While exploring Cairo, Ib, an American, is taken up with by Armenian Gamal-Leon, who follows him by way of a practical joke during the Muslim Ramadan fast period, and humorous cultural misunderstandings ensue. 12,500 first printing.
I must have picked this up during my "everything foreign is somehow magical" reading phase, well over a decade ago. I finally plucked it off my shelf, a delightful little hardback that seems to radiate the possibility of magical realism and world travel... and was utterly bored.
A wonderful journey that follows Ib, a soul who is not quite lost but not quite at home. The various threads which run through the novel are not quite tied up at the end, which gives the sense of realism to a novel which isn't exactly grounded in reality, but which still gives the reader a sense of Cairo.
I'm usually a fan of stream of consciousness writing but this was a bit confusing to follow. I must say that the writing was well done in terms of beautiful language and the way it was parceled out. It made me want to visit Egypt in the future. Not bad.
While I loved Kitely's first novel, Still Life with Insects, this short novel, I Know Many Songs, But I Cannot Sing, falls short of the slow accretion of character that charmed the previous work. Two characters roam Cairo, meet, separate, meet again and again in a period of one day in Ramadan. While we gradually learn of the arcs of their lives, we don't learn much more about who they are or, indeed, what their realities consist of. The most satisfying element of this short novel is its long title.
A strange strange book, it takes a while to finally figure out this writer’s narrative style, but once you do it becomes a marvelous thing. It’s as kaleidoscopic and alive as the name suggests. A wonder to read.
I love this book and i think this is written in a unique and ineresting way but it was still really hard to follow the plot and relize what was going on
I loved how story telling is central to this story, how the city is present, and layers of narration make fiction and reality intermingle. Once again geography and traditions leave traces in form and style, even though the writer is not from that geography and tradition.