In the Country of Men and over 2 million other books are available for Amazon Kindle . Learn more

Buy Used
Used - Very Good See details
Price: 1.78

or
 
   
Have one to sell? Sell yours here
Start reading In the Country of Men on your Kindle in under a minute.

Don't have a Kindle? Get your Kindle here, or download a FREE Kindle Reading App.

In the Country of Men [Hardcover]

Hisham Matar
4.0 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (36 customer reviews)

Available from these sellers.


‹  Return to Product Overview

Product Description

Review

''In the Country of Men' understands that love - despite betrayal, grief, mistrust, rage, political terror - nevetheless remains love’ -- Anne Michaels, author of 'Fugitive Pieces'

'A moving and significant debut' -- The Guardian

'Compelling, disturbing, moving, but also very haunting, the sort of book that won't leave you . . .Impressive and powerful’ -- Sarah Broadhurst

'Emerging from this moving and graceful novel is the insistence that memories of love will survive the country of men' -- Independent

'Exquisite . . . full of essential truths: the more you read the more you feel the childhood described in it is your's' -- Nadeem Aslam, author of 'Maps for Lost Lovers'

'Extraordinary . . . Hailed internationally as one of the most brilliant literary debuts of recent years' -- The Times

'Moving and significant . . . A poignant tale of personal and collective betrayal' -- FT Magazine

'Powerful...Matar's novel shares themes with McEwan's ‘Atonement’, Frayn's ‘Spies’, and can hold its head high in such singular company' -- Sunday Times

‘A seismically tragic tale of loss and love . . . perfectly muted, exquisitely rendered, provoking a gasp, a tremor of awe’ -- The Scotsman

‘Masterly in its pacing, evocative, lyrical and finely observed. A promising and moving debut’ -- TLS

From the Publisher

In the Country of Men was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize
2006 and the Guardian First Book Award 2006, and won the Commonwealth
Writers' Prize for Best First Book in the Europe and South Asia region. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

About the Author

Hisham Matar was born in New York in 1970 and spent his childhood in Tripoli and Cairo. He has lived in London since 1986 and is currently at work on his second novel.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

I am recalling now that last summer before I was sent away. It was 1979, and the sun was everywhere. Tripoli lay brilliant and still beneath it. Every person, animal and ant went in desperate search for shade, those occasional grey patches of mercy carved into the white of everything. But true mercy only arrived at night, a breeze chilled by the vacant desert, moistened by the humming sea, a reluctant guest silently passing through the empty streets, vague about how far it was allowed to roam in this realm of the absolute star. And it was rising now, this star, as faithful as ever, chasing away the blessed breeze. It was almost morning.

The window in her bedroom was wide open, the glue tree outside it silent, its green shy in the early light. She hadn't fallen asleep until the sky was grey with dawn. And even then I was so rattled I couldn't leave her side, wondering if, like one of those hand-puppets that play dead, she would bounce up again, light another cigarette and continue begging me, as she had been doing only minutes before, not to tell, not to tell.

Baba never found out about Mama's illness; she only fell ill when he was away on business. It was as if, when the world was empty of him, she and I remained as stupid reminders, empty pages that had to be filled with the memory of how they had come to be married.
I sat watching her beautiful face, her chest rise and all with breath, unable to leave her side, hearing the things she had just told me swim and repeat in my head.
Eventually I left her and went to bed.

When she woke up she came to me. I felt her weight sink beside me, then her fingers in my hair. The sound of her fingernails on my scalp reminded me of once when I was unlucky. I had thrown a date in my mouth before splitting it open, only discovering it was infested with ants when their small shell-bodies crackled beneath my teeth. I lay there silent, pretending to be asleep, listening to her breath disturbed by tears.

During breakfast I tried to say as little as possible. My silence made her nervous. She talked about what we might have for lunch. She asked if I would like some jam or honey. I said no, but she went to the fridge and got some anyway. Then, as was usual on the mornings after she had been ill, she took me on a drive to pull me out of my silence, to return me to myself again.

Waiting for the car to warm up, she turned on the radio, skipped through the dial and didn't stop until she heard the beautiful voice of Abd al-Basit Abd al-Sammad. I was glad because, as everyone knows, one must refrain from speaking and listen humbly to the Quran when it is read.
Just before we turned into Gergarish Street, the street that follows the sea, Bahloul the beggar appeared out of nowhere. Mama hit the brakes and said ya satir. He wandered over to her side, walking slowly, clasping his dirty hands tightly to his stomach, his lips quivering. 'Hello, Bahloul,' Mama said, rummaging in her purse. 'I see you, I see you,' he said, and although these were the words Bahloul most often uttered, this time I thought what an idiot Bahloul is and wished he would just vanish. I watched him in the side mirror standing in the middle of the street, clutching the money Mama had given him to his chest like a man who has just caught a butterfly.

She took me downtown to the sesame man in the market by Martyrs' Square, the square that looked on to the sea, the square where a sculpture of Septimius Severus, the Roman Emperor born all those years ago in Lepcis, proudly stood. She bought me as many sesame sticks as I wanted, each wrapped in white wax-paper twisted at either end. I refused to let her put them in her bag. On such mornings I was always stubborn. 'But I have some more shopping to do,' she said. 'You're bound to drop them like this.' 'No,' I said, curling my eyebrows, 'I'll wait for you outside,' and walked off angrily, not caring if I lost her or became lost from her in the big city. 'Listen,' she called after me, attracting people's attention. 'Wait for me by Septimius Severus.'

There was a large cafe on one side that spilled out on to the passageway. Men, some faces I recognized from before, sat playing dominoes and cards. Their eyes were on Mama. I wondered if her dress shouldn't be looser. As I walked away from her I felt my power over her recede; I began to feel sorry and sad how on such mornings she was always generous and embarrassed, as if she had walked out naked. I wanted to run to her, to hold her hand, latch on to her dress as she shopped and dealt with the world, a world full of men and the greed of men. I forced myself not to look back and focused instead on the shops set within arched bays on either side of the covered passageway. Black silk scarves billowed gently above one, columns of stacked red caps stood as tall as men outside another. The ceiling was made with dark strips of fabric. The white blades of light that pierced through the occasional gaps illuminated the swimming dust and shone still and beautiful on the arches and floor, but darted like sparkles on the heads and down the bodies of passers-by, making the shadows seem much darker than they were. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

‹  Return to Product Overview