The Olive Reader

Hopefully Dan’s essay in the post below has whetted your appetite. In case it has, here’s an excerpt from The Sheltering Sky.

Tea in the Sahara
“Each man’s destiny is personal
only insofar as it may happen
to resemble what is already in
his memory.”

—eduardo mallea
II
He awoke, opened his eyes. The room meant very little to him; he was too deeply immersed in the non-being from which he had just come. If he had not the energy to ascertain his position in time and space, he also lacked the desire. He was somewhere, he had come back through vast regions from nowhere; there was the certitude of an infinite sadness at the core of his consciousness, but the sadness was reassuring, because it alone was familiar. He needed no further consolation. In utter comfort, utter relaxation he lay absolutely still for a while, and then sank back into one of the light momentary sleeps that occur after a long, profound one. Suddenly he opened his eyes again and looked at the watch on his wrist. It was purely a reflex action, for when he saw the time he was only confused. He sat up, gazed around the tawdry room, put his hand to his forehead, and sighing deeply, fell back onto the bed. But now he was awake; in another few seconds he knew where he was, he knew that the time was late afternoon, and that he had been sleeping since lunch. In the next room he could hear his wife stepping about in her mules on the smooth tile floor, and this sound now comforted him, since he had reached another level of consciousness where the mere certitude of being alive was not sufficient. But how difficult it was to accept the high, narrow room with its beamed ceiling, the huge apathetic designs stenciled in indifferent colors around the walls, the closed window of red and orange glass. He yawned: there was no air in the room. Later he would climb down from the high bed and fling the window open, and at that moment he would remember his dream. For although he could not recall a detail of it, he knew he had dreamed. On the other side of the window there would be air, the roofs, the town, the sea. The evening wind would cool his face as he stood looking, and at that moment the dream would be there. Now he only could lie as he was, breathing slowly, almost ready to fall asleep again, paralyzed in the airless room, not waiting for twilight but staying as he was until it should come.

Paul Bowles was born in 1910. His first novel The Sheltering Sky was a bestseller in the 1950s and was made into a film by Bernardo Bertolucci in 1990. Bowle’s prolific career included many musical compositions, novels, collections of short stories, and books of travel, poetry, and translations. Here’s an essay that appeared in the New York Times Book Review December 19, 1999:

The Last Existentialist
by Daniel Halpern

I met Paul Bowles in the late 60’s, in the most unlikely of places — a faculty party at a small state college deep in the San Fernando Valley. When we were introduced, I told him I had just read ‘‘The Sheltering Sky.’‘ He allowed me to praise it awhile, patient and slightly uneasy with my enthusiasm. He asked, Do you know how to drive? I thought, being a recent convert to his work, that this was a bit like asking a dweller of the Sahara if he knows the location of the nearest oasis; in L.A. everyone drives. He was bored and I had wheels, so I effected an escape to the Shangri-La, his hotel on the beach in Santa Monica.

On our drive toward the Pacific, he began a conversation that would soon draw me to the North African landscape that had so captured his imagination. He told me about the trance dancing and the various Berber brotherhoods, each of which had a particular rhythm that carried its members into a state that allowed them to perform superhuman feats, such as biting off the heads of cobras, handling red-hot coals and cutting their arms and legs with knives, without any apparent physical damage. He talked about the Sahara and the Atlas Mountains, the rivers and valleys of flowers, the light and scent of the landscape, the humor of the inhabitants, their food and music, the pace of life, the tea so memorably steeped with fresh Moroccan mint. He made this adopted land of his come to life. Always formal — even after 30 years of friendship he still excused himself when leaving me in his living room to fetch a cup of tea — he was an elegant man, thin, handsome, agile and endlessly curious about whatever stood before him.

He signed for me, that first evening, my copy of ‘‘The Sheltering Sky.’‘ He wrote, ‘‘Things don’t happen, it depends on who comes along.’‘ How prophetic that inscription proved to be for me. In that moment my life changed for good, and for the better.

