Paul Frederic Bowles grew up in New York, and attended college at the University of Virginia before traveling to Paris, where became a part of Gertrude Stein's literary and artistic circle. Following her advice, he took his first trip to Tangiers in 1931 with his friend, composer Aaron Copeland.
In 1938 he married author and playwright Jane Auer (see: Jane Bowles). He moved to Tangiers permanently in 1947, with Auer following him there in 1948. There they became fixtures of the American and European expatriate scene, their visitors including Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams and Gore Vidal. Bowles continued to live in Tangiers after the death of his wife in 1973.
Bowles died of heart failure in Tangier on November 18, 1999. His ashes were interred near the graves of his parents and grandparents in Lakemont, New York.
This collection of short stories by Moroccan writer Mohammed Mrabet was translated by Paul Bowles. I made the mistake of thinking that it would be as good as Bowles' own collection called "The Delicate Prey and Other Stories." (review here) There were a few decent stories but most were quite ordinary and the writing was nothing like Paul Bowles, even though it was translated by him.
The best of the Mrabat/Bowles books. It's too bad the cover image is not on hand because it, at least in the Black Sparrow edition, is an artwork worthy of high praise.
Fairy tale, folklore, allegory, grotesque, magical/supernatural, realistic, political, social, archetypal-when I try to classify this book, it alludes me, just as the heroes allude me with their strange codes, craftiness, violence, and misogyny. But, perhaps, I have not smoked enough kif to quite understand this book:) Either way, this is an uncanny world to enter.
Another blind pick from the Wyoming flea market collection of African literature. Every once in a while it's nice to read a series of characters who just don't give a shit about your economy, whose highest aspiration is to chillax and smoke kif (a lot of it) (like, wow, so much, and all the time) and maybe do some fishing or go to the cafe. They always need money but they have plenty to offer. They are ne'er-do-wells and disappointing to their disciplined Muslim fathers, but still manage to take better care of themselves than the lazy, drunk, and/or antagonistic Christians who can make true life messes. I know these guys. Not my cup of tea (or pipe of kif), but an interesting palate cleanser all the same.
As far as I can tell, this is a collection of stories all about misogyny and smoking kif. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it, just that it’s a bit of a culture shock to one with progressive Western sensibilities, and it’s hard to put aside those feelings and appreciate this book for what it is, which is an important part of the cultural exchange, and at a basic level, a study in storytelling. My cultural tolerance goes as far as my tolerance at any time, and that is the (sadly Libertarian) ideal of do your thing as long as in so doing you don’t undo the thing of another. So I don’t like what this book represents on a human equality level, but I think I have to appreciate it as an isolated product, and the stories have to be treated with respect if not always sympathy. Because they are masterful in a weird, unwestern way. So the very thing that makes the collection unpalatable in some ways is what makes it stand out: its foreignness. While there are elements that are obviously similar to our own folk and fairy tales (the simplicity and straightforwardness with which the stories are told, for example), there is also something new (or very old) here that deserves study. So I choose to celebrate a good book for what it is without denying the societal flaws it, at times, embraces. Please bear in mind I have nothing against smoking kif.