I am currently reading Pillars of Salt, by Jordanian writer Fadia Faqir. The novel was recommended to me during my college years by Maria Laura Iasci, one of the best teachers I ever had and a reader of this blog (ciao professoressa!) during a class in English-to-Italian translation. I remember we were a class of about seven, all female, and we were assigned passages from the first chapter of the book to translate into Italian. I remember the task of turning the rich English of the text into comprehensible Italian was very challenging.

My then-professor, now-friend, Maria, recommended Pillars of Salt with enthusiasm. I had never heard of Faqir previously, and quite frankly I never heard of her afterwards except from Maria herself who, only a few months ago, recommended yet another book by Faqir. She emphasized that this was a Jordanian writer who treated issues such as honor and gender inequality in this society. Her being a woman was an instant plus as well.

Two days ago, I finally found Faqir’s Pillars of Salt at Prime. I started reading the book tonight and I have not yet finished it, but I was so moved by its realism that I felt compelled to write about it here. I do not know how the story will develop, I do not know if I will enjoy it in the coming pages as I have so far, but I do not think that would alter my reception of it so far.

Pillars of Salt is not only a novel about Jordan, the Bedouin Jordan and the developing Amman, it is a historical account of the situation of Jordanian women, a situation that has remained static for the most part. It relates the story of two women, one Bedouin and the other an Ammani, during and after the British Mandate. In doing so, it reveals the injustices, the myths, and the hardships that clouded and decorated the Jordanian scene.

That above was a brief summary of the novel. My own impressions upon reading it are not different from my sentiments when I used to hear my late aunt recount stories of her childhood in Karak. The stories she told of her father, my grandfather, riding a horse with a jinnee, the stories of men hunting at dawn and sleeping in caves, the stories of women giving birth as they participated in harvest (my grandmother included). Pillars of Salt also relates, but in a more limited way, to my mother’s upbringing in Amman as a Circassian. My mother tells me stories of Cinema Philadelphia, of Syrians and Bedouins flooding the old markets in Amman, and of a girl losing her hair while looking through a drop of oil in a coffee cup to uncover the location of an ancient treasure with the help of jinn.

There seems to have been a common historical fabric that united this Jordan together, and women seem to have been a vital part in this union, albeit in a repressed way. Faqir’s novel taps into that but refrains from making judgment. It recounts the events and seems plot-less precisely because it is so smooth and revealing, and it leaves it to the reader to observe and judge. While reading the novel, I feel like Faqir is narrating my own familial history, which to me has always been the history of the women rather than the men.

To put it in a word, this novel is captivating. Perhaps it is because I can relate to it to a large degree that I feel this way about it, but I believe it will be appreciated equally by others. I do think, though, that people from other cultures would be more taken by the religious-mythical-romantic theme the book has rather than the actual events. It might seem to them that the constant religious remarks and mythical references in the book are tools of style used by the author, but the reality is that these occur in reality exactly like they do in the book. I could hear the characters speak in Arabic Jordanian, although the book is in English. That is a sign of a successful, honest portrayal of Jordan.

Read this book is you’re interested in learning more about Jordan and its mentality and culture. I strongly recommend it and thank Maria for bringing it to my attention. You can also check out Fadia Faqir’s website by clicking here. I do hope this post preaches Faqir to you, she is a truly brilliant writer, and it’s a shame that such Jordanian writers do not get the attention they deserve.

I am populating the list of books that I have read during the past year, and I am doing it because I have a haunting feeling of guilt and dissatisfaction with my reading skills. I am also doing it for future reference, to see if I will get any better a year from today. The titles are arranged in no particular order except that of my pathetically feeble memory, and I will record my impressions of each book depending on the aforementioned memory:

1- The Transformation (Metamorphosis) and Other Stories, Franz Kafka: It’s hard to write about each and every story in the anthology, but Metamorphosis was exquisitely disgusting and provoking and beautiful. Equally disturbing was In The Penal Colony, my favorite in the collection. It’s unfair that it has gone largely unrecognized as compared to Metamorphosis, it is an excellent story about torture and grandiose.

