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Once Again, Troy

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A Reader on Reading
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248Once Again, TroyTweedledum looked round him with a satisfied smile. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “there’ll be a tree left standing, for ever so far round, by the time we’ve finished!”Through the Looking-Glass, Chapter 4MY GEOGRAPHY IS MAPPED by my readings. Experience, memory, desire color and shape it, but my books define it. My Oregon belongs to Ursula K. Le Guin, my Prague to Gustav Meyrink, my Venice to Henry James, my Alge-ria to Rachid Boudjedra. But when I think of Beirut, three images come to mind. The first is the one my mother described to me after visiting the city in the early fifties. She had been to Paris, to Rome, to Venice: she thought there was no city as lovely as Beirut, as elegant, as welcoming. Whenever things would go wrong in Buenos Aires (and they would go wrong often) she would complain and shake her head and, instead of repeating “Moscow, Moscow!” like one of Chekhov’s three sisters, she would sigh, “Beirut, Beirut!” as if her life in that paradise would have been different had she stayed. Perhaps it would have, because Beirut was for her an impossibility. Impossible things tend to be perfect.The second is the city I visited in 2004. The friendship of the people, their extraordinary courtesy, the constant shift in tone bred from the variety of cul-tural backgrounds, the pride and relief in seeing their city built up again after the war, the lack of shame with which they showed the scars, their ingrained and shared belief in the vital importance of poetry, music, good food, intel-ligent conversation left me, as I returned home, with a sudden nostalgia for what I had experienced as civilization.The third is the bombed city shown on the evening news in 2008. Like any ravaged city, it is both a place of incommunicable daily personal suffering and also the image of every city in no matter what war: a place in which walls that
© Yale University Press, New Haven

248Once Again, TroyTweedledum looked round him with a satisfied smile. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “there’ll be a tree left standing, for ever so far round, by the time we’ve finished!”Through the Looking-Glass, Chapter 4MY GEOGRAPHY IS MAPPED by my readings. Experience, memory, desire color and shape it, but my books define it. My Oregon belongs to Ursula K. Le Guin, my Prague to Gustav Meyrink, my Venice to Henry James, my Alge-ria to Rachid Boudjedra. But when I think of Beirut, three images come to mind. The first is the one my mother described to me after visiting the city in the early fifties. She had been to Paris, to Rome, to Venice: she thought there was no city as lovely as Beirut, as elegant, as welcoming. Whenever things would go wrong in Buenos Aires (and they would go wrong often) she would complain and shake her head and, instead of repeating “Moscow, Moscow!” like one of Chekhov’s three sisters, she would sigh, “Beirut, Beirut!” as if her life in that paradise would have been different had she stayed. Perhaps it would have, because Beirut was for her an impossibility. Impossible things tend to be perfect.The second is the city I visited in 2004. The friendship of the people, their extraordinary courtesy, the constant shift in tone bred from the variety of cul-tural backgrounds, the pride and relief in seeing their city built up again after the war, the lack of shame with which they showed the scars, their ingrained and shared belief in the vital importance of poetry, music, good food, intel-ligent conversation left me, as I returned home, with a sudden nostalgia for what I had experienced as civilization.The third is the bombed city shown on the evening news in 2008. Like any ravaged city, it is both a place of incommunicable daily personal suffering and also the image of every city in no matter what war: a place in which walls that
© Yale University Press, New Haven
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