Category: book reviews / recommendations

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.

The latest issue of the Boston Review includes my essay about writing in a non-native language, looking specifically at Sayed Kashua’s novels Let It Be Morning and Dancing Arabs. Here’s an excerpt:

Those who write fiction in a language other than their own are often asked what motivates their decision, even though this literary choice has a long and rich history. Joseph Conrad, for instance, did not write in Polish, his mother tongue; instead, and after 20 years of world travel, he settled in England and embraced its language in his work. Milan Kundera chose French rather than Czech for his later books because he wanted to free himself of expectations and censorship. Elias Canetti, whose native language is Ladino, opted for German, though he lived most of his life in England and Switzerland. But for others, the decision to give up their mother tongue was not a choice at all. It was the inescapable result of colonial education—witness, for example, the vast literature in French that came out of Africa in the wake of France’s century of hegemony: Assia Djebbar, Tahar Ben Jelloun, Camara Laye, and Léopold Sedar Senghor, to name just a handful.

What is striking about these shifting linguistic allegiances is that they tend to favor the language that is culturally dominant on the international scene. Thus, despite the great diversity of reasons for writing in a foreign language, the writer’s choice is often interpreted as a political statement, and in particular as a form of capitulation. This was precisely what prompted the Kenyan novelist Ngugi wa Thiong’o to abandon English and return to Gikuyu, his native tongue, and what led him to argue, in Decolonizing the Mind, that other African writers should do the same.

But does creative expression in a foreign language always equal the rejection of native culture and the embrace of another? Or can it also be a way to challenge readers’ assumptions? The work of the young novelist Sayed Kashua raises just these questions.

Read the rest here.

My review of Alison Bechdel’s graphic memoir Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic, appeared in the Boston Globe this past weekend. Here is an excerpt:

Alison Bechdel’s “Fun Home” is a brilliant and bittersweet graphic memoir that chronicles the author’s relationship with her formidably troubled father, Bruce. The book takes its title from the funeral home that Bruce inherited and ran. In his spare time, he restored the family’s 1867 Gothic Revival house. Giving a semblance of life to dead bodies and returning its lost splendor to an old home — Bruce was obviously obsessed with appearances. “He used his skillful artifice not to make things, but to make things appear to be what they were not,” Bechdel writes. The deceit lasts for many years; only when Bechdel is in college does she find out that her father is gay.

You can read the rest here.