Almost never have I bought a book by chance that I did not like the editorial project or, at least, the cover image. Sometimes I was disappointed, but less than what statistics could confirm.
Meknès’ Medina, part of the poorer market. I’m looking for a book.
Any book, I tell myself, as long as it allows me to have something to read during the long journeys on public transport from one place to the other and in the evening, after walking all day in the African sun.
A vague sense of guilt for not having correctly calculated the amount of books necessary for the trip spoils the pleasant mood of the day. I must make up for it, and prepare myself for the task of finding readings in French or English in the Meknès souk.
Patricia, the Riad’s maitresse, provided some directions: “Pass the Bab (door), turn left and go past the mattress vendors. A little further on you will find some bouquiniste “. As if, I think. Everything is vague in the medinas, but exactly for this reason, almost anything can happen. You can buy everything in the suq, but after some time the repetition reigns. The sense of orientation is very alert, but sometimes (euphemism: usually the norm here) things are not logical. And anything goes.
Instead, I find the bouquiniste, at least one. I stop by, eager to browse through the most unlikely things. “Wait, madame, I’ll remove the nylon”. The seller tells me that the sun burns everything here, and pulls out a dusty black plastic sheet from his desk, that the bare soil. Under my eyes, a multicolored carpet of books.
I crouch down and, between text-books form the seventies and the great classics published in episodes for magazines and newspapers, my attention focuses almost immediately on two pocket books: Le pain nu by Mohamed Choukri and Le désorientés by Amin Malouf. Although I know the fame of the latter, as he is one of the acclaimed academics of France, of the first author, with the distinctive Maghreb name, I know nothing. However, as for some other readers I suppose, the cover is the calling card for a first obscure method of choice. Almost never have I bought a book by chance that I did not like the editorial project or, at least, the cover image. Sometimes I was disappointed, but less than what statistics could confirm. More-over, in these cases, the possibility remains to look at the book as a beautiful object. (While I find it sad when beautiful books are published with a terrible cover design! Every time I ask myself: how is it possible that the intelligence inherent in the book is not oozed even to the editorial choice).
I like the two book covers. Both synopses tell of subjects that tickle my curiosity; that it usually means: something that closely touches my story, a detail of what has led me to be what I am, but that has a different take from mine.
Les désorientés looks like a story of now: an immigrant – although from upper class background- who writes about exile and of returning home, relying on a great feeling, friendship. Le Pain Nu, is an autobiographical account of Morocco in the forties, of which on the back cover Tahar Ben Jalloun states: “A naked text. In the truth of experience, the simplicity of the first emotions “(my translation ndr).
I barter, and for 50 Dirham I take them both away with me (5 € is not a good deal, I realize, but bartering wears me off and I prefer to save my energy for other things). The two books are in my hands, because plastic bags are a luxury for the richest merchants. (Obviously, this reality produces a consequent entrepreneurial possibility: there are children who sell plastic bags, the same ones that before the era of recycling shoppers used in the supermarket of the West …).
The books and the journey (Part 1)
02/09/2018 emanuela blog, commento libro BLOG, RECENSIONI
Quasi mai ho comprato a caso un libro di cui non amassi il progetto editoriale o, per lo meno, l’immagine di copertina. Qualche volta sono stata delusa, ma meno di ciò che le statistiche potrebbero confermare.
Medina di Meknès; parte del mercato più povero. Sono alla ricerca di un romanzo.
Uno qualsiasi, mi dico, purché mi permetta di avere qualcosa da leggere nei lunghi viaggi con in mezzi pubblici tra un luogo e l’altro e la sera, dopo aver camminato tutto il giorno sotto il sole dell’Africa. Un vago senso di colpa per non aver calcolato correttamente la quantità di libri necessaria per il viaggio incrina la piacevolezza della giornata. Devo rimediare, mi dico, e mi preparo all’impresa di trovare letture in francese o inglese nel suq di Meknès.
Patricia, la maitresse del Riad, mi ha dà qualche indicazione: “passi la Bab (porta), giri a sinistra e vai oltre i venditori di materassi. Poco più avanti trovi qualche bouquiniste”. Una parola, penso io. Tutto è vago nelle medine, ma proprio per questo, quasi tutto può succedere. Si può comprare di tutto nei suq, ma dopo qualche tempo la ripetizione impera. Il senso di orientamento è a mille, ma a volte (eufemismo: quasi sempre qui) le cose non sono logiche. E quindi vale tutto.
Invece ecco i bouquiniste, almeno uno. Mi fermo, avida di spulciare tra le cose più improbabili. “Aspetti madame, le tolgo il nylon”. Il venditore mi spiega che il sole brucia qualsiasi cosa qui, e sfila un polveroso lenzuolo di plastica nera dal suo banco, ovvero la terra nuda. Al mio sguardo un tappeto multicolore di libri.
