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The Forgiven
In this stylish, haunting novel, journalist and novelist Lawrence Osborne explores the reverberations of a random accident on the lives of Moroccan Muslims and Western visitors who converge on a luxurious desert villa for a decadent weekend-long party. David and Jo Henniger, a doctor and children's book author, in search of an escape from their less than happy lives in London, accept the invitation of their old friends Richard and Dally to attend their annual bacchanal at their home deep in the Moroccan desert – a ksar they have acquired and renovated into a luxurious retreat. On the way, the Hennigers stop for lunch, and the bad-tempered David can't resist consuming most of a bottle of wine. Back on the road, darkness has descended, David is groggy, and the directions to the ksar are vague. Suddenly, two young men spring from the roadside, apparently attempting to interest passing drivers in the fossils they have for sale. Panicked, David swerves toward the two, leaving one dead on the road and the other running into the hills. At the ksar, the festivities have Richard and Dally’s international friends sit down to a lavish dinner prepared and served by a large staff of Moroccans. As the night progresses and the debauchery escalates, the Moroccans increasingly view the revelers as the godless "infidels" they are. When David and Jo show up late with the dead body of the young man in their car, word spreads among the locals that David has committed an unforgivable act. Thus the stage is set for a weekend during which David and Jo must come to terms with David's misdeed, Jo's longings, and their own deteriorating relationship, and the flamboyant Richard and Dally must attempt to keep their revelers entertained despite growing tension from their staff and the Moroccan Berber father who comes to claim his son's body. With spare, evocative prose, searing eroticism, and a gift for the unexpected, Osborne memorably portrays the privileged guests wrestling with their secrets amidst the remoteness and beauty of the desert landscape. He also gradually reveals the jolting back-story of the young man who was killed and leaves David’s fate in the balance as the novel builds to a shattering conclusion.
288 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2012
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5723 people want to read
About the author
Lawrence Osborne
37 books560 followersLawrence Osborne is the author of seven critically acclaimed novels, including The Forgiven (now a major motion picture starring Ralph Fiennes and Jessica Chastain), and Only to Sleep: A Philip Marlowe Novel, a New York Times Notable Book and nominated for an Edgar Award, as well as six books of nonfiction, including Bangkok Days. He has led a nomadic life, living in Paris, New York, Mexico, and Istanbul, and he currently resides in Bangkok.
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November 28, 2023
DOPPIOZERO
I coniugi protagonisti dell’omonimo film scritto e diretto da John Michael McDonagh, David e Jo sono interpretati da Jessica Chastain e Ralph Fiennes. Ho potuto apprezzare il talento di questo sceneggiatore e regista in due ottimi film, “The Guard” e “Calvary”, ma purtroppo temo che la magia non si ripeterà a questo giro.
Dear Mr. Osborne,
ma che figure mi fa fare? Per anni ho consigliato agli amici di leggere i suoi libri, soprattutto a chi partiva per il Sudest asiatico. Con l’ultimo Nella polvere mi mette in imbarazzo: fa venire il latte alle ginocchia. E fa il paio con il penultimo suo, pensi che ora nemmeno ne ricordo il titolo, quello ambientato in un’isola greca, abitata da radical chic ovviamente ipocriti, del tutto indifferenti alla sorte del migrante (siriano, mi pare) ivi giunto su una zattera, che la giovane protagonista nutre e protegge dentro a una baracca perché la ragazza chiaramente è diversa dai radical chic, al punto che io quel romanzo lo abbandonai pur già oltre la metà solo perché ‘sta benedetta ragazza la sopportavo poco, al di là della trama che nemmeno me la ricordo, la trama.
E devo dire che i suoi libri precedenti mi piacquero così tanto proprio perché privi di trama o perché semplicemente la trama non era poi così importante.
...Decisi a quel punto di ‘farmi’ l’opera omnia sua, Mr. Osborne, quindi intanto il buon Cacciatori nel buio che ci scaraventa dentro a un mondo di post hippies installatisi nel Sudest (sono stato un poco hippy anch’io da ragazzo, due viaggi fino a Kabul con mezzi di terra nel ’70 e ’71, minorenne, e non andai più in là, non passai il Khyber pass perché alla fine del secondo viaggio decisi di tornare a casa per… fare la rivoluzione, pensi lei! Sarà stato quell’ottimo hashish).