2- When in Rome, Gemma Townley:This was, to me, the literary equivalent of a chick flick. I read this story during my stay in New York this summer and I enjoyed it because it was light and easy and fun. I did not want to read a book that would make me think, not during my vacation, thank you. Oddly enough, the men portrayed in the story were strikingly similar to several people I know/knew.

3- The Wise Women of Havana, Jose Raul Bernardo: I bought this book from some store in NY for no other reason than its cheap price. It was actually on sale. Crappy story about two Cuban families and their respective members (especially the women).

4- A Passage to India, E. M. Forster: This was a boring read up until page 150. Honestly, I was very close to abandoning the book several times because I was so unimpressed with the almost-abusive details in those first 150 pages. After that, things picked up and the plot finally started to take shape. Brilliant read after page 150, expect to have several questions by the end of the book.

5- Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America, Barbara Ehrenreich: I read this real-life account on the living and working conditions of the American working class as an assignment. This book provides a realistic, touching insight into a class in American society which is never really given much attention in media or movies. Very revealing read and very enjoyable story. I had to write a paper about the book afterwards, not very fun.

6- Whitney, My Love, Judith McNaught: I got this novel as a present from a friend. I enjoyed reading it because it was different from the “heavy literature” I usually read. However, the story became too cheesy in the final chapters. Apparently, the author added those upon the request of readers. Big mistake, killed the story.

7- Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett: What can I say to give this play justice? It resonated with me and I loved it so much that I blogged about it! Beckett is an existential genius and a superb playwright who turned a massively complicated concept into simple scenes. Ridiculously fantastic!

8- Awlad Haretna (Children of Gebelawi), Naguib Mahfouz:This is Mahfouz’ tracing of the lives and philosophies of prophets (Moses, Jesus, Mohammad) and the relationship between god and man. He set the plot in a neighborhood where god is a supreme father figure and let events take place in the same location across various generations, each with their leader or prophet and his philosophy. This engaging and existential novel got Mahfouz stabbed in the neck in 1994 by religious fanatics. If only for that, it is a must-read, must-reflect account, but its relevance and fluid style already make it extremely enjoyable.

9- The Complete Works, Al Tayyeb Saleh: I have been in love with this Sudanese writer for what seems like centuries. I find his stories very enlightening, very simple, very poetic. I read this fat anthology in one go because I could not get enough of the wise Saleh.

10- Al Sarab, Mahfouz: This is a touching, twisting-and-turning account of an introvert’s life and the poisoning relationship he has with his mother. Typical of Mahfouz, the style is smooth, uncomplicated, and the plot is engaging.

11- The Harafish, Mahfouz: I didn’t realize I read so much for Mahfouz until now! I finished this long novel last week. Mahfouz employed a cross-generational examination of the characters in the story to build his content, just as he did in Awlad Haretna. Good read.

12- Fi Wadi Al Ghalaba, Ihsan Abdul Quddous: All I remember about this story is that it was short and simple.

13- Lan A3eesha Fi Jelbab Abi, Ihsan Abdul Quddous: Another short and simple story by the same author. I was surprised to discover candid descriptions of semi-sexual encounters in Abdul Quddous literature, I thought that was pretty progressive.

14- Shajarat Al Fuhood, Sameeha Khrais: A sophisticated portrayal of the reality of Jordanian life in the early-to-mid 20th century. I was very pleasantly surprised by this class-A novel by a Jordanian lady writer, and I learned a lot and related to much of the details in the novel since I had heard similar stories from the elderly in my family.

15- Between the Bridge and the River, Craig Ferguson: Honestly, I cannot give an unbiased opinion in a Ferguson-related issue. I am Ferguson’s biggest fan, but I will try to be impartial for the sake of I don’t know what. This novel was not critically acclaimed for nothing; it has bizarre incidents happening to dysfunctional but consistent characters in an intertwined plot that provokes a ton of questions on psychology, religion, and human nature. I enjoyed every single word on every single page, if only I can meet Ferguson to tell him that!

16- Small booklet on a religious issue I am uninterested in, thrust upon me by my father: Pure rubbish. I burned it, hope he never asks about it.