A few months later I was on my way to Tangier, where Paul received me — if not quite with the warmth I had imagined, at least with some recognition. I came to know and even understand this idiosyncratic form of greeting as I witnessed the arrival of hundreds of other admirers and pilgrims at the doorstep of this odd figure living out his exotic life in the international city of Tangier, just beyond the edge of Europe. They came from all over, those who had read ‘‘The Sheltering Sky’‘ or knew the stories in perhaps his most important book, ‘‘The Delicate Prey,’‘ which extended the genre of the story in a way few books have. There were also lots of young people who hadn’t, as far as I could tell, read a word Bowles had written. They were drawn by the mystique of an American writer living in North Africa, closely among Moroccan Berbers, and sought after by such notables as William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, Jean Genet, Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote, the Rolling Stones and Sting. By the mid-60’s, Bowles had become an international cult figure.

Despite what might seem like cruelty in his fiction, I always considered Paul’s stance one of calculated emotional distance. The pain he inflicted upon his characters (see ‘‘A Distant Episode’‘) was not a burden or a punishment placed there with either pleasure or regret; it merely served the narrative and satisfied a curiosity — a methodology that would become his trademark. Paul seemed to me, there at the end of the 60’s, the true existentialist, or at least what I imagined an existentialist to be back then. In one of his stories, a character says, ‘‘The eye wants to sleep, but the head is no mattress.’‘ The essential North African existential aphorism? I remember being impressed that Bowles was the translator of Sartre’s play ‘‘Huis-Clos,’‘ which he so cleverly called ‘‘No Exit,’‘ after seeing the phrase on a subway gate that barred his way.

Although known now primarily for his writing, Bowles started out as a composer, a student of Aaron Copland and devotee of Stravinsky, Virgil Thomson, Satie, Poulenc and Milhaud, to name a few. His music was as ethereal as his fiction, if somewhat less grave. Where the music took to the air, the writing gripped the earth. His compositions were performed at Lincoln Center in 1995, his last public trip to the States (he came back briefly the next year for medical attention), where he was lavishly feted and celebrated — much to his discomfort, no doubt. It was the last time I saw him.

For two years I lived below Paul’s apartment in Immeuble Itesa, an undistinguished concrete structure a few minutes from the center of Tangier. My flat had been Jane Bowles’s until she went to Spain, where she remained for the rest of her life. When I went up to visit with Paul, I would often find him composing incidental music for the various plays he worked on. One day he was taping a dripping tap in his bathroom, slowing down the recorder, then speeding it up, until he achieved the sound he sought. On a different occasion, he recorded some rhythms he tapped out on the board his friend Mohammed Mrabet used to cut the kif that kept Paul animated through the long evenings.

Paul was also a great collector of aromatic oils, which he had gathered from his travels — patchouli from Penang, vetiver from Indian root grass, sandalwood from Bangkok, perfumes from Paris circa 1940, Berlin after-shave from the 30’s. He would dip a stick of bland-scented incense into the neck of a bottle of oil, light it — the scent exploding from the heat — and then we’d discuss what issued forth, as we’d discuss the book or piece of music he’d give me before I took my leave each evening. Paul was a man indifferent to the world at large but addicted to its sensory details.

In the late afternoon, during the years I lived in Tangier, Paul and I would walk the half-mile to the market off Avenue d’Espagne and shop for dinner. He spoke to each shopkeeper in Moghrebi, the Moroccan dialect, and between food stalls he moved with incredible speed. I trotted to keep pace with him. And with the bounty accrued there, he cooked one of the three or four dishes he had learned from Moroccan friends; the meals were memorable. The first dinner I had from his kitchen was a chicken tagine, a stew of sorts, made with prunes simmered with cinnamon, onions sauteed with ginger and chicken rubbed with ground cumin and browned in crude but amazingly redolent Moroccan olive oil. The ingredients gathered together at the end, a symphony of North African flavors. This is a dish I still prepare when nostalgia overtakes me.

I remember Christmas, 1969. Paul and I were going to a party on the Old Mountain, where many of the older ‘‘Tangerines’‘ lived, with Peggy Guggenheim, who was spending the holidays with us. I had no tie so Paul lent me one of his bow ties, which I didn’t know how to tie. He tied it for me, a perfect knot, and at that moment I thought, not surprisingly, of my father, who died the year I met Paul. It was the archetypal father-son moment, and it was not lost on me, although evidently Paul hadn’t seen that movie. As we stood facing each other, I imagined him actually passing through the knot he’d tied. That’s what I remember of the evening.

