Isabelle Eberhardt's collection of short stories is intriguing. It is a bit dark yet uses beautiful imagery, esp of the natural surroundings of the Algerian Desert (Sahara). However, be forewarned that most of these stories were put together after her untimely death, and may not all be her own. Only the last 2 can be confirmed as penned by her word for word.

Isabelle Eberhardt captures the oppressed spirit of the Islamic men within her description of the kif smokers holed up in a ramshackle shelter for the night. In this short story "The Oblivion Seekers" she paints a descriptive picture of the backward desert towns of Morocco and aptly draws a subtle metaphor between a captive falcon and the plight of the Arab men.
On a road to anywhere else is the town of Kenadsa in a desolate town with not even essential human comforts, here of all places, "where there is not even a café", Eberhardt discovers a kif den. The Islamic kif dens of the late 1800's were not unlike the crack houses of today; hidden away in unforgiving places, always in poor sanitary conditions. These places are the sanctuaries for the homeless, the lost, the spiritually bankrupt, the wanderers of our day. This one was similar at least with regards to décor. This particular kif den, despite it derelict location, was of higher quality than most. It was in a "partially ruined house behind the Mellah, a long hall lighted by a single eye in the ceiling of twisted and smoke blackened beams". Eberhardt's passage continues, "The walls are black, ribbed with light colored cracks that look like open wounds". Within this apparent squalor are collected together vagabonds, nomads, persons of dubious intent and questionable appearance for the purpose of smoking kif.
Among them, on a "rude perch of palm branches" is a falcon. The captive falcon is tethered to the makeshift perch by a string around one leg. When unencumbered, falcons spend their time surveying the land from the tall branches of mighty trees or soaring in the clouds, high over the desert cliffs, keeping dominion over their land. Surprisingly, a simple string keeps the falcon terrestrial and prevents him from living out his true destiny.
Just as the owner of the proud raptor goes untold in Eberhardt's story, the oppressor of the Islamic men is neither disclosed; only the oppressed condition in which they all find themselves is described. It could be the politics of the region, the occupation of the land by foreigners, or the poverty inflicted by the desert on all its inhabitants. Reason aside, even the "most highly educated" of Islam can succumb to the oppression of the spirit.
Gathered this evening in the den, among others, is a Moroccan poet, a wanderer in search of native legends; to keep alive he composes and recites verse. There is a Filali musician, rootless without family nor specific trade. There too, a Sudanese doctor who follows the caravans from Senegal to Timbuktu. All, men in search of a medicine to help them forget. To help them forget the futility of their existence - wandering from place to place with no good purpose. These men should be part of a thriving free culture, able to spread their talents to the ends of the Islamic world. The art, music and science are essential pinnings of the Islamic spirit. With a free spirit they wander to the horizons with purpose as surely they, or their predecessors, once did; free to dream and make real those dreams.
Eberhardt writes, "even in the darkest purlieu of Morocco's underworld such men can reach the magic horizon where they are free to build their dream-palaces of delight". The Islamic men are proud men, intelligent men, with dreams and aspirations of freedom and self-determination but their desires, just like the falcon, are restrained. They travel across the desert from country to country undeterred by political boarders. They live off the land - on what meagerness the desert will yield. Yet, a metaphorical string around their ankle binds them tight. The men of Islam can roam freely about the desert but it is their Islamic spirit that is tethered. Consequently, they pursue their dreams in the "clouds of narcotic smoke".

Well worth reading if you're a fan of Bowles. Slow and mysteriously vaporous, like much of his fiction. Full of subtle insights (both intended and unintended) into his mind and his writing.

Reading books like this makes me wonder why I have a day job. Bowles weaves an intricate yet breakneck-speed bio of his life, starting with childhood and racing to his life in Tangiers in the early 70's. The biggest shock to me was the amount of work this guy got done. He was writing ballets, scores, soundtracks, books, poetry, newspapers, pamphlets, and orchestra pieces almost nonstop. Even as a kid, he'd write pages and pages a day, and later, he'd type for hours without stopping, hence the title of the book. His travels are also amazing; in an age with little air travel he zips to France, Morocco, India, Panama, Cuba, the Bahamas, all over the US, and dozens of other places too numerous to count. Plus he's met and had long friendships with scores of famous people: Salvador Dali, Bela Bartok, Aaron Copeland, Gertrude Stein, Arthur C. Clarke, Bill Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, Tennessee Williams, and many others. The book is thick and takes time to crawl through, but every time I set it down, I wanted to either start writing a book or a play or take off for a distant region. My only complaint is that sometimes Bowles like to insert a random line of French or Spanish, which annoys me because I know either. And he tends to drop names rapidly, making you wish you had a score card or a flowchart or something. But Bowles is definitely an interesting guy, and his life story is worth reading.

As with most of Bruce Weber's books, his style is the same from the beginning and had not changed a bit. Though I admire many of his good works (and in fact had purchased a lot of his expensive books), a good 70% of images in his books were the same type of images we discard at photo school developing labs and the same type of images our instructors at Photo 1 asked us to improve. Reasons: out of focus, bad composition, low quality grainy and muddy images. Well, it's the name that sells, you know. It takes a lot to be Bruce Weber. Honestly, his works for Abercrombie and Fitch were much better than the books. If I were to make a name like my idol, my works will sell, as well. And I am not kidding.

As a photographer who really looks up to and loves the work of Bruce Weber, I know I have a strong bias for anything he does. However, this book is a great look inside Weber's world and is godo with the interviews as well. My only problem is the price, ... there are probably better books for those that really get into Weber photography and are looking to maybe buy just one book, such as the out of print Chop Suey Club, etc., that even cover his work with Abercrombie and Fitch, and are cheaper at the same time. I would only recommend this book for someone who wants to know more than your basics about what Weber is about, and price is not an issue, otherwise go for it!

Through a series of short stories, Rey Rosa introduces us not only to a scary world beyond, but also to a new line in Guatemalan literature. Also, interesting mixing of scenaries. Even though, it was Rey Rosa's first work is strong and provocative. It makes you want to keep track of this young writer.

Cross, a photojournalist living in Princeton, New Jersey, roamed Morocco and took home a superb collection of photographs. Her pictures range from the characteristic keyhole arches of the royal palaces to naked chickens hanging in the butcher's shop, and they cover several of Morocco's most picturesque regions. In particular, Cross has an eye for colors, whether in clothing, plants, animals, buildings, or landscape.

But there's something wrong with this postcard-like album, and it's modern life, carefully excised from nearly every picture. Morocco celebrates the non-Western and the old. The two brief forewords by the eminent writers Paul Bowles and Tahar Ben Jelloun set the tone, lauding Olde Morocco ("The beauty of the countryside is never flawed") and implicitly disdaining its modern counterpart. If a photographic collection is to portray reality, however, it has to record the full range of life, not just the exotic and archaic. Only a very few scenes hint at a Morocco that's not timeless: in particular, one picture shows a building in downtown Marrakesh plastered with posters (in English) advertising "Police Action III" and "Platoon Leader." After so many scenes from centuries past, this one feels oddly authentic and even fresh. Had Cross only shown some children in cement schools, commuters in buses, and old men watching television, she would have captured not only the beauty of Morocco but also its current reality.

Middle East Quartely, June 1996

This book gives a true-to-life account of Paul Bowles life in morocco. It gives examples of the things that go on there that you wouldn't expect to find in an ordinary travel guide. I'd reccomend this book to people that were going to Morocco so that they could get a taste of the dark underside of the area. It was a good book and for the most part easy to read. The stories, like most of Bowles work, stick in your head long after reading them.

One of those collections that cuts up larger works.