I think that’s about it. One book that I started reading but abandoned was Plato’s Republic, it was too argumentative in a complicated way and it gave me a headache. I will get to it in the future when my mental abilities have matured enough to contain it. I am currently reading Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jarred Diamond (another endless book), and Juvenal’s The Sixteen Satires. However, I remain unimpressed by my reading record for this year. I ought to have read more.

What did you read this year?

Tonight while driving home,
I saw two cats by the side of the street
And it wasn’t a busy street
I stopped and just looked at them
And found myself smiling
When they looked back at me

When I read parts of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Self Reliance, I did not predict how very life-altering some of his philosophies would prove to be within the frame of my existence. This is the story of consistency and public approval.

The book I had was a dreary, cheaply photocopied anthology that had the bleakest black to its letters, and some shadow as well. The words were wobbly and seemed uneven, although that was only an illusion and nothing more. The pages had not been photocopied by a man kind to his machine, and he was evidently in a hurry, too. The whites did not match the blacks, and the lines were not straight. It was as if that book had been crafted by the clumsiest devil in hell.

I mistreated the book, I must confess. In my frequent manifestations of exaggerated self-importance, and possibly narcissism, I scribbled Tololy on almost every page, in every corner, and on the cover in large, purple letters. When class was in session against my will, and that happened often, I sat in my chair and drew little intertwined curves and swirls and circles, and then again scribbled my name under the incoherent art.

Sometimes during class, I would be so absorbed in reading some unvisited parts of the book that I would almost hear the words talking to me. Sometimes I would imagine the writers talking to me or narrating their stories exclusively to me, and sometimes I would see the events played out in front of my mind’s eye. It was a good thing I was never a fecund participant in most class discussions (although I was famous for some strange opinions expressed rather aggressively when the situation demanded) and so I was never interrupted while my imagination was at play.

I had that special connection with Emerson’s attitudes. I was both stimulated and entertained by his ideas and stands on things, and particularly by his take on consistency. At the time, I was going through a formulative stage of character-building and yet I was held back by the want to be consistent and by the socially-influenced desire to be simpatico with everyone. So Emerson’s rhetoric was my “Why didn’t I think of that?” moment of enlightenment.

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesman and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Emerson’s argument on consistency is that it really isn’t necessary as it is just another unseen restraint to creativity and authenticity. If you want to be consistent, you will not change your opinions or grow up intellectually. If you want to be consistent for fear of being judged by people as having no true opinion, then you are doomed to live with your treasured “consistency” and social approval until your character completely erodes into a mold of everyone else, and you end up being another average nobody.

I have changed my mind frequently over the years on a number of major issues. These ranged from god to seafood, from the conflict in the region to creative writing, and from porn to shoes. It’s fascinating but I am not the same person today as I was yesterday, let alone the person I was a year ago.

Emerson also believed in experimentalism. He said “All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better.” Now if you have been following this blog for a while you will know that anyone swearing by experimentalism is my idol. I deeply believe in, and outwardly practice the cult of experimentalism (except in food, I’m neophobic), and there is not another way I would choose to live.

So for at least two excellent points Emerson made, on consistency and experimentalism, he has my undying admiration. Of course, until I change my mind.

- Zero Or Prologue -

The following is not a poem or a play, it’s not a song or a prayer. It is my thoughts organized in short lines atop of each other, and grouped in knots of four.

- I -

Take off the judge robes, or keep them on
I am not excited that I’m going home
Perhaps it’s work, or school, maybe
Or a society that keeps a close eye on me

- III -

I am a traitor
Or too cocky and crooked
For not missing a place
And finding comfort elsewhere

- III -

Luckily, I don’t see things that way
Where I lay my head is home
What is left of Jordan,
Anyway?

From Act I of Waiting for Godot by Beckett; read and think of what the lines mean. Remember, we are not told who Godot is and why the two main characters Estragon and Vladimir are waiting for it/him/her:

Pozzo: You took me for Godot.
Estragon: Oh no, sir, not for an instant, sir.
Pozzo: Who is he?
Vladimir: Oh, he’s a . . . he’s a kind of acquaintence.
Estragon: Nothing of the kind, we hardly know him.
Vladimir: True. . . we don’t know him very well… but all the same
Estragon: Personally I wouldn’t even know him if I saw him.