I knew then, at the end of the 60’s, that I had experienced the finest education available to a student not attuned to standard academics. A chance to reach through time to those no longer part of the life available to me — to Gertrude Stein and the composers I’ve mentioned; to Max Ernst, Marcel Duchamp, Salvador Dali. To the likes of Sartre, Pound and Cocteau, Auden, Isherwood and Andre Gide. Paul Bowles connected me to a world I would otherwise have only heard or read about. When I was called the day he died, I knew that an entire part of my life had suddenly moved farther into the past. It was my good fortune to have encountered Paul and, secondhand, the life he had lived — an entire world I partly inherited through his past. I’ve made my connection there, and now it’s part of what I’ve lived. It depends on who comes along.

Daniel Halpern is a poet and the editorial director of the Ecco Press. With Paul Bowles, he founded the literary magazine Antaeus.

From Nicole Galland, author of Revenge of the Rose, The Fool’s Tale and the forthcoming Crossed.

What was the best book of the year?
I’m a bit partial to REVENGE OF THE ROSE, but THE IRAQ STUDY GROUP REPORT (James A. Baker, III, Lee H. Hamilton, et al) probably made more of a splash.
I’m about a year behind in my personal reading so all my other responses would be out of date, but A DIRTY JOB by Christopher Moore gets my vote.

What was the best movie?
Little Miss Sunshine

Who was the person of the year?
The American voter, who remembered that a democratically elected government requires his/her participation, and acted accordingly.

What is your New Year’s resolution?
To question all of my long-standing assumptions about pretty much everything. And to take a 6,000-mile road trip with my husband-to-be without us killing each other.

I will not say who admits this, but it is someone who posts regularly on The Olive Reader.

In response to write “Five Things You Don’t Know About Me”, here is one of the responses:

5. According to the Play Count column in my iTunes, I’ve listened to “Rich Girl” by Hall & Oates more than twice as many times as my most-often played song by Bob Dylan.

From Jennifer Brehl, the amazing and talented editor of some great titles like Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman, John Crowley’s Little Big and John Harding’s forthcoming novel One Big Damn Puzzler:

What was the best book of the year?
I really can’t say. Every book that I worked on this year was, at one time or another, the one I considered the best. I read a number of “outside” books for pleasure this year, and particularly liked THE BROOKLYN FOLLIES by Paul Auster, THE THIRTEENTH TALE by Diane Setterfield, WINTERSMITH by Terry Pratchett, and THE STOLEN CHILD by Keith Donohue. As for nonfiction, MANHUNT by James Swanson really kept me on the edge of my seat. But was any of the aforementioned books “the best?” Can any one book be called “the best?” This is an unfair question.

What was the best movie?
I see very few movies, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen BORAT: CULTURAL LEARNINGS OF AMERICA FOR MAKE BENEFIT GLORIOUS NATION OF KAZAKHSTAN yet, and I have a feeling that will be my hands-down favorite.

Who was the person of the year?
Nicholas D. Kristof, for his indefatigable coverage of injustice around the world (especially in Darfur).

What is your New Year’s resolution?
To get organized.

From David Roth-Ey, Chief, Editor, Mastermind, Director, Head Honcho

What was the best book of the year?
The best book I’ve read this year hasn’t been published yet, but the book most on my mind as 2006 comes to a close is Osamu Tezuka’s massive manga masterpiece, ODE TO KIRIHITO. It’s completely bizarre yet oddly relevant. A perfect introduction for the manga newbie.

What was the best movie?
I didn’t see a movie that I truly loved this year. For best book-to-movie adaptation, I’d give the nod to THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA.

Who was the person of the year?
Stephen Colbert

What is your New Year’s resolution?
To learn a language that doesn’t use the Roman/Latin alphabet

From Gail Foster, Bookseller Pal & Reviewer

What was the best book of the year?
THE LAST SPYMASTER by GAYLE LYNDS or EXILE by Richard North Patterson or SACRED GAMES by Vikram Chandra

What was the best movie?
AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH

Who was the person of the year?
BARACK OBAMA

What is your New Year’s resolution?
To read more first time authors!!!

From Jonathan Selwood, author of The Pinball Theory of Apocalypse, coming from Harper Perennial this Summer

What was the best book of the year?
Home Land by Sam Lipsyte. Funniest book I’ve read in years. I think it came out in 2004, though.

What was the best movie?
A clip from a Japanese game show that I saw on YouTube. The loser had his nose hair pulled out with a pair of pliers. Sadly, the clip was later removed for copyright reasons.

