Category: literary life
Gaza Blues, the collection of short fiction by Samir Al-Youssef and Etgar Keret that I’ve mentioned before, gets the Daily Star treatment.
“The idea for the book came up in the beginning of 2002,” explains Keret, also speaking via e-mail. “There wasn’t a day without casualties both on the Palestinian and the Israeli side and things seemed even more hopeless than they usually are in our region. Samir called me and, like me, he was very depressed. He said that we [could] do something. I said to him jokingly that there is very little the two of us are able to do except write stories … A day later Samir called back with the idea for ‘Gaza Blues.'”
Keret insists that the point of the book is not to make a difference in grand terms. “Gaza Blues” is not an achingly idealistic attempt to broker an Arab-Israeli peace through literature. Rather, it carves out intimate space where as yet unexplored dimensions of the conflict may be probed. It resists falling prey to identity politics, and as such it appeals to anyone who might feel compelled to take a deep and weary breath before answering such questions as “What are you?” or “Where are you from?” Moreover, “Gaza Blues” is marked throughout by dark humor, touches of surrealism, and hip urban language.
“Our collaboration is meant to refer to a different area in the Palestine/Israel issue,” says Youssef. “And different means that which is deliberately overlooked and marginalized such as, in my case, the reality of the fragmentary nature of Palestinian society. There isn’t only one Palestinian society but many and different, and that’s why the Palestine/Israel issue is not limited to a certain geography or history.”
And still no U.S. publisher. What a shame.
The winners of the Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers Awards have been announced. They are John Dalton for Heaven Lake (fiction) and Alison Smith for Name All the Animals (non-fiction).
Nigerian writer Wole Soyinka was on a radio show yesterday, and you can listen to the show online.
Reader David C. alerts us to a section of the German cultural magazine Perlentaucher‘s English-language site that’s devoted to this season’s books by Arab authors.
Although I like Clint Eastwood as much as the next person, I thought Million Dollar Baby was dreadful (far inferior to an another boxing movie Girl Fight, for instance) and so I quite agree with Tim Goodman’s assessment of the script by Paul Haggis.
Prior to the gimmick that swung the movie, audiences already had to endure some hoary old dramatic devices. First, Clint Eastwood (best director winner; best actor nominee) as the curmudgeonly old trainer who never took a boxer to the title. He’s a good man who worries about his fighters like family, but he’s cheated of his best and rightful shot. Then Morgan Freeman (best supporting actor winner) as the wise ex-fighter who got his title chance prematurely (making him the yin to Eastwood’s yang) but has paid for it the rest of his life. Yet his love for the sweet science keeps him living in the gym on a rickety bed, cleaning up spit.
Their lives change when they meet Swank (best actress winner), the heart- of-gold waitress just trying to live the dream. Of course she’s from the South. Of course her family is awful trailer trash. Of course she calls the Eastwood character “boss.” He’s the father she never had. She’s the daughter who loves him — instead of the one sending his letters back.
Perhaps it’s a testament to the acting of this trio that audiences get as far as they do without a cynical shake of the head. The aforementioned cliches are almost acceptable until the manipulative shenanigans in the ring.
And–might I add–those manipulative shenanigans were a chick version of the one used in Rocky, in which another (white) boxer fights a (black) boxer who plays dirty.
Sam Lipsyte’s Home Land has won the first annual Believer award. The award announcement raves
A Niagara of verbiage-droll, profane, raucous, sad-provides the energy for a social satire so merciless and heartfelt that it inspires in the reader a weird faith. Family life and the inescapable hierarchy of school are Home Land’s fattest targets, but the author’s packing blunderbuss, playfully blasting recovered memories, neo-sincere modern rock, academic plagiarism, and internet fetish porn. Lipsyte seamlessly-and bravely-grafts the most exquisitely ornate sentences to an overall vibe that’s as intimate as conversation. You will not laugh as much this year, even as you look down at the void that Lipsyte’s words so gorgeously, nervously cross.