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Inside the Night

Inside the Night

Ibrahim Nasrallah
Translated by Bakr R. Abbas
Copyright Date: 2007
Pages: 192
https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt15m7gvf
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  • Book Info
    Inside the Night
    Book Description:

    “I could not believe that human beings could forget so easily. . . ." Love and life, sex and death, childhood and oppression are Inside the Night. Vivid moments of remembrance, disparate yet interconnected, come together to form the body— torn but not broken—of this novel. Beginning with a scene of departure, the two nameless narrators roam back and forth in time, veering from childhood mischief to a Palestinian refugee camp massacre; from ardent first love to necessary migration to an Arab oil country for employment; from spirited adolescent fantasies to the grim reality of life in an Arab country whose claims to progress are mounted on the bent backs of its people. A forest of interwoven tales and strange destinies, Ibrahim Nasrallah’s novel carves the history of a people over half a century into fragments that are poetic, multi-sensory, and richly evocative. Inside the Night’s self-contained freedom is a refreshing development in the corpus of Palestinian, and human, literature.

    eISBN: 978-1-61797-174-7
    Subjects: Language & Literature

Table of Contents

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  1. Front Matter
    (pp. [i]-[vi])
  2. [There was nobody there when we arrived, the other one]
    (pp. 1-128)

    There was nobody there when we arrived, the other one and I. Nobody was waiting for us. When the rest arrived, nobody was waiting for anybody. We wanted to celebrate, the rest did not. For them, the party was behind them, and they were fleeing from certain death. We had heard about it, we had seen it, now we did not recognize it. We had always known it, yet now they knew it better: many of them had died. None of us had died this time. There were only women and children—no men.

    They held their passports in their...

  3. [Water. The water that had filled the tanks, the raised]
    (pp. 129-166)

    Water. The water that had filled the tanks, the raised tanks that we had forgotten, on the roof, where the observation post was surrounded with sandbags that screened it from the fury of the fire that raged and raged. The miracle persisted even when they killed those manning the observation post, but couldn’t destroy the tanks. The tanks were pierced by bullets, yet continued to hold a lot of water until the shell fell onto them and filled them with nothing.

    We became aware of water coming down into the basement … cold water … hot water. The old woman...

  4. [I turned my head and found him there. I didn’t ask him]
    (pp. 167-182)

    I turned my head and found him there. I didn’t ask him how he could get into the room. He, the other one, said to me, “I know your problem, because I’m the only one who understands you.”

    He assured me that the matter had been resolved completely, that it was time for me to re-grow a mustache and for his hand to, maybe, re-grow. He was pulling me outside the room grumbling, “How could you even urinate in such a place? How could you sleep?”

    “I found him,” he said.

    He stopped me before a white door. Unbearable whiteness....