Who was the person of the year?
Any of the myriad hard working Crotcharazzi who bravely documented the depilated nature of celebrity coochie. Heroes all.

What is your New Year’s resolution?
To eat more eggplant.

From Christopher Bram, author of Exiles in America and Gods and Monsters:

What was the best book of the year?
Like many people, it’s rare that I read a book the year it comes out. The greatest book I read this year was BLEAK HOUSE, which was published a century and a half ago but I regret to say I didn’t get around to it until last month. What an amazing novel. The best new book I read was NIGHT DRAWS NEAR by Anthony Shadid, which gives us the Iraq War as seen through the eyes of Iraqis, including the diary of a fourteen year old girl. A powerful, harrowing book, but even it published a year ago.

What was the best movie?
I’m more current on movies, and there were a slew of good ones this year, including LITTLE CHILDREN, LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE and INFAMOUS. But for me the best was VOLVER by Pedro Almodovar, a black comedy about mother-and-daughter reconciliations with Carmen Maura as an oddly goofy dead mother.

Who was the person of the year?
The person of the year was Howard Dean, who as chairman of the Democratic Party fought to win the midterm elections in ALL states, not just those the Democrat poobahs thought were good bets. As a result, emergency brakes have now been applied to the Bush administration. (Let’s see if they work.)

What is your New Year’s resolution?
My New Year resolutions are to get my cholesterol count down and make a solid start on a new novel.

Today is the birthday of my favorite author, Henry Miller.

I started reading Miller at the perfect time. I was young and didn’t know much – maybe 20? Maybe even younger. But I was living on my own and trying to do the best with what I had, etc. You know the drill – trying to figure things out. And my first copy of Tropic of Cancer is still in my possession, held together by a rubberband, with my original markings and notes and miscellaneous scraps of paper stored between the pages. I wish I could remember why I turned to this novel – where did I hear of Miller, why did I pick up this book – but I don’t recall. But I do remember the impact.

So in tribute to Henry Valentine Miller’s birthday, I suggest we all raise a drink to toast the great man and his dirty prose and remember that words still have the power to move people in various directions.

From Sarah Hall, author of Haweswater and The Electric Michelangelo:

What was the best book of the year?
The Road by Cormac McCarthy

What was the best movie?
Pan’s Labyrinth

Who was the person of the year?
All the people who voted the right way.

What is your New Year’s resolution?
Try and relax more.

From John Barlow, author of Eating Mammals and Intoxicated:

What was the best book of the year?
Eat the Document, by Dana Spiotta, because it was so beautifully executed.

What was the best movie?
Borat, because I’m not Kazakstanian.

Who was the person of the year?
Phil Mickelson, because he did so much to help Europe retain the Ryder Cup.

What is your New Year’s resolution?
Drink Less; Write More, because one should.

From Jennifer Pooley, editor of some great titles like Lost Girls and Love Hotels and Genealogy

What was the best book of the year?
The Place in Between by Rory Stewart and The Lost by Daniel Mendelsohn.

What was the best movie?
I haven’t seen enough to weigh in, but I highly recommend putting Half Nelson at the top of your Netflix cue.

Who was the person of the year?
The women of Iraq and Afghanistan.

What is your New Year’s resolution?
To leap more and look less.

From John Williams, Harper Perennial slave:

1. What was the best book of the year?

I’m barely halfway through The Blind Side by Michael Lewis, but I can almost guarantee it’s the best book of the year. He has some kind of mad genius for writing prose that is both very smart and addictively readable.

2. What was the best movie?

I can’t remember a worse year for movies. I feel like I only had a good time in the theater four times this year, and I wouldn’t call any of them great movies. The good times were Dave Chappelle’s Block Party, Thank You for Smoking, Little Miss Sunshine, and The History Boys. (Wait, I just read Rakesh’s response and realized that I forgot Volver. Volver was the best new movie I saw this year.)

3. Who was the person of the year?

If he ends up running and winning in ’08, I think we’ll look back and say it was Barack Obama.

4. What is your New Year’s resolution?

The same as it’s been every year since I can remember: Worry less.

From Charles Todd, author of A Long Shadow and the forthcoming A False Mirror:

What was the best book of the year?
Elizabeth George’s daring and successful What Came Before He Shot Her.

What was the best movie?
The Queen

Who was the person of the year?
George Clooney for his charity work with no political strings attached.

What is your New Year’s resolution?
To reach out and make a difference somewhere.