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The truth is, I don’t believe all that much in writing. Starting with my own. Being a writer is pleasant—no, pleasant isn’t the word—it’s an activity that has its share of amusing moments, but I know of other things that are even more amusing, amusing in the same way that literature is for me. Holding up banks, for example. Or directing movies. Or being a gigolo. Or being a child again and playing on a more or less apocalyptic soccer team. Unfortunately, the child grows up, the bank robber is killed, the director runs out of money, the gigolo gets sick and then there’s no other choice but to write. For me, the word writing is the exact opposite of the word waiting. Instead of waiting, there is writing.—Roberto Bolaño

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Cairo by Piri Reis, 16th century. Source: Wikipedia

Arabic language Arab Spring art Beirut black and white Cairo death Egypt Fiction History Instagram Iraq Islam literature love Middle East Muslim Novel photo art photography poem Poetry Revolution sex Short story street photography

أب أحلام أدب أدب عربي أدب معاصر أم الجزائر القاهرة الله انتحار بحر بكاء ثورة جسد جمال جنس حب حزن حلم خيال رغبة رواية روح زواج سفر شعر شمس صلاح باديس ضحكغرام غزة فلسطين قصة قصيرة قصيدة قصيدة نثر قلب قهوة كتابة كتب مدينة مرض مطر موت موسيقى نص نصوص نوم يوسف رخا

إسلام حنيش: الأغبياء

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Zachary Prong

بلاطات الرصيف القبيحة أصابع بيانو
تعزف لحنًا كئيبًا
أخشى على نفسي من الحزن
فأركلها بقدمي
وأطوحها في الهواء
فتنفجر في وجهي

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محمد عبد الرؤوف: صحراء ما بعد الهزيمة

By Youssef Rakha

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علينا التلاعب بالهزيمة.
لم يعد هناك إلا شبح واحد،
ولا شبح يأكل شبحًا.
لا شيء غير عادي فى الهزيمة،
هذا ما اعتدت عليه يا أبانوب.
أناجيك يا من تركتني أعطش
فى صحرائك.

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James Graham Ballard: What I Believe

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Source: jgballard.ca

I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.

I believe in my own obsessions, in the beauty of the car crash, in the peace of the submerged forest, in the excitements of the deserted holiday beach, in the elegance of automobile graveyards, in the mystery of multi-storey car parks, in the poetry of abandoned hotels.

I believe in the forgotten runways of Wake Island, pointing towards the Pacifics of our imaginations.

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Robin Moger: Wadih Saadeh’s Dead Moments

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Gueorgui Pinkhassov, Bluewater Commercial Center, London, 1999. Source: magnumphotos.com

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Suddenly the sunbeam disappeared. I believe a cloud is passing over the house. Sunbeams disappear for two reasons alone: clouds hide them or it is night. And being morning, most probably a cloud is passing.

Maybe soon it will rain and I will be able to watch the rain from the window. Life is so beautiful: that circumstances allowing one can watch the rain. Mine is a water sign and I imagine that now and then a planet up in space melts and flows down in front of me. Happy notion. I pick it up and approach the window. I open the pane and look out at the cars, the arid asphalt, the weary labourers. Why do these labourers get tired? I used to get tired myself sometimes and the sweat would flow, but then I turned my back on it and for years I rested. Sweat of the brow is hateful; shameful in fact. Disgusting: rising from sleep to make oneself sweat. A car goes by leaving a light cloud of dust behind it. A cat asleep on the corner opens then shuts its eyes. I close the window and slowly make my way back.

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