An Arab Melancholia by Abdellah Taïa

An Arab Melancholia Reviews

• 
  Enzo

  Le dernier chapitre wah….
• 
  Ceyrone

  Such a huge of Abdellah Taïa’s writing. It’s a short autobiography that starts off in Morocco where his interest in other boys starts developing, to his life in Paris and finally to Cairo to be in a film. From a young age you get the sense that he wasn’t afraid of who he was, from near death experiences to a near rape experience and heartbreak. It’s not a simple autobiography, it is deep and told in a series of short vignettes that deals with a wide range of of issues.
  
  ‘Javier was there, in my body, in my skin, instead of me. I no longer knew what he wanted from me. I no longer knew what I wanted from him.
  I wasn't myself anymore.
  I had to find myself again. And to do that I let myself get lost on the streets of Cairo.’
• 
  Kamila Kunda

  There is something hypnotising in the way Abdellah Taïa writes. It is not the semiautobiographical story in “An Arab Melancholia” which is so compelling. It is Taïa’s raw emotions that he shares with readers. He opens his heart without fear of being hurt, but with hope of being listened to, understood, accepted. And these emotions are what draws me back to his books. His appetite for life is enormous and so convincing. As Anaïs Nin wrote: “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect”. I felt it here.
  
  “An Arab Melancholia” is a story of love. A young boy, growing up in the 1980s in Salé in Morocco, who experiences bullying, sexual harassment, who falls in love easily and with wild abundance. A boy who gets hurt and abused but doesn’t give up on love, on his identity. Later in life, on the film sets in Marrakech and in Cairo, in Paris, where Taïa lives, he encounters love again, or rather - love follows him as he himself is often not sure what the difference between love and lust is. I found some passages and some experiences close to Sufi spirituality, and yet very sensual: “I needed to find someone, someone alive, in the flesh, someone real, someone visible, someone to save me. Someones to touch me. Someone to let me gaze upon him. Someone to carry me along. Someone who would make the decision for me about which path I ought to be following. Because I was now a hayèm, a wanderer in the desert, as in Ibn Arabi’s poetry. A vagrant. A man with no direction. A man with no God”.
  
  Taïa lets himself be lost, be found and then be lost again. He invites men into his life on one condition: that they don’t hold back. Lukewarm emotions, lacklustre relationships do not satisfy him. Again, Anaïs Nin’s words describe Taïa brilliantly, I think: “I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls.” This book has a beating heart, a warm, fragile yet strong heart, and I felt honoured to hold it between the pages.
• 
  Bjorn

  Javier was there, in my body, in my skin, instead of me. I no longer knew what he wanted from me. I no longer knew what I wanted from him.
  I wasn't myself anymore.
  I had to find myself again. And to do that I let myself get lost on the streets of Cairo.
  
  Taïa's short autobiographical novel takes you from growing up in Morocco, knowing he's interested in other boys who only want him back if they get to call him a girl, to life in exile in Paris, to movie shoots in Cairo (film, of course, is about shining through something to create an image that's both true and false), through near-death and near-rape experiences to heartbreaks and some sense of self-knowledge.
  
  The prose is feverish, skittish, but still very self-assured. It's never a simple novel of Overcoming Homophobia or Surviving Racism, instead reading like a series of short breathless vignettes on the inextricable nature of infatuation, sex, fear, body, memory, culture. The fearful need of the fucker to feminize the fuckee, the need for absolute certainty of one's position in relation to others and oneself (the Biblical sense of "knowing" isn't just a linguistic gag). An extremely physical novel, as if the very existence of a gay African body were an important act of actively being oneself.
  
