Laila Lalami

A father and son walk along a road in a post-apocalyptic future. Around them, everything is dead or dying. Between sunup and sundown, the sky’s color changes by only a few shades of gray. It’s numbingly cold, and ash falls from the sky nearly all the time. The reader is never told what could have caused the world to turn out like this, but it’s not hard to imagine that it could be a nuclear explosion. In the end, it doesn’t much matter what caused it all, because there is life to attend to. The little boy needs to be fed and protected, and the father devotes himself to that. There are other survivors, but it’s hard to tell who “the good guys” are, those “who carry the fire.” McCarthy ventures into the deepest, darkest recesses of the human heart, and chronicles what he sees in vivid, yet restrained prose. Some survivors engage in cannibalism; others have organized in armies, red scarves at their necks, killing and stealing and rampaging; slavery reappears; and through all this madness the father must find food and protect his little boy. I had to put this book down a couple of times because I was not sure I could finish it. But I cared about the characters far too much to stay away, and so I picked it up again and finished it in one sitting. What Cormac McCarthy has done in his new novel is difficult, brave, and incredibly well-executed. A masterpiece.

I’ve had a copy of Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking for a long, long while, and I finally got to read it last week, on the plane to New York. It’s her memoir of the year following the death of her husband, John Gregory Dunne, of a massive heart attack while their only daughter, Quintana, was in the hospital, receiving treatment for septic shock. (After the book was completed, but before its publication, Quintana passed away, in an almost unbearable post scriptum.) Didion chronicles the process of grief and mourning with stunning clarity, and many times I was moved to tears and had to put the book down. But there were also moments when I was frustrated by the sheer amount of control in the prose, as if the words could somehow serve as refuge from things Didion might not want the reader to know.

I went to Rabat to pick up my mail at the Fulbright office today, and I found several packages waiting for me. In the lot was a copy of Mohsin Hamid’s The Reluctant Fundamentalist, which I started reading on the train back home. The story is told through a monologue by a young Pakistani man, sitting across from an American stranger in the Old Anarkali neighborhood of Lahore. I am enthralled by it so far, and hope it can deliver on its promise in the end.

Updated to say that I thought the second half of the book didn’t hold as well as the first half. Changez’s transformation from a successful analyst to a disgruntled slack is not earned, I’m afraid. It fits the plot, but doesn’t fit the character. I did like this book a lot, though, for other reasons. I could see the influence of Tayib Salih and Joseph Conrad, and if I were not so completely busy with my own novel, I think I would have written about The Reluctant Fundamentalist at great length.

This weekend I tried reading Yasmina Khadra’s The Attack, translated by John Cullen. Khadra, you may recall, is the pseudonym of Algerian novelist (and ex army officer) Mohamed Moulessehoul. While his earlier work was set in his native Algeria, The Swallows of Kabul was set in Afghanistan, The Attack is set in Israel, and his latest, The Sirens of Baghdad, is set in Iraq. (By the way, do you think his next one will be set in Iran? With a title like The Sparrows of Tehran?)

The Attack is about a successful Arab Israeli surgeon named Amin Jaafari who works to save the many victims of a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv, only to discover that his wife Sihem was behind the terrorist attack. Let’s just say I couldn’t get very far into the novel. I thought it relied too much on cliché both in terms of character development, and in terms of the language itself (e.g., “The eyes in [a sheikh] ascetic’s face glinted like the blade of a scimitar.”)

I just finished reading Tahmima Anam’s first book, A Golden Age, a historical novel set during the Bangladeshi war of independence. It follows a young widow named Rehana, as she tries to keep her small family–her son Sohail, and her daughter Maya–together through the horror of the 1971 war with Pakistan. A Golden Age has one of the best opening chapters I’ve read in a while, and so it was good to see it included in the latest issue of Granta magazine (Granta 96: War Zones).

