By Professor Abdelwahab Meddeb & Doctor Of French Jane Kuntz
"Talismano" is a novelistic exploration of writing obvious as a hallucinatory trip via half-remembered, half-imagined cities--in specific, the town of Tunis, either because it is now, and because it as soon as used to be. jogging and writing, trip and magazine, reflect each other to provide a calligraphic, magical paintings: a palimpsest of varied languages and cultures, highlighting Abdelwahab Meddeb's beguiling mastery of either the Western and Islamic traditions. Meddeb's trip is at the start a sensual one, nearly decadent, the place the narrator luxuriates within the Tunis of his thoughts and intercuts those impressions with memories of alternative towns at different occasions, reviving the legendary figures of Arab-Islamic legend that experience light from reminiscence in a speedily westernizing North Africa. A fever dream located at the knife-edge among competing cultures, "Talismano" is a testomony to the facility of language to awaken, and subdue, adventure
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"Talismano" is a novelistic exploration of writing noticeable as a hallucinatory trip via half-remembered, half-imagined cities--in specific, the town of Tunis, either because it is now, and because it as soon as used to be. strolling and writing, trip and magazine, replicate each other to provide a calligraphic, magical paintings: a palimpsest of varied languages and cultures, highlighting Abdelwahab Meddeb's beguiling mastery of either the Western and Islamic traditions.
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Extra info for Talismano
The sons of this venerable house each inherit a share of the paternal legacy: the one a mollusk—grumpy, a whiner, conservative, unappealingly fragile, a kind of unmentionable degenerate in therapy, self-indulgent bureaucrat still proud of his now hollow-sounding name; the other, scandalously appealing, a hulk with a heart of gold, unmatched in strength and generosity, raised on the street, held to a wholly different standard: the ethics of teamster and longshoreman, a matter of honor and respect, gather friends and hold them close, basic need to save what can be saved: to be is to give.
He aged twenty years in the process, that masochistic mastication of an unformed conscience, that subaudible babble, a stutterer in thought and word, always, stopping short of a moronic giggle, arms outstretched, stricken by a constricting scowl. Given over to despair, a mere nothing would free him from his narrow discipline, allowing him into that yes radiating beyond law. To live through the much-mourned death of the patriarchs, saddened because they preferred death to change, to connecting anew with the world?
Hair rubbed in juniper tar, the old man, sparse graying beard, eyes emerging from the receding flood, jaw thrust forward as he blows on ashes, reviving embers, adding little twigs to the dying flame, warming hands, fingers spread. Top and bottom, the little snuff box is decorated with fancy, exaggeratedly cursive calligraphy, volute resembling the scrolls of an Ottoman seal. He brews me some black tea, potent beverage, sickeningly sweet and boiled down to a glue-like resin, that I drink in tiny sips to savor the density and diminish the burn.