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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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Piri_Reis_-_The_City_of_Cairo_-_Walters_W658305A_-_Full_Page

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

كارول صنصور: حب تشلابي

Ferdinando Scianna, Bora Bora. Source: magnumphotos.com

Ferdinando Scianna, Bora Bora. Source: magnumphotos.com 

لما كان الحنين يهجم
كنت أتخلى عن كل شي في الكون
وتلبسني رغبة الجلوس على عتبة بيتنا
جنب الياسمينة الرافضة للموت تمامًا أو العيش تمامًا
أسمع صوت أمي تقول
قومي فزي
يكفي تسطيل
كله حب تشلابي

استمر في القراءة

محمود المنيراوي: في السويد

SWEDEN. Malmo. December 22, 2015. A woman walks on a street in central Malmo.

Moises Saman, Malmo, December 22, 2015. Source: magnumphotos.com

لا شيء يحدثُ معي ليُكتَب
أعني أنني لا زلتُ أتنفس
لكن شيئاً لا يحدث وكأنني متجمد
أليس هذا طبيعياً في السويد؟
أن يتجمد المرء
كأنه في ثلاجة.

استمر في القراءة

Joseph Schreiber: And I Will Tell You Something

You said: I’m still here. I just don’t know what to say. But two weeks later, you were gone. And now I sit, words turned stale upon the page. Seems I’ve been here for months, rending sentences into syllables. Senseless. Torn and patched in vain.

I’m still here and you’re still gone.

You said: I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to live. But we didn’t want to hear, for fear your fear would unmask our own. We left you to your silent pain—let it erode the edges of your reserves, like waves, ceaseless, beating the shore—bruising, breaking your brash, butch swagger. Leaving fragments and splinters of you.

Bewildered, bipolar & blue.

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