  I turn the last page and wish there was more of it, that it didn't just stop. Then again, by the time it does, it's lobbed itself like a benevolent handgrenade at its reader, and doesn't offer a simple denouement. It continues being.
• 
  Benjamin

  "I was running. Fast, fast. Fast, fast." An Arab Melancholia is a sweetly written exposition of being gay in the Arab world. It goes a bit further actually, and to pigeon-hole it as a gay novel would be a bit unfair, but this is what it is presented as and it does frame the novel in a particular way, which I talk about later on. Autobiographical and written as a stream-of-consciousness with little in the way of a firm chronological narrative, the time and location of the novel is sometimes a little hard to follow - but this is part of the pace of the novel - running, jumping and darting around. Putting an understanding of the politics of sexuality and gender into a kind of queer literature is really neat, and Taïa does a great job in articulating themes - class division, poverty, the postcolonial, migration, patriarchy, the family and religion - which acutely fragment the social and cultural fabric of the Arab world at large. I'm quite interested in this kind of (post-national?) literature which uses a particular region (in this case the Middle East and North Africa) as framing its geographical boundaries. It seems as though Taïa would see his experiences of sexual subjugation and repression as common to the lower classes throughout the entire Arab world, hinting at a protest against the inequalities of power structures, and the upper classes which thrive in a corrupt and unequal political economy. This to me is where the writing succeeds, and by framing it in an autobiographical way the queer themes of the novel (to a queer reader) form a thread which connects these larger critiques. The descriptions of alienation and loneliness in seeking relationships I'm sure are familiar to most and more than anything suggest to me that this novel is an excellent way of understanding that although relationships between people are acutely framed by their background, people who are romantically inclined tend to have a tough time in a world which is pretty ruthless. I also liked the way Taïa frames mobility - running is the pace at which the narrative unfolds - between Marrakech, Paris and Cairo. Though the way that Taïa queers Arab politics as a critique of power is a resounding success, some of the autobiographical aren't entirely developed as well as they could. I would have preferred a slightly longer novel with a bit more autobiographical content, more generous and descriptive in its tone than some of the relatively disjointed and unconnected sequences in the book. But as a novel it works, and it works nicely. Not just because its a novel by an openly gay author from the Arab world - it works because it uses queer politics as an excellent method of criticising hegemonic power and oppressive structures, and offers a way out of it. And that's important.
• 
  Brandon Leighton

  Taia, a gay man born and raised in Morocco, writes about liberation from his culture and religion and then his ultimate need to be liberated from his own personal demons. What I liked best about this book is that, by the end, you are not really focused on the culture and the religion that stifled his sexuality. His experiences transcend culture, religion, and sexuality. He writes about the difficulty of overcoming unrequited love and the need for spiritual re-birth. Readers of any background can relate to these experiences. Taia has a poetic style that makes the reading experience all that much more enjoyable. Highly recommended!
• 
  Vjosa Osmani

  Utanför värnhems fönster ljuder orientaliska toner som försvinner längre och längre bort. Med örat som klistrat mot fönstret ber jag ljudet Komma tillbaka till mig å mina öron för att Kasta mig in i det arabiska vemodet där jag får flörta med döden längtan ångesten att förföra, förföras, sätta gränser säga jag heter inte Leila jag heter abdalah och jag gillar pojkar.
  
  Sorgen i att återupptäcka sig själv fem nummer större i spegeln att dö återfödas återupptäcka sig själv på olika platser i världen sen åter smal som en utmärglad gatuhund i Kairos bakkvarter, å ändå förbli samma i känslan inuti, att va kär bland molnen i nån; som inte är det tillbaka. Alltid samma sak.
• 
  Morgan Miller-Portales

  First published in Paris in 2008, Abdellah Taïa’s ‘Une Mélancolie arabe’ is a lyrical continuation of his earlier autobiographical texts where he chronicles in powerful and terse prose the voyage of self-discovery of a young gay Moroccan man lost between contrasting identities. Suffused with pathos and melancholy, Taïa’s novel is a powerful piece of literature where each ellipsis brings about a subtle aperture into the unbridgeable gap between individuals. A masterpiece.
• 
  Arno Vlierberghe

  Apart from a few haunting passages this was disappointingly bland and superficial.
• 
  mattyboo kisser

  Not for the light-hearted. Truly a heartbreaking book that delves into the struggles of being lgbtq as someone outside fo the western world. Alongside the effects that the character goes through captivating all their relationships is truly saddening. A short, emotional read.
• 
  Robert Sheppard

  FROM THE WORLD LITERATURE FORUM CONTEMPORARY WORLD WRITERS SHOWCASE SERIES VIA GOODREADS —-ROBERT SHEPPARD, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
  
  Robert Sheppard‘s insight:
  
  World Literature Forum recommends looking into the works of Moroccan novelist Abdellah Taïa, including his recent Une mélancolie arabe, the story of a vulnerable young man whose sexual life stretching from Morocco to France to the world of Egyptian cinema is tinged with an impulse of self-destruction which nonetheless may open latent possibilities of regeneration and rebirth.
  
