All he did was live his illness. The old man who had helped to bury him had told me: Your brother is with the angels. Has he become an angel, perhaps? And I, what shall I become? A devil, most likely. Choukri and Bowles communicated through colloquial Maghrebi, Spanish and French to get at the meaning and create something out of all of those different words in different tongues.
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All he did was live his illness. The old man who had helped to bury him had told me: Your brother is with the angels. Has he become an angel, perhaps? And I, what shall I become? A devil, most likely.
Choukri and Bowles communicated through colloquial Maghrebi, Spanish and French to get at the meaning and create something out of all of those different words in different tongues. Or the same tongues like if you stick it in your cheek, or bite down on it or lizard threaten those assholes who fucked you over.
According to the introduction by Bowles, his translation was exact if not literal. So I am. What do they want from me? They could hear the snapping off his neck from his bedroom that he could not have ever left. The echo says it should have been you. Poverty from the wrong side of the people line. Their family are Riffians in Morocco.
Not one of us! His dad is a psychopath. I felt a lot this voice inside of Choukri echoing back when he has to stand in front of this life that would tie you to it as if you were its dog. Choukri was illiterate until he was twenty. Paul Bowles wrote in his introduction that Choukri bought with his holes of society misery the ability to remember everything as it had happened.
I got into a bit of an argument with my sister about this when I told her about the theory. My sister considers her own memory to be like the famous total conversational recall that Capote has. Uh oh, I think she thought I was talking about her.
I say no fucking way about her total recall, anyway, because why would she repeat so many things to me? She started foaming about photographic memory.
Anyway, I agree somewhat with Bowles that Choukri might remember everything because he was illiterate. Then again, that may not be true because For Bread Alone is still a memoir for all that. I feel more that anger of how things should be, the how dare you spit on me, than the closing lines which begin this review about angels or devils.
The brother is too reaching to write into the mighty sword when there were so many other cuts. Angels or devils bah humbug. He had no qualms about stealing because he felt owed, right? He noticed the prostitutes and criminals he knew and their mutual hey, look I may be bleeding after all.
Wait, am I no better than they are? The blowjob money in his hand whispers. Did that mean they took from him? The brother was fucking hard. There were several. He still had to drag his butt home and do for her when he would rather get high in the cafe where he worked morning to past midnight and swallow down that his father stole his paychecks.
Life sucks injustices rather than a plot or even a death plot moral of the story, I say. My feeling is that Choukri told himself all of the time that he was getting fucked over and he resented that as well he should. Choukri says that he would have rather been a prisoner in Tetuan than free in Oran.
Choukri denies homosexuality a lot. It is something to be avoided time and time again in the book. After he has prostituted himself, no less. The bravado was kindred spirit. Not just because they spend a whole lot of the books in pursuit of women if you believe them they get more ass than any toilet seat in their respective countries and feeling ostracized. I got the gist after the first dozen women, honest!
I have no way of knowing what the original work is like. I think I liked better when the frustration about how things had to be poked through than look! Were there really that many willing young women in Morocco back then? Or now? Some chick my sister knows went to Morocco with her then boyfriend. I guess it could have been a coping method same as anything else. Never tear your eyes away and you could see every last drop as they rise to the surface.
I start to feel like such an unbearable freak when I see how others are able to move about between all of these other bleeding bodies as if they all belong there together. He seemed too good at being able to use other people. Genet held up dreams to eat like I do and Choukri would consume beauty without tasting it. I kind of feel like Bowles and Choukri did a good thing here and then hid.
Was the hiding the truth of it or is it just some memoir thing? I wonder if his other books are like this. He learned to read and became a poet for some reason, right? Why am I so harsh on memoirs? Yo mama jokes will get the ever loving shit beat out of you in Morocco. I double dare ya. I am not in love with Morocco. Paul Bowles is lying if he says that I hear their grounds whispering. See the pained expression beneath the funeral shroud. Not in love! The lay of the land is a road made from kicking the dirt too many times.
Think they said same as me?
For bread alone
Early years[ edit ] Mohamed Choukri was born in the Rif more precisely Had, Bni Chiker during a famine, in a poor family with many children and a violent father. His mother tongue was the Riffian a Berber dialect. As a child Choukri survived thanks to a variety of jobs, serving in a French family in the Algerian Rif, or guiding sailors who arrived in Tangier , where he learned Spanish. His life was surrounded by prostitutes, thieves, smugglers and especially a tyrannic and violent father.
For Bread Alone