Just briefly*: Elias Khoury’s Little Mountain is somehow brilliant. Maybe the intro by Edward Said influenced me, but I don’t in any way see how it could have urged me to find something like the best of Breton’s romanticism strewn throughout a grappling with what it meant to live in Lebanon during the seventies. And I’ll not spoil anything for you– and anyway, I wouldn’t be spoiling a grand end, only the exposure to a particular sort of feeling and question– but the last few lines were just perfect, and contained within themselves a densely packed nugget consisting of conflicting emotions regarding colonialism, escape, aspirations, loneliness, love, and a whole lot more.
In short, bravo, Khoury. I’m going to have to delve deeply into whatever else this guy’s written. But for now, sleep. And then more sleep, and all available energy directed toward bone-healing endeavors.
* (Briefly in part because I’m laid up with an injured limb, and, contrary to my belief that I’d have all this free, great thinking time to churn out loads of stuff while recovering in immobile fashion, I don’t have any sort of energy that can be sustained. So: little blurbs until further notice.)