  
  Robert Sheppard
  Editor-in-Chief
  World Literature Forum
  
  http://robertalexandersheppard.wordpr…
  Author, Spiritus Mundi Novel
  
  http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17…
  
  Copyright Robert Sheppard 2013 All Rights Reserved
• 
  Diana

  3.5 étoiles. Il y avait quelques parties que j'aimais bcp (surtout la 1er et la 4ème partie), mais en général j'avais l'impression de lire un journal intime et incomplet... c'est-à-dire que le narrateur parle dans un façon pas clair. C'est comme si le narrateur soi-même essaie à clarifier ses opinions en écrivant ce roman. Peut-être c'est un style qu'on aime, mais ce n'est pas pour moi.
  
  Je crois que le meilleur façon de résumer ce roman est avec les mots d'une copine: "'Une arabe mélancolique' serait un titre plus juste."
  
  **Pardonnez-moi pour mon français si j'ai fait des erreurs. L'anglais est ma langue maternelle. J'ai choisi à écrire ma critique en français parce que j'ai lit le livre en français (pas la traduction anglais).
• 
  Joseph

  the author captured a damned good memoir. I enjoyed its short vignettes from different aspects of his life. I think he captured the longing that many experience when looking for love. it's incredibly raw, and is brutally honest. I believe that it crosses many cultural/racial/sexual boundaries and aptly embodies nostalgia. the author took a great stride in adding to glbt literature of other (albeit a small amount) queer, Arab authors.
• 
  Jonas H

  A well-written semi-autobiographical story of a young gay, muslim, Moroccan man. The writing style was alright, but I just got tired of how he went on and on about how in love he was, whether it was reciprocated or not.
  Still, it was interesting reading something non-Western for once, especially as it was an LGBT book, so I'll definitely try to broaden my perspectives with literature from all over in future.
• 
  Yvonne

  Providing a unique insight in the life of a gay Moroccan who resides in Paris, I feel that this book could have been longer and more thorough. Basically, this book covers one childhood memory, and then two love affairs. All of it fairly superficially noted down. The writing style is very short, sharing mainly his thought process. It's good, but I wasn't satisfied after putting down the book after 3 hrs.
• 
  Amina

  Sceptique.
  Une très belle plume au service d'un vécu mélancolique qui était touchant au début. Mais le personnage est complexe, confus et ambiguë et j'ai eu du mal à ressentir de l'empathie par la suite. Je n'ai pas réussi à comprendre les pensées et motivations d'Abdellah Taïa. Sa dépendance aux autres et son besoin de reconnaissance vis à vis de personnes détestables ont rendu la lecture de ce roman quelque peu pitoyable.
• 
  Victoria G

  I love this book. And I think I loved reading it even more the second time than I did the first. What I admire the most is probably Abdellah Taïa's ability to write "le regard", the often painful experience of becoming only in the eyes of someone else. He writes this like no other. At times I had troubles putting the book down, it's captivating.
• 
  Basmaish

  I don't know what to make of the story yet other than I found myself finishing it in one day and enjoying how it was written. The first chapter though, it broke my heart and I tried to read it as fast as possible. The books feels like it's fiction and autobiographical woven into each other, i'm not sure if that's the case or if one is more than the other, but it sort of grabbed my attention.
• 
  Clifton

  A valuable revelation of one gay Arab's experience of love with all its rewards, disappointments, and growth potential, spiritually and emotionally.
• 
  Maughn Gregory

  This novel/memoir of a young, gay Moroccan is tender and tortured as its author.
• 
  Jorge

  A well written, but tragic story. A book about finding one's identity and leaving the past behind. The first chapter will stay with me for a long time.
• 
  Roberto Buono

  Ho letto “Malinconia araba” e ho pianto.
  