I found the play quite revealing and deep. Evidently, people have different opinions on what it means and who the characters represent. It certainly helps to give it an existentialist reading; perhaps Godot is God, perhaps he will never show up, perhaps we humans so need to believe in a supernatural power that we create it, imagine it, and then wait for it to intervene in our lives while it simply cannot be bothered.

Let us rejoice, fellow citizens, for a new year is upon us. Today marks the start, only the beginning, of another year that will make each one of us that much older. Such impending doom!

What cause is there to celebrate?
What purpose for the smile?
A plot is in the works
To ensnare you and I

But certainly, I should shed my dismal melancholy and chant - cheer even, dance, sing, perhaps smoke to exhibit my joy. Yes, maybe that is precisely what I ought to do. I ought to join the mob in their common festivities, don’t you see? Become a sheep willingly blindfolded yet directed to the slaughter house unknowingly? Yes?

I think not.

I fail to impress when I contest a nemesis as potent as mine. It is most unfortunate that I will be in no such gay mood as long as time cheats.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to mull over the singnificance of the following poem by Thomas Gray, titled On the Death of a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes:

‘Twas on a lofty vase’s side,
Where China’s gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw; and purred applause.

Still had she gazed; but ‘midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first, and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat’s averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretched, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between:
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mewed to ev’ry wat’ry god
Some speedy aid to send.
No dolphin came, no nereid stirred;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard.
A fav’rite has no friend!

From hence, ye beauties undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wand’ring eyes
And heedless hearts is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters, gold.

It is that time of the year again - when calendars are sold at traffic lights in Amman. Two days ago I refused to buy a calendar from a man so intent on selling me one that I prepared two to three excuses to voice my rejection.

This December sun is a trick I tell you. This pleasant weather, moderately chilly around the evening and cool during the night, is a farce. The special bit about the trick is that we surrender to it and cannot protest because the Performer is not only masked, but also cunning. This leaves me quite unimpressed with us, human creatures.

The man at the traffic light did not seem to want to listen to me. I daresay he did not hear a word I said. He kept insisting that I buy one of his calendars and did not afford me enough room to explain why I do not buy calendars. I wanted to tell him, and in turn force myself to understand, that I do not understand the passage of time. I do not understand time, at all.

When I was still a little girl at school, there was this lesson where they taught us how to express time and the hours in English. It was all very British - quarter to two, half past eleven, five to ten. I could not grasp the concept no matter how diligent at studying it I was. Just say “to” if it’s before a certain hour, and “past” is it’s after it - my mother would tell me. It is possible that the operation was complicated because it was simplified so - time is not to’s and past’s.

In the exam about this lesson, the teacher tricked us by drawing digital clocks instead of the old-fashioned round-and-clear ones. That made me miss out on time even more.

The man at the traffic light started knocking on my window and pointing to the bulk of calendars he had with him, imploring me to purchase one. I thanked him time and again and motioned to him to go try his merchandise at another buyer’s window. The only use I have of the calendar hanging by the living room is reading the poetry lines printed on each day.

When you rip the pages off the calendar, you acknowledge the passage of your life. Each page is a day that you physically remove from your time on earth. The calendar printers take mercy on you, miserable person, and aid you to do it with style — they cleverly add a line of poetry to each day.

In my denial, I do not take pages out of the calendar by the living room. I find them later on lying about on some table somewhere and read their poetry, thinking that I had out-smarted almighty time. Secretly, I know this little game I play does not, cannot, see my triumph. I play it because I know of no other game that cheats both the digital clock and my naïveté.

Celebrate the approach of the new year thinking of your proximity to the end of all your years, miserable person.

He started to walk away, the man at the traffic light, finally submitting to my rejection. I bore my heart heavier with every step he took strolling to other potential customers. I realized that our calendar by the living room will be changed for a much younger one very soon and I envisioned the year, now dwindling into nothingness, thrown in the trash bin- what a sad reminder of the way we are compelled to discard our days.