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Algerians Chronicles

18 Feb

‘Algerian Chronicles,’ by Albert Camus
BY SUSAN RUBIN SULEIMAN
Albert Camus’s writing on Algeria reveals both hope and dread.
 
Algerian Chronicles

Second Time Around, in search for lost time

It chances that a friend of mine had lately sent  me an email shared with me a link on an article above, from New York Times issue about Albert Camus”Algerian Chronicles”, a book review, then again my son asked me when I had a chance to go to the library , to look on the shelves if I can found the  book  (“The Myth of Sisyphus.” There was nowhere on online BPL  site to find it, He said  he had it an urgent need as assignment on  major philosophical works of Albert  Camus, but  chance actually does ring trice, and it is by pure coincidence that I got it, like if it was on hold expressly for me. So, it was mouth watering that I read it from first line to the last period. It kept me in an unsatisfied hunger state, like for more want of  water after that you drenched until quench your thirst, or linger for a little bit of chocolate or a crack of nut in your mouth. The carob, little lozenges  of peppermint it brought me  back memories when rereading   (“The Myth of Sisyphus”), the  passages _Summer in Algiers, and return to Tipasa, in a split of an eye blink it sand me back to an epoch a revolued. For, to whom it never occurred to visit Algeria, and Algiers precisely, there is nowhere you can find a guide or a brochure of such an aboundance and generosity of expression, of meanings in to short passages that discribs authentically, a narrator of equal density as the voice you hear though reading these passages. So, anwithout further do, just go get a copy, then when you read it, come back to me and you tell me about what means nostalgia for you;  a longing for home.

Now, forget about global approach and new  review and stuff like that, there is sometimes a cumul of things that one treasures since childhood, or yong-manhood, but then we forget get about it, them things stay dormants until a tiny beat a tinkle of ice in a glass of wine or a snap of finger then it triggers those memories, and they emerge like someone gasping for breath after a deep dive in a pool.

Wish you there’s

For the lovers  of Algiers

thanks to God I was born at that epoch, and lived the same moments and places for being there and  still cary something deep in my heart

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