Pramoedya Ananta Toer’s It’s Not And All Night Fair is one of those books where very little happens–a man travels from Jakarta to his home village in Java to see his father, who is fatally ill–and yet I couldn’t put it down. It paints the portrait of a complex father-son relationship in modern-day Indonesia. The father fought for independence from the Dutch, chose to stay in his village, and has clung to his ideals, while the narrator has only known the corrupt rule of Sukarno, has moved to the big city, and is mostly preoccupied with making it. Once, the father had been offered a chance to join a local assembly, which would have meant he could have become part of the ruling elite, but he refused the appointment: “The local assembly is only a stage. And I don’t fancy becoming a clown–even a big clown.” By contrast, the son worries about the cost of everything, and describes his salary as being ” only enough to allow you to go on breathing.” We get a picture of a country in which hopes of a better life after independence have been dashed, and where the older man has more aspirations than the younger one. The prose is very plain, but the images are striking. On a long evening, for example, we are told that “the night outside went on swallowing the span of men’s lives.” The book stayed with me.

It’s Not And All Night Fair was originally published in 1951, translated from Bahasa Indonesia by C.W. Watson in 1973, and finally released in the United States last fall.

My review of Marjane Satrapi’s graphic novel Chicken with Plums appears in today’s Boston Globe. Here’s an excerpt:

It shouldn’t come as a surprise to Satrapi’s many dedicated fans that she has mined her family’s rich history again. In “Persepolis,” she told of her coming of age in Iran, during the Islamic Revolution and the long, bloody war with Iraq. In “Persepolis 2,” she wrote of her teenage life in Austria, where her parents sent her so she could finish high school away from the constant harassments of the mullahs. In “Embroideries,” she recounted an afternoon tea party at her grandmother’s house, and used it to create an eye-opening portrait of sexual relations in modern-day Iran. Now she gives us the story of her great-uncle, turning it into a meditation on art and love, and the necessity of both to any life worth living.

You can read it all here.

One of the pleasures of living in Casablanca is having easy access to books by Moroccan writers (or indeed by anyone who writes in Arabic or French or anyone translated in these languages.) So when I heard that Fouad Laroui had a new book out, an essay collection titled De L’islamisme, I popped into the Carrefour des Livres to pick up a copy. They were sold out. No problem, I thought, and I went over to Livre Service. They were sold out, too. I had to call two or three other bookstores before I could locate one copy (one!) at Gauthier Livres. (Coincidentally, the last remaining copy was set up next to a stack of The Caged Virgin by Ayaan Hirsi Ali.)

I stayed up until midnight last night to finish De L’islamisme. It’s enormously readable, it has lots of humor (just like Laroui’s novels), and it manages to bring a few fresh perspectives on a topic that has been beaten half to death. Laroui’s background in science also comes in handy as he deconstructs some of the ridiculous claims made by religious extremists, crackpot scientists, and other assorted imbeciles. My one complaint about the book is that it does not have source notes or a bibliography. For instance, Laroui writes things like “Voici ce que nous dit un commentateur,” but doesn’t always say who he has in mind, and I am not so well-read as to figure it out each time. I need names, dates, publications! It’s otherwise a very enjoyable book, a well-crafted mix of memoir and objective analysis that never gets precious or heavy.

Ahdaf Soueif’s new book, a collection of short stories titled I Think Of You, comes out in March in the United States. I was slightly disappointed when I found out that the pieces in this book have all been previously published, either in Soueif’s first collection Aicha (1983), or in her second, Sandpiper (1996). Those books were not published in the United States, though, and in any case they are somewhat hard to find through online booksellers, so this new collection, which culls the best stories from both, makes perfect sense. I recommend, in particular, the stories “1964,” “I Think Of You,” and “Sandpiper.”

This week I am reading C. R. Pennell’s Morocco Since 1830. The text could have used a more thorough editing (pronoun references are a bit sloppy, for instance) but I am finding the book very instructive. It’s also depressing, quite frankly, to read about the period during which the country fell slowly and surely under foreign control. I hope to finish it this week, and move on to something a bit more literary.