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A River Dies of Thirst: Journals by Mahmoud Darwish

By Mahmoud Darwish

“There are maps of Palestine that the politicians won't ever have the ability to forfeit: the only stored within the stories of Palestinian refugees, and that that is drawn through Mahmoud Darwish’s poetry.”—Anton Shammas

This amazing selection of Mahmoud Darwish’s poems and prose meditations is either lyrical and philosophical, wondering and clever, choked with irony and protest and play. “Every attractive poem is an act of resistance.” As continually, Darwish’s musings on unrest and loss live on love and humanity; fantasy and dream are inseparable from fact. “Truth is obvious as day.” in the course of the e-book, Darwish returns often to his ongoing and sometimes lighthearted dialog with death.

Mahmoud Darwish (1941–2008) was once offered the Lannan Prize for Cultural Freedom in 2001. He was once considered as the voice of the Palestinian humans and one of many maximum poets of our time.

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I recognised my things: my bed, my book, my suitcase, and the person in pyjamas was more or less me. I opened the window and heard dogs barking in the valley. But I didn't remember when I had returned, couldn't recall standing on the bridge. I thought I must be only dreaming that I was here. I washed my face in cold water and was convinced I was awake. I went to the kitchen and saw fresh fruit and unwashed dishes, indicating that I'd had an evening meal here. But when was that� I flicked through my passport and realised I had arrived that day, but couldn't remember going away.

Maybe my imagination, which is independent from me, picked it up and ran off with it. ' There on the table I found a sheet of paper on which was written, in green ink, one line: �apple fell on me from the clouds; and I knew my imagination was a faithful hunting dog. If I were someone else Solitude is good training for being self-reliant. He writes the phrase and looks at the ceiling. Then he adds: To be alone .. to be able to be alone is an educational experience. You sit on your own, like an idea unencumbered by argumentation, not trying to guess the content of the dialogue between outside and in.

I reached out my hand to pick it up and could neither feel nor see it. I stared up at the clouds and saw tufts of cotton wool driven northwards by the wind, away from the water tanks crouched on the roofs of the buildings. Where is the apple that fell on me? I wondered. Maybe my imagination, which is independent from me, picked it up and ran off with it. ' There on the table I found a sheet of paper on which was written, in green ink, one line: �apple fell on me from the clouds; and I knew my imagination was a faithful hunting dog.

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