Il titolo originale è “The Forgiven”.
…Insomma io ai miei amici l’ho menata in lungo e in largo, Mr. Osborne, insistendo perché la leggessero, e ora lei mi apparecchia ‘sti ultimi due romanzi, che intanto sono romanzi romanzi, cioè la trama c’è eccome, Nella polvere ci sguazza al punto che, primo, io ho finito per arrivare fino in fondo solo per vedere come finiva (un disastro, me lo lasci dire), e che, secondo, ho pensato sarebbe perfetto per costruirci sopra una serie tv di quelle bruttine bruttine, con i personaggi appena abbozzati e i colpi di scena, ma santo cielo perché ha deciso di raccontarci ancora un branco di ricchi che in quanto ricchi sono scemi e soprattutto odiosi, e poi infilarci in mezzo la solita storia del migrante che viene accolto dalla solita famiglia radical chic che sotto la maschera della solidarietà nasconde la comodità dello sfruttamento di manodopera a basso costo, e soprattutto ‘sto povero abitante del deserto marocchino la cui testa è invasa da pensieri islamici palesemente assurdi così come accade a tutti, dico tutti i camerieri marocchini del party radical chic in Marocco (o forse quella è una classe superiore? Sono ricchi ricchi?) per i quali camerieri lei, chissà sulla base di quale esperienza dei fatti e delle persone, costruisce dei punti di vista e quasi dei flussi di coscienza assolutamente improbabili, puro specchio delle paure di noi bianchi (ma lo vede, lo vede Mr. Osborne cosa finisco per scrivere? Lei mi sta mandando fuori di matto).
Il film deve ancora uscire, ma intanto è stato presentato all’importante Toronto Film Festival dove però chi lo ha visto lo ha recensito in modo molto tiepido: i tanti difetti del libro rimangono.
Santo cielo, a ogni svolta della sua trama (non me le ricordo nel dettaglio, si figuri) ricordo chiaramente che ho pensato ma no, ma non può andare così questa storia. Insomma, non vorrei mettermi a pontificare: qui il tema è quello della verità, nei suoi altri libri lei la cercava, ora invece ci racconta un sacco di balle (non ho esattamente pontificato, lo so, è che mi viene più facile usare un linguaggio terra terra: lo sento, appunto, più vero). Si figuri che ho pensato che nella sua vita di scrittore lei avesse attraversato una linea d’ombra, mi sono detto vuoi vedere che Osborne abitava a Bangkok e dopo un po’ di successo se ne è tornato in una metropoli occidentale in mezzo ai ricchi ricchi e ai poco ricchi, e di conseguenza ecco? Macché, non pare sia andata così. E allora cos’è successo? Torni a raccontarci l’Asia, lasci alle loro moine i bianchi ricchi in occidente. Mi restituisca il Lawrence Osborne di cui divoravo le pagine, la prego. Io le prometto di leggermi i suoi precedenti ancora non tradotti da Adelphi, i saggi su argomenti i più disparati, cosa che mi piace assai, Parigi, l’Asperger, il pessimismo sessuale, il vino. Le saprò dire, le aspettative sono alte.
Basta così. A ogni buon conto le chiedo venia per i miei troppi avverbi: è l’età.
Il film è così così, sotto la sufficienza. Ma comunque, meglio del libro.
PS:
Non solo i miei amici non hanno poi letto i suoi libri, ma uno di loro è arrivato neanche a metà di Bangkok senza proseguire, e credo abbia consigliato agli altri di lasciar stare. In compenso un conoscente, una persona più giovane che molto stimo, ha recensito Nella polvere tessendone, come si dice, le lodi. Finché, in agosto, non ho scoperto che il libro era primo nelle classifiche di vendita.
Mr. Osborne, io non so più cosa fare di me stesso.
Andrea Berrini su Doppiozero del 28 settembre 2021.
https://www.doppiozero.com/materiali/...
Non posso che sottoscrivere.
Il problema non è tanto che a me nulla cale dei personaggi qui messi in scena da Osborne: il problema, vero e grosso, è che nulla cale neppure a lui, li tratta e descrive tutti da stronzi insopportabili.
