MORE QUOTES FROM ALBERT MEMMI’S PILLAR OF SALT – a coming of age story in Tunis of the 1930s.

Albert Memmi, author of Pillar of Salt

Moving out of the poor Jewish quarter where he had grown up and into the larger world of the lycée he attended on a scholarship, he learned more clearly to distinguish what was right and proper at school from what was right and proper at home.

In other words, he became a critical observer of society. 

My scorn and my anger were constantly aroused against hypocritical and timorous respectability, against the stupid and tyrannical family, against brutal and unjust authority, against primitive dogma that seemed arbitrary and stifling. I had to reject everything.

By the end of his high school days he knew what he did not want to be and only in a confused manner what he wanted. I wanted to escape from myself and go out towrd the others. I was not going to remain a Jew, an Oriental, a pauper; I belonged neither to my family nor my religious community; I was a new being, utterly transparent, ready to be completely remade into a philosophy instructor.

He turned to Socialism, but soon came to realize that the European parties offered no solutions to Tunisians. The people of Tunisia needed their own party to fight for them. I was too shy to add that Muslim hostility would have to be dispelled and that there was also the hostility of the Jews who had been driven behind thick walls by centuries of fear.

Then came the war and the Nazi occupation of Tunisia. Memmi (or rather his protagonist in this thinly disguised autobiography) wants to enlist in the Free French Army of the Gaullists. He identifies himself as a native African Jew. The lieutenant hesitates. “You don’t want any Jews?’ I asked.  “Oh, not at all,” he said. “We already have lots. That’s why they say that the Gaullists are mostly Jews, which isn’t true and does us a great deal of harm. Look, write down your name and add ‘Mohammed”. There is no difficulty for Muslims.” “I am going to think this over,” I said.

He leaves Tunis. On board ship, he looks out at the receding shoreline. First one star shone, then a second, then thousands. I grew uneasy gazing at the violet sea which attracted me like a sorceress while it heaved and settled, so I went down to the hold to sleep.

HEURIGEN IN MALIBU!

I WAS BORN IN VIENNA, THE CITY OF CAFES, OPERA, AND HEURIGEN. SO I WAS DELIGHTED TO FIND A HEURIGEN NEAR LOS ANGELES: MALIBU WINES.  
YOU CAN PICNIC BY THE SIDE OF A VINEYARD:

YOU CAN EVEN DO LIKE BACCHUS AND WEAR A CROWN OF LEAVES AND FLOWERS.

I'M SURE HE WAS THERE IN SPIRIT.

#AMREADING FARIBA HACHTROUDI, THE MAN WHO SNAPPED HIS FINGERS.

Protesters against Iran

This is the story of a woman known as “Bait 455”, a prisoner who cannot be broken by rape or torture, and the Colonel who helps her escape and becomes a refugee of the “Theological Republic” himself.

Faith is what the regime requires from the Colonel. You don’t question the orders of the Supreme Commander. To be admitted among the holy of holies, is a profession of faith. You no longer belong to yourself.

Lies make the world go round. Poets are the only ones who can do without truth as easily as they can do without lies. They make up stories, they transgress, they know how to change, save the world from its misery, from lies, they are the mirror of the truth.

Bait 455 identifies the Colonel. You learn to read the infinitesimal. A few foot movements which you then classify according to walk. Even if it’s only a few steps forward or back. Traces on the ground. If you could read the ground, you could be informed…A pool of blood or urine, drops of blood or cum, a streak of blood or vomit spoke volumes about the torturers’ mood…After the rapes they would mop the floor with the bleach of ritual ablution, and haloes of white foam remained, furrows of macabre still lifes.

Long-distance killers and terrorists. There is a disconnect between the man guiding the drones, between what seemed to be a game in an air-conditioned facility, and the violence wrought by the control buttons, causing death thousands of miles away.  If all you are doing is killing on-screen, you lose all respect for life. Virtual war is a rich country’s weapon, while the poor country resorts to terrorism.

#AMREADING ALBERT MEMMI, THE PILLAR OF SALT. THE STORY OF A JEW GROWING UP IN TUNIS.

 

Jews in Tunis

A city of many nations. Everyone feels at home but no one at ease, each man is shut up in his own neighborhood, in fear, hate, and contempt of his neighbor. Like the filth and untidiness of this stinking city, we’ve known fear and scorn since the first awakening of our consciousness. To defend or avenge ourselves, we scorned and sneered among ourselves and hope we would be feared as much as we ourselves experienced fear. This was the atmosphere in which we lived.

The power of language. Never have I been able to rid myself of the magic spell of language. Whenever someone curses me, “May you perish,” I feel cold at the back of my neck and foresee the horrors of death. Whenever someone says “Drop dead!” I can already feel myself begin to fail. It is as if language, far from being a transparent tool, really shares some of the nature of the things it designates.

Suicidal thoughts. I was cornered, without any escape, and began to think of death for the first time in my life…The idea of suicide was born within me quite spontaneously and gently, like the world coming to life at dawn. At once, suicide seemed familiar to me, like a release, and I was surprised how convenient and tempting so serious an action could seem. The ultimate solution to my problem was in my power.

A way out. It was then that I discovered a terrible and marvelous secret which might perhaps make my loneliness bearable. To unburden myself of the weight of the world, I began to put everything on paper, and that is how I began to write and to experience the wonderful pleasure of mastering a whole life by recreating it.

#AMREADING MURIEL BARBERY, GOURMET RHAPSODY:  CELEBRATING YOUR GUT FEELING.

A dying man reminisces about his childhood, his family, and the gastronomical highlights of his life.

On art and his wife: I’m not ashamed of considering Anna the most beautiful work of art – this woman who for forty years has used her finely chiseled beauty and her dignified tenderness to enliven the chambers of my realm.

On his real love – gourmet food: This was it, the perfect rhythm, the shimmering harmony between portions, each one exquisite unto itself, but verging on the sublime by virtue of the strict, ritual succession…The entire history of humanity, of our tribe of sensitive predators, can be summed up in these meals.

What does a man experience when his tongue – which, up to this point, has been saturated with spices, sauces, meat, cream, and salt – is suddenly refreshed by contact with an avalanche of ice and fruit that is ever so slightly rustic and ever so lightly lumpy…Quite simply, he experiences paradise.

I rub the Geranium leaves between my fingers: slightly but sufficiently tart with a vinegary insolence, but not so tart that they could fail to evoke at the same time the delicately bitter scent of candied lemon with a hint of the acrid odor of tomato leaves, whose boldness and fruitiness they preserve – that is what geranium leaves exhale, that is what I was growing drunk on, with my belly to the ground in the vegetable garden.

On dinner talk: I feasted on their words, the sort of words that, at times, delight one much more than the pleasures of the flesh. Words: repositories for singular realities which they then transform into moments in an anthology, magicians that change the face of reality by adorning it with the right to become memorable.