…Mansoor handed her a wedding gift, a plain black abaya. The cowl was so finely woven that for a second she thought her father wanted to please her. But it was only her grandmother’s abaya; her father was complying with Shumla’s wish that the gown be handed down to her granddaughter.The silk caressed her hands. She was about to inspect the fabric more closely when she realized she had been left alone again. It was her most familiar feeling, the silky solitude; it was her life.
– From Fatma, a Novel of Arabia.
Raja Alem, with Tom McDonough.
I call abayas “potato-sacks” when feeling particularly cheeky, but, all kidding aside, this description is very much pitch-perfect. The novel is part realism and part languid acid trip – and the two elements are woven together as finely as said the garment.
The act of reading is pleasurable – but it is also a constant expression of humility. If you’re a writer, that is. Or trying to be one. While reading this.
Natalia A. 