Oltre a toccare qui e là vette di comicità involontaria. Faccio un solo esempio: nel mezzo di un dialogo tra locali – che quindi parleranno una qualche lingua araba, o magari un dialetto beduino, o il tamazight dei berberi – i poveracci indigeni, migranti o meno, qui e là se ne escono con dei corsivi del tipo Ah, les salopes oppure Ah, le salaud. Ma è mai possibile? Dear Mr. Osborne mi sta per caso prendendo in giro?
I coniugi protagonisti dell’omonimo film scritto e diretto da John Michael McDonagh, David e Jo sono interpretati da Jessica Chastain e Ralph Fiennes. Ho potuto apprezzare il talento di questo sceneggiatore e regista in due ottimi film, “The Guard” e “Calvary”, ma purtroppo temo che la magia non si ripeterà a questo giro.
Dear Mr. Osborne,
ma che figure mi fa fare? Per anni ho consigliato agli amici di leggere i suoi libri, soprattutto a chi partiva per il Sudest asiatico. Con l’ultimo Nella polvere mi mette in imbarazzo: fa venire il latte alle ginocchia. E fa il paio con il penultimo suo, pensi che ora nemmeno ne ricordo il titolo, quello ambientato in un’isola greca, abitata da radical chic ovviamente ipocriti, del tutto indifferenti alla sorte del migrante (siriano, mi pare) ivi giunto su una zattera, che la giovane protagonista nutre e protegge dentro a una baracca perché la ragazza chiaramente è diversa dai radical chic, al punto che io quel romanzo lo abbandonai pur già oltre la metà solo perché ‘sta benedetta ragazza la sopportavo poco, al di là della trama che nemmeno me la ricordo, la trama.
E devo dire che i suoi libri precedenti mi piacquero così tanto proprio perché privi di trama o perché semplicemente la trama non era poi così importante.
...Decisi a quel punto di ‘farmi’ l’opera omnia sua, Mr. Osborne, quindi intanto il buon Cacciatori nel buio che ci scaraventa dentro a un mondo di post hippies installatisi nel Sudest (sono stato un poco hippy anch’io da ragazzo, due viaggi fino a Kabul con mezzi di terra nel ’70 e ’71, minorenne, e non andai più in là, non passai il Khyber pass perché alla fine del secondo viaggio decisi di tornare a casa per… fare la rivoluzione, pensi lei! Sarà stato quell’ottimo hashish).
Il titolo originale è “The Forgiven”.
…Insomma io ai miei amici l’ho menata in lungo e in largo, Mr. Osborne, insistendo perché la leggessero, e ora lei mi apparecchia ‘sti ultimi due romanzi, che intanto sono romanzi romanzi, cioè la trama c’è eccome, Nella polvere ci sguazza al punto che, primo, io ho finito per arrivare fino in fondo solo per vedere come finiva (un disastro, me lo lasci dire), e che, secondo, ho pensato sarebbe perfetto per costruirci sopra una serie tv di quelle bruttine bruttine, con i personaggi appena abbozzati e i colpi di scena, ma santo cielo perché ha deciso di raccontarci ancora un branco di ricchi che in quanto ricchi sono scemi e soprattutto odiosi, e poi infilarci in mezzo la solita storia del migrante che viene accolto dalla solita famiglia radical chic che sotto la maschera della solidarietà nasconde la comodità dello sfruttamento di manodopera a basso costo, e soprattutto ‘sto povero abitante del deserto marocchino la cui testa è invasa da pensieri islamici palesemente assurdi così come accade a tutti, dico tutti i camerieri marocchini del party radical chic in Marocco (o forse quella è una classe superiore? Sono ricchi ricchi?) per i quali camerieri lei, chissà sulla base di quale esperienza dei fatti e delle persone, costruisce dei punti di vista e quasi dei flussi di coscienza assolutamente improbabili, puro specchio delle paure di noi bianchi (ma lo vede, lo vede Mr. Osborne cosa finisco per scrivere? Lei mi sta mandando fuori di matto).
Il film deve ancora uscire, ma intanto è stato presentato all’importante Toronto Film Festival dove però chi lo ha visto lo ha recensito in modo molto tiepido: i tanti difetti del libro rimangono.
