Saturday, October 13, 2018

Billiards at Half Past Nine

The adjective usually assigned to Boll is "ironic."  But his novels about post-WWII Germany remain relevant today even if the irony is lost on today's readers. But the word "grim" also comes to mind, perhaps almost gothic. Of course the novels I have are English translations from the original German, it's difficult to imagine passages like this one from Billiards at Half Past Nine have changed much:

"Why didn't you kill him? With a bullet though the head. Firecrackers don't kill, my boy. You should have come to me. Death's made of metal. Copper cartridges, lead, cast iron, shrapnel—they bring death, whining and wailing, raining on the roof at night and rattling on the pergola."
Boll probably peaked in either 1967 with his Georg Buchner Prize or in 1972 with his noble prize. In the US at least, his popularity has been on the wane for decades. I actually discovered his work in a discount bin at the exterior of a books shop.

Sunday, May 06, 2018

Who is Bouraba?


Bouraba was an Algerian novelist who ended up homeless in Paris. From Algiers, he wrote seven novels, all in Arabic. Today Bouraba is a common Arab surname in both Algeria and France, but is sometimes also a first name. Frankly, more is written about the tertiary character Bouraba in the Pamela Travers version Sleeping Beauty (1975). I know of two references and a third derivative of the other two.

One reference is found in The Letters of Allen Ginsberg:
"I can't fathom—anyway door knock, just turned away Arab acquaintance Bouraba, wrote 7 novels in Arabic, from Algiers, sensitive Arabic even Bill thinks is good intentioned, one maybe translated I dunno in French— wanders around Paris no place to sleep slept here last nite—I wanted to be alone with Coke Jack- said I was typing. He showed me his wet shoulders from rain and said 'mas in tout cas mieux que vous travillez sans distraction' I said 'pardon c'est vrai - a bientot'."
Another reference can be found in a quote in the Book The Beat Hotel:
"That fucking Arab woke me up at three A.M., and at eight A.M. somebody came around looking for 'friends from Oxford'. . .” The “fucking Arab was Bouraba, an Algerian who had written seven novels and who wandered around Paris, staying wherever he could, often sleeping rough. Allen had sometimes let him stay on the floor of his room if the weather was bad."
Barry Miles didn't have much to add about Bouraba that you can't glean from that single sentence in Ginsberg's letter. But the two letters are written by different people at different times. There is no doubt that Bouraba existed. But we learn nothing of his works, or of him as a person. Even not, half a century later, so little Algerian writing has been translated into French or English it may not be possible to identify him.