  ✨Cari amici lettori era da tempo che un libro non mi logorava profondamente a livello emotivo da farmi scoppiare in singhiozzi.
  
  ✨ “Malinconia araba” (scritto da @abdellahtaia ed edito da @funambolo_edizioni ) è l’autobiografia del famoso regista, scenografo e scrittore marocchino Abdellah Taïa.
  
  ✨ È il coraggioso coming out di Abdellah, giovane ragazzo marocchino, cresciuto nella periferia di Salé, in un contesto conservativo e maschilista, in cui un branco di ragazzi tenta addirittura di violentarlo, ma non appena il muezin salmodia le prime sure del Corano, gli oppressori sono costretti a fermarsi per recitare i precetti religiosi.
  
  ✨ È un viaggio in quattro tappe, in cui Abdellah analizza la sua evoluzione psico-sessuale e le sue storie con partner maggiormente arabi; relazioni che si rivelano sovente morbose e controproducenti.
  
  ✨ Come detto con @l_ibriota (con cui ho condiviso la lettura), il sostantivo che ben si presta per descrivere questo romanzo è “verità”, poiché l’opera riesce ben a rappresentare la complessità che si cela all’interno delle nostre vite.
• 
  Magda

  This book, for all its few pages, carries weight. After blazing through it in a matter of hours (some of them at work, I just couldn’t put it down) thoughts of this book sat with me for many days, hard to shake. Split between three countries: Morocco, France and Egypt, interwoven with poignant journeys and deep yearning, this autobiographical portrait covers the loves of a gay Arab man over his thirty-something years. And they hurt. The first scene is gut-wrenchingly terrible, starkly showing the deeply conflicted nature of adolescent sexuality. Once you’ve passed that, in comes the one-two hit of unrequited love, of falling for your own creation, for the possibility of a person. Then the missed connection. At moments he describes things so beautifully, so viscerally I myself feel lost in the bustling city of his words. Then, pretty abruptly, comes the final section. The love hinted at throughout. A messy controlling relationship conveyed by diary fragments and a long letter. Then it ends. Because it should. Because there will be more loves yet for him to find. And in ending it left me heavy, dizzy, tired and reborn.
• 
  André

  Citaat : Ik weet dat de Arabische man gecompliceerd is. Jij was het nog duizend maal meer. Ik begreep je en ik begreep je niet. Ik weet dat de liefde iets is wat ons begrip te boven gaat. Ik weet dat de liefde jaloezie is. Ziekte. Ik heb het in de boeken gelezen. Wij hebben het samen nagetrokken in de Bloemlezing van de Arabische poëzie die je me aan het begin van onze verhouding cadeau hebt gedaan. We hebben het bijna twee jaar lang ervaren. Jij wilde de macht. Ik heb je die gegeven, volkomen vrijwillig, zonder aan mijn toekomst te denken. De toekomst, dat waren jij en ik, samen, buik tegen buik, hart tegen hart, in een gedeelde ademhaling.
  Review : Abdellah Taïa kan heel sterk pijn, verdriet en hunkering samenballen tot geladen proza. Het boek leest als een trein en dat is vooral te danken aan de spanning die de auteur weet op te bouwen. Het werk baadt een beetje in de sfeer van afkeer en aantrekkingskracht ten opzichte van seksuele agressie waar Jean Genet zijn handelsmerk van maakte.
  
• 
  Stuart Ahn Sones

  Abdellah Taïa is a conflicted romantic: grounded in the mythos and gravity of Arab identity in the wake of its 20th century revival, yet uprooted from it in his pursuit of his cinematic dreams and romantic obsessions as a stranger in the French metropole. Following the trope of classical Arabic poetry, An Arab Melancholia is a wuquf ‘ala al-atlal (standing before the ruins) of the new millenium. He sings not over the stones and tent-pegs of the jahili tradition, over the remains and apparition of a former lover. No, instead he cries over an apparition of himself, his forgotten dreams, his obsessions through vignettes into the ruins of his past and his former self. Intimate and vulnerable, Taïa’s testimony to the trials of an Arab queer experience beckons the reader to stand before their own ruins and trace melancholy in rubble.