sorry things have been so quiet here. More soon.