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It was impossible to guess if he had been hurt by my suspicions or if his own fate saddened him, like an incurable disease.

This is a necessary, timely novel. I admit to a hesitation, a shame about confronting the world around me. Much like my inability to pursue Derrida on Hospitality I needed to look away. There's a part of me that I don't care admire at times. Quoting the poet Dylan: I used to care, but things have changed.

Creeping in to Enard's novel, I was initially tempted to toss it aside as the narrative opens on almost Orientalist terms: a Moroccan spends his time ogling Western girls and lusts after his cousin. Was Portnoy's Complaint a racist tract? The protagonist is soon kicked out of his house and returns from homeless to the folds of an Islamic Center. This is distant time of the Arab Spring and despite his employer, the protagonist simply wants drink beer and read hard-boiled novels. That isn't too much, is it? Matters both coalesce and drag in the heavy middle of the novel. The satire is heady and piercing.

The unity of the Arab world existed only in Europe.

There is w wonderful scene towards the end where a group immigrants are watching Barcelona FC on tv in a pub and noting the proliferation of girls, wearing the colors and drinking beer. One of them muses that it is this element: female beer drinking which makes Barca and Spain the kings of football. If only such occurred across North Africa the balance of soccer supremacy might tilt. One often needs to dream. Highly Recommended.