Santo cielo, a ogni svolta della sua trama (non me le ricordo nel dettaglio, si figuri) ricordo chiaramente che ho pensato ma no, ma non può andare così questa storia. Insomma, non vorrei mettermi a pontificare: qui il tema è quello della verità, nei suoi altri libri lei la cercava, ora invece ci racconta un sacco di balle (non ho esattamente pontificato, lo so, è che mi viene più facile usare un linguaggio terra terra: lo sento, appunto, più vero). Si figuri che ho pensato che nella sua vita di scrittore lei avesse attraversato una linea d’ombra, mi sono detto vuoi vedere che Osborne abitava a Bangkok e dopo un po’ di successo se ne è tornato in una metropoli occidentale in mezzo ai ricchi ricchi e ai poco ricchi, e di conseguenza ecco? Macché, non pare sia andata così. E allora cos’è successo? Torni a raccontarci l’Asia, lasci alle loro moine i bianchi ricchi in occidente. Mi restituisca il Lawrence Osborne di cui divoravo le pagine, la prego. Io le prometto di leggermi i suoi precedenti ancora non tradotti da Adelphi, i saggi su argomenti i più disparati, cosa che mi piace assai, Parigi, l’Asperger, il pessimismo sessuale, il vino. Le saprò dire, le aspettative sono alte.
Basta così. A ogni buon conto le chiedo venia per i miei troppi avverbi: è l’età.
Il film è così così, sotto la sufficienza. Ma comunque, meglio del libro.
PS:
Non solo i miei amici non hanno poi letto i suoi libri, ma uno di loro è arrivato neanche a metà di Bangkok senza proseguire, e credo abbia consigliato agli altri di lasciar stare. In compenso un conoscente, una persona più giovane che molto stimo, ha recensito Nella polvere tessendone, come si dice, le lodi. Finché, in agosto, non ho scoperto che il libro era primo nelle classifiche di vendita.
Mr. Osborne, io non so più cosa fare di me stesso.
Andrea Berrini su Doppiozero del 28 settembre 2021.
https://www.doppiozero.com/materiali/...
Non posso che sottoscrivere.
Il problema non è tanto che a me nulla cale dei personaggi qui messi in scena da Osborne: il problema, vero e grosso, è che nulla cale neppure a lui, li tratta e descrive tutti da stronzi insopportabili.
Oltre a toccare qui e là vette di comicità involontaria. Faccio un solo esempio: nel mezzo di un dialogo tra locali – che quindi parleranno una qualche lingua araba, o magari un dialetto beduino, o il tamazight dei berberi – i poveracci indigeni, migranti o meno, qui e là se ne escono con dei corsivi del tipo Ah, les salopes oppure Ah, le salaud. Ma è mai possibile? Dear Mr. Osborne mi sta per caso prendendo in giro?
May 4, 2017
… life is but a sport and a pastime, as the Koran carefully reminds us, and because it is a game and nothing more, one forgets that the point of life is death .
David and Jo, a bit bored with life and themselves marriage, accept an invitation to attend an annual fiesta in the middle of Moroccan desert. Their hosts are well-to-do gay couple Richard and Dally and party in their residence reminds rather insatiable orgy than tea on the Sahara. On their way to desert estate married couple is quarreling and David drinks too much, besides it's getting dark and so we have cut and dried recipe for a disaster. David hits young man ostensibly selling fossils on the roadside and not knowing what to do brings the body with himself to the party. And the whole further story revolves around issue of guilt and redemption, responsibility and forgiveness. Though problem of blame and innocence is not that obvious.
This novel is dark and disturbing. I can sense here influence of Paul Bowles and Graham Greene, both in writing style and the subject. The same carefree belief that nothing can happen to us, the same false sense of security and the same arrogance and patronizing attitude in relation to the natives. Though The Forgiven is to the core contemporary novel nevertheless its background reflects concerns of colonialism era. While Moroccan servants, like a Greek chorus in ancient tragedy, are silently watching the corrupt Westerners, the latter behave and act as if they owned that place and were more there at home than poor Berber tribes. They drink and take drugs with abandon, indulge themselves in lechery ignoring necessity to demonstrate though a bit respect to local customs and tradition.
