I am not sure why I find myself very attracted to this particular subset of literary works: arab (particularly middle-eastern) authors writing fiction in english. (Not that I have read much of the genre, but the interest level seems to hold high pretty much with everything I’ve attempted). Now, you might say that the reason is very obvious, and it has something to do with (easily) relating, but that’s why I pre-empted you with the phrase “I am not sure” — that is to say, I have some speculation (the obvious ones) but I think there’s something more to it than just that.

I thought I might be able to find some answers in (or between the lines of) this volume, so I* “purchased” it, but it’s still on its way; can’t wait to get my hand (and my hook) on it.

Mean while, if you would allow me to indulge in a little brainstorming:** These authors (as if they can be grouped under one label) –growing up in this particular culture, or being able to read or absorb certain literary works– develop some specific techniques (or styles, or imagery, or structure, or ideas, or what have you), which they then import into their own unique writings. However, the new imposed linguistic structure then re-morphs these styles into something that has an even more unique feel to it, yet at the same time still carries the original flavor.

“Flavor” suggests a good analogy, I think — Consider a chef who has learned how to cook a particular cuisine, using particular ingredients. Now this chef changes kitchens, and has to cook a different menu with different ingredients; still, meat is meat and fish is fish — raw that is; but this chef would still have to draw on learnt skills, and you would expect his food would still have a hint of the old flavor to it.

This post (most probably) was not triggered by a strong yearning for my mother’s cooking, but rather by the wonderful collection by Ahdaf Soueif titled “Sandpiper“.
I am not going to attempt to evaluate the literary value of the book, but on a sentimental personal level, the seven short stories, which I’ve read in seven consecutive nights, have left me with a distinct feeling of deep emotional connection (rather than an intellectual one).

If you attempt this book, (which you should, if you would, even if it’s just to read the last story “I think of you”) you will probably not fail to sense the feminist undertone (or tone, as you might see it), which runs through the collection. It did not, however, ruin the experience for me, neither did it add any to my sense of concern and solidarity (ok, maybe it caused a little refreshment to these senses).

Next, I shall attempt to navigate through the (520 pages of) the map of love.

*thanks L
**is it obvious that I lack the formal training to tackle this topic? but is this supposed to stop me from brainstorming on this private space of mine?