We Are All Equally Far From Love

Hello Gentle Reader

Love as some would say is a chemical imbalance. A mere intoxication of the ‘feel good,’ chemicals that are released in the brain. Love, like everything else; can be reduced (as some would say) right down to its basic elements. Where there was once magic in this world, it is now deprived and even devoid of it. Love is now denuded – rightfully so or not – of its own romanticism; its own brand of wonder. And yet love is spoken of, as if it truly is its own force. As if somehow, in some form, in some way – it can change the world. Who could forget the hippie’s beliefs and their adamant chants about peace and love? How many poets and writers, prior, had lamented loves that were lost; and praised the rekindled fires of a romantic interest? Why else in ancient times, would there be a god of love and beauty? Despite love as an emotion being rendered to its most categorized concepts of what it is; love as a metaphor transcends its own realities, and its own basic elements. It has the ability to harm; and the ability to open up a new world of possibilities. It is gateway to a utopia – but it also becomes the anarchic driving force that topples civilizations. Yet love is a flame to which all human beings are attracted to. It offers the warmth of a fire; and it pushes the darkness back. Love however, only appears to manifest itself in the form of other living beings. Being human often has a requirement that one needs to have a sense of companionship. We are attracted to others. Not necessarily out of desire or lust; not because of physical attraction or enjoyments that have yet to reveal themselves; but rather: out of the need for human warmth. It is a warmth that radiates from the chest. Steam in the form of breath. In these small flickers of flames, we feel the need to get close to one another. Yet as many will tell confess and testify: fires cook meals; the warm bodies; they dry clothes – but they also burn. If one gets too close to the flame they get burned. Love like a fire also burns. It burns with an intensity that damages heart strings, and causes quite a flare in another. After being burned, one recoils into themselves. Loneliness descends, as the warmth of another dissipates into the distance.  Where there was once a beacon of companionship; there is only a lantern of a departing traveler. One can trace and track their foot prints. But they will only get lost in the woods. They sky overhead will not have a star to spare. The trees are silent in their abject objective observation, for they do not have any sympathy to speak of. Once again the chill seeps in, and one is once again alone.

Being alone, is one of the most difficult aspects of existing. It is not the same as detachment. It is not separating oneself from everyday. It is not the requirement of seclusion, for a short period of reflection and meditation. It is the complete isolation and segregation of oneself, willfully or not from others. It is not the same as a solitary walk. It is in its entirety: being placed in a hole. It is the confinement in a place suspended above the abyss and below the company others. Where the only company one has, is the simple match clenched to their chest. It has yet to be struck; and that moment of action can only be done once; and must be done with precision, in order to rekindle the flame, that had fallen into ash and barely radiates any longer.

Adania Shibli’s first novel “Touch,” was the first book that I read by hers, and was an impressive read. It is a short book, and possibly mistaken called a novel or a novella. Yet it does not follow the conventional formula of a novel or that of a novella. There is no backbone of a plot to speak of in the work. Instead the entire book rested on the shoulders of impressions of a young child – a girl; and her attempts at comprehending the world, and her own observations within her world. The prose is lucid and lyrical. The ordinary is rendered to the extraordinary, thanks in large part to Shibli’s use of language. That novel or novella relies on the language – sparse, and touching; in order to render the world of the little girl of the book as a reality. External landscapes and internal landscapes collide, in continual attempts to understand the world: from simple sibling rivalries, to a childhood game; to cursing. Yet it is all shattered with the tragedy that is peppered throughout the novel, but is not entirely spoken of. This tragedy is what shatters the world, in further disorientation, and requires the little girl to come terms and come of age in a world, that is showcases how increasingly violent it is.

“We Are All Equally Far From Love,” showcases Adania Shibli’s similar sparse and poetic prose. However, where “Touch,” was a book of impressions, and attempt at comprehension of a world that is real but also alien at the same time; “We Are All Equally Far From Love,” is a work that is a bit more grounded in reality. The nameless characters, are not attempting to understand the world, around them. The world is already understood in the basic concepts. What they are attempting to understand, is the distances that keep others, and human warmth away from them. How such simple degrees of separation or measures, alienate them and isolate them, in their own squandered world, deprived of others. Hope is glimpsed and even offered. However as quick as hope is accepted and experienced, it has the ability to abruptly cease. What follows is the desperate attempt(s) to rekindle hope, in its format. To once again feel the ignited spark of human compassion and another’s presence, in its varied forms. Yet each attempt falls. It is lost in transit. It dissipates and flutters away. It is thrown out. It is ignored. Along with compassion comes cruelty. A cruelty born from some part of being, that is completely unknown, but is spawned nonetheless, and wreaks havoc in the most silent and sensitive parts of another. The wounds do not bleed; the skin does not bruise. But the wounds are carried and often are reopened without warning.

The characters of this novel attempt in numerous ways, to seek closure for their abject anguishes. One character, contemplates killing the woman that has scorned him with her love. How easily it all fell around him. With the simple two words, uttered in the most mundane way possible, on a stroll to the car nonetheless: “it’s over,” sends his world crashing and burning like a car crash. Yet in his own subjective perspective of the events, he sees himself the only causality of the incident, and seeks retribution for her transgressions, as she is able to walk away from the incident on the surface, appearing unscathed and unharmed. And yet he realizes and confesses that he would rather prefer to:

"have let himself be strangled in her hair the last night she had left it spread on the pillow, before walking beside him on that dry night with its velvety air and telling himas they reached the car: "it's over." 

Another character is rendered to finding pleasure in 'calmly hating,' to deal with her own loneliness, and alienation from others. 

Shibli’s prose is lucid and poetic. It is lyrical without being verbose. It is a short novel. Yet it is a difficult novel. What makes the book difficult is its theme. There are numerous books out there that display and trade in the dark parts of the world. Books that detail the atrocities of history; books that bear witness to history; books that fight against tyranny; and then there are books that showcase the mundane darkness, and horrors of the everyday. “We Are All Equally Far From Love,” showcase this. It discusses our continual search for warmth and compassion in this world, and our lack of finding it; or worst: finding it, enjoying it, and being burned by it. Thankfully Shibli is able to avoid melodramatic clichés. Yet she does not offer any inclination of hope or happiness either. What is left is: the bitter scent of almonds, and the charred remains of a love affair; or a broken branch from some nameless family tree. In terms of style and language, the book is ghostly and ethereal; as the landscape is never hinted at or concrete – the only clue is when one such character must change “Palestine,” to “Israel,” is the only inclination of place but is never elucidated upon any farther.

This is not a book to be read in the dead of winter, or in the dark. It is a book that is suffocating, and relentless in its depiction of the mundane pitilessness of life, and the abyss in which everyone it seems is doomed to circle around. Wry humour does a quick remedy in a sense of hopelessness; but it does not cure the ailment of the suffering in its pages.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary 

P.S. Though I give the book a positive review, be aware Gentle Reader that the translation is clumsy and lacks the fluidity of "Touch." This often makes for the book to be a bit of a jarring read. The largest complaint with this book is the translation.