This novel deals on many levels. On the macro scale it’s showing clash between West and East, rich and poor, Christians and Muslims. It dispels the myth of cultural coexistence and shows disparaging attitude of people of the West towards the Arab world. At the micro level is an analysis of human ties but also decline of relationship. David and Jo‘ marriage is failing and it would be foolish to expect that a few days of debauchery and drunkenness could bridge the gap between them and bring back the bygone closeness. It’s like to believe that a bit of air freshener is able to offset the smell of mold and rot in musty room. Or like the trip to some exotic place could bring back lost intimacy and cement anew broken relationship. Now and then it succeeds but The Forgiven mercilessly shows that the net result may be even more devastating.
March 28, 2025
Even the most frozen, deadened heart has two or three drops of love at the bottom, enough to feed the birds.
A few weeks ago, I greatly enjoyed a crime novel called The Glass Kingdom, and so sought out more by Lawrence Osborne. I note with some amusement that Kingdom is the lowest-rated book of his on GR, and this book was the highest. But neither book is as highly rated as it deserves; Mr. Osborne is a serious writer, and a good one.
If that was a crime novel, then this was an accident novel, in the sense that a road accident drives the plot. But the plot could have been most anything, really, in this book; this was more an exploration of a multiparty cultural clash. One set consists of the sort of people that buy an entire ruined village in Morocco and restore it to become a sort of village-sized resort for rich Eurotrash to come indulge in the sort of decadence that gets published in Le Monde and the NYT society pages. Another set are those predators and pirates that don't exactly belong in this world, but have a nose for opportunity and find their way in. The third set are the punishingly-poor Moroccans who either lift themselves out of poverty by working as waiters and gardeners for the white people, or who don't.
Driving through California's high mountains in summer, one is often confronted with signs put up by the National Forest Service:
Stumbling across this sign, unless you smell smoke, you realize you are not in imminent danger, but deadly circumstances could arise at any moment and completely surround you. It is not a comfortable feeling, but one that Osborne excels in instilling in readers.
He does this in a languid way. Languid because these visitors spend most of their time drunk, coked up, stoned and what have you, oblivious to anything beyond their own hedonistic goals. I have never experienced decadence on this level, but I've had a few debauched weekends now and again, and Osborne captures the exhaustion and self-disgust at the conclusion of such an event like few other authors I've read.
It took me a long time to read this; the story itself is rather long, but like the guests, I just didn't feel any need to rush through this adventure. After all, it's hot outside and here, in the safe zone of money and air conditioning, life is so comfortable...
A few weeks ago, I greatly enjoyed a crime novel called The Glass Kingdom, and so sought out more by Lawrence Osborne. I note with some amusement that Kingdom is the lowest-rated book of his on GR, and this book was the highest. But neither book is as highly rated as it deserves; Mr. Osborne is a serious writer, and a good one.
If that was a crime novel, then this was an accident novel, in the sense that a road accident drives the plot. But the plot could have been most anything, really, in this book; this was more an exploration of a multiparty cultural clash. One set consists of the sort of people that buy an entire ruined village in Morocco and restore it to become a sort of village-sized resort for rich Eurotrash to come indulge in the sort of decadence that gets published in Le Monde and the NYT society pages. Another set are those predators and pirates that don't exactly belong in this world, but have a nose for opportunity and find their way in. The third set are the punishingly-poor Moroccans who either lift themselves out of poverty by working as waiters and gardeners for the white people, or who don't.
Driving through California's high mountains in summer, one is often confronted with signs put up by the National Forest Service:
Stumbling across this sign, unless you smell smoke, you realize you are not in imminent danger, but deadly circumstances could arise at any moment and completely surround you. It is not a comfortable feeling, but one that Osborne excels in instilling in readers.
He does this in a languid way. Languid because these visitors spend most of their time drunk, coked up, stoned and what have you, oblivious to anything beyond their own hedonistic goals. I have never experienced decadence on this level, but I've had a few debauched weekends now and again, and Osborne captures the exhaustion and self-disgust at the conclusion of such an event like few other authors I've read.
It took me a long time to read this; the story itself is rather long, but like the guests, I just didn't feel any need to rush through this adventure. After all, it's hot outside and here, in the safe zone of money and air conditioning, life is so comfortable...
