It's one of the rare books that might be better as a re-read. I liked that it's a bit different than what I'm used to: both in content and style. But I felt confused in parts.
I told her I could smell the aroma of memories. She smiled.
But my father, despite his respect for literature, believed an author should be like Kahlil Gibran and compose poetry and stories from his imagination, not go from place to place looking for them the way I do.
We find stories tossed in the streets of our memory and the alleys of our imagination. How can we bring them together, to impose order on a land in which all order has been smashed to pieces?
Is this land whose name is Palestine merely a story that bewitches us with its secrets and charms?