Mi accovaccio e, tra sussidiari degli anni settanta e grandi classici pubblicati a puntate per riviste e quotidiani, l’attenzione cade quasi subito su due formati poche: Le pain nu di Mohamed Choukri e Le désorientés di Amin Malouf. Se del secondo conosco la fama, è uno degli acclamati accademici di Francia, del primo, dal nome inequivocabilmente magrebino, non so niente. Ma come per taluni lettori suppongo, la copertina è il biglietto da visita per un primo oscuro metodo di scelta. Quasi mai ho comprato a caso un libro di cui non amassi il progetto editoriale o, per lo meno, l’immagine di copertina. Qualche volta sono stata delusa, ma meno di ciò che le statistiche potrebbero confermare. E comunque, in questi casi, resta la possibilità di guardare al libro come a un bell’oggetto. (Mentre che tristezza per i libri belli con un progetto di copertina terribile! Ogni volta mi chiedo: com’è possibile che l’intelligenza insita nel libro non sia trasudata anche alla scelta editoriale?).
Le due copertine mi piacciono. Le sinossi di entrambi raccontano temi che solleticano la mia curiosità; ciò che significa quasi sempre: qualcosa che tocca da vicino la mia storia, un dettaglio di ciò che mi ha portato ad essere ciò che sono, ma che ha il gusto del diverso da me. I disorientati (questo il titolo in italiano pubblicato da Bompiani nel 2013) si presenta come un libro attuale: un immigrato – benché high class – che scrive dell’esilio e del tornare, facendo leva su un grande sentimento, l’amicizia. Il pane nudo (ancora Bompiani, 1992, ma credo, fuori commercio in italiano) è un racconto autobiografico del Marocco degli anni ’40, di cui sulla quarta di copertina Tahar Ben Jalloun afferma: “Un testo nudo. Nella verità del vissuto, la semplicità delle prime emozioni” (traduzione mia).
Contratto, e con 50 Dirham li porto entrambi via con me (5€ non è un grande affare, me ne rendo conto, ma contrattare stanca e preferisco salvaguardare energie per altro). Riparto con i due libri in mano, ché le borse di plastica sono un lusso per i commercianti più ricchi. (Ovviamente questa realtà produce una conseguente possibilità imprenditoriale: ci sono bambini che vendono i sacchettini di plastica, quelli che prima dell’era del biologico del mondo occidentale si usavano al supermercato…).
Almost never have I bought a book by chance that I did not like the editorial project or, at least, the cover image. Sometimes I was disappointed, but less than what statistics could confirm.
Meknès’ Medina, part of the poorer market. I’m looking for a book.
Any book, I tell myself, as long as it allows me to have something to read during the long journeys on public transport from one place to the other and in the evening, after walking all day in the African sun.
A vague sense of guilt for not having correctly calculated the amount of books necessary for the trip spoils the pleasant mood of the day. I must make up for it, and prepare myself for the task of finding readings in French or English in the Meknès souk.
Patricia, the Riad’s maitresse, provided some directions: “Pass the Bab (door), turn left and go past the mattress vendors. A little further on you will find some bouquiniste “. As if, I think. Everything is vague in the medinas, but exactly for this reason, almost anything can happen. You can buy everything in the suq, but after some time the repetition reigns. The sense of orientation is very alert, but sometimes (euphemism: usually the norm here) things are not logical. And anything goes.
Instead, I find the bouquiniste, at least one. I stop by, eager to browse through the most unlikely things. “Wait, madame, I’ll remove the nylon”. The seller tells me that the sun burns everything here, and pulls out a dusty black plastic sheet from his desk, that the bare soil. Under my eyes, a multicolored carpet of books.
I crouch down and, between text-books form the seventies and the great classics published in episodes for magazines and newspapers, my attention focuses almost immediately on two pocket books: Le pain nu by Mohamed Choukri and Le désorientés by Amin Malouf. Although I know the fame of the latter, as he is one of the acclaimed academics of France, of the first author, with the distinctive Maghreb name, I know nothing. However, as for some other readers I suppose, the cover is the calling card for a first obscure method of choice. Almost never have I bought a book by chance that I did not like the editorial project or, at least, the cover image. Sometimes I was disappointed, but less than what statistics could confirm. More-over, in these cases, the possibility remains to look at the book as a beautiful object. (While I find it sad when beautiful books are published with a terrible cover design! Every time I ask myself: how is it possible that the intelligence inherent in the book is not oozed even to the editorial choice).
I like the two book covers. Both synopses tell of subjects that tickle my curiosity; that it usually means: something that closely touches my story, a detail of what has led me to be what I am, but that has a different take from mine.
Les désorientés looks like a story of now: an immigrant – although from upper class background- who writes about exile and of returning home, relying on a great feeling, friendship. Le Pain Nu, is an autobiographical account of Morocco in the forties, of which on the back cover Tahar Ben Jalloun states: “A naked text. In the truth of experience, the simplicity of the first emotions “(my translation ndr).
I barter, and for 50 Dirham I take them both away with me (5 € is not a good deal, I realize, but bartering wears me off and I prefer to save my energy for other things). The two books are in my hands, because plastic bags are a luxury for the richest merchants. (Obviously, this reality produces a consequent entrepreneurial possibility: there are children who sell plastic bags, the same ones that before the era of recycling shoppers used in the supermarket of the West …).
Emanuela Genesio’s and Danilo Manassero’s Morocco project
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