January 18, 2014
Beautifully written, shattering prose that makes Western (in)sensibilities crumble in the harsh desert sun of northern Africa. I want to pen so much more about why this novel is superlatively fantabulous, but I'll unwittingly spoil things without Spoiler tags.
The only future worth entertaining is the one we can’t imagine at all.
Forgive me, please, and read this wondrous novel about how we all go about [un]Forgiven.
March 15, 2022
“L’aria era tiepida, immobile, rassicurante e le palme mormoravano alla brezza che le pettinava, quindi si immobilizzavano preparandosi al mormorio successivo.”
David e Jo Henninger, una coppia di benestanti turisti inglesi, percorrono le strade polverose di Tangeri per arrivare ad Azna, caratteristico villaggio fortificato, dove Richard e Dally, una coppia di gay super ricchi, ha organizzato una festa per altri super ricchi in una sorta di cattedrale nel deserto, dimora sfarzosa e curata fin nel più piccolo dettaglio. Un buen retiro molto trendy e molto chic, insomma.
Nonostante il livello di tasso alcolico abbia superato la decenza, nonostante la direzione sia incerta e nonostante la notte e la sabbia oscurino la visuale, David si ostina a guidare per arrivare a destinazione al più presto. L’incidente è inevitabile.
A questo punto la penna sublime di Lawrence Osborne ci trascina in un vortice. Sarà polvere turbinosa per tutti, ciascuno confinato in un ruolo, ciascuno a recitare la sua parte.
I raffinati padroni di casa, che dovranno risolvere diplomaticamente il conflitto tra i turisti inglesi e i famigliari del ragazzo investito; gli ospiti della magione, che dovranno continuare allegramente a sorseggiare i loro drink, a tirare di coca, a fare sesso libero e a divertirsi; il personale marocchino al servizio dei due gay: un impeccabile maestro di palazzo e molti camerieri, ossequiosi ma segretamente disgustati; e infine David e Jo che, esposti all’ignoto, manifesteranno tutti i sintomi della crisi già in atto, preludio di una inevitabile trasformazione.
Dall’altro lato, a fronteggiare la varietà scomposta degli occidentali, la realtà locale, quella a cui appartiene il ragazzo, improbabile venditore di trilobiti: una realtà dura, aspra, impietosa. Mentalità diverse e a tratti opposte sono destinate a fronteggiarsi; diversi e opposti pregiudizi potrebbero consolidarsi o essere smantellati.
Lo sguardo di Osborne ci porta a osservare le differenti sfaccettature, ci accompagna in un viaggio avvincente attraverso opposti punti di vista, lasciandoci senza fiato e come sospesi a guardare sempre dal ciglio di un abisso.
Ma il viaggio, oltre che psicologico, si snoda anche attraverso i paesaggi e gli ambienti, descritti con lucidità e suggestiva potenza retorica.
Qui nessuno è simpatico, nessuno è innocente. Ma forse tutti hanno bisogno di essere perdonati (“Il perdonato”, infatti, è il titolo originale del romanzo). Si tratta di capire se e come questo perdono è possibile.
Romanzo densissimo, che richiama grandi autori classici come Fitzgerald, Conrad e Maugham, ci parla con asciutto disincanto del nostro presente, ma nel contempo racconta di un confronto tra mondi lontani e contrapposti che si è giocato la sua partita alcuni decenni fa e l’ha clamorosamente persa.
(Della incantevole scrittura di Osborne, scrittore e viaggiatore, non sapevo ancora nulla, ma intendo colmare ben presto l’ignoranza).
David e Jo Henninger, una coppia di benestanti turisti inglesi, percorrono le strade polverose di Tangeri per arrivare ad Azna, caratteristico villaggio fortificato, dove Richard e Dally, una coppia di gay super ricchi, ha organizzato una festa per altri super ricchi in una sorta di cattedrale nel deserto, dimora sfarzosa e curata fin nel più piccolo dettaglio. Un buen retiro molto trendy e molto chic, insomma.
Nonostante il livello di tasso alcolico abbia superato la decenza, nonostante la direzione sia incerta e nonostante la notte e la sabbia oscurino la visuale, David si ostina a guidare per arrivare a destinazione al più presto. L’incidente è inevitabile.
A questo punto la penna sublime di Lawrence Osborne ci trascina in un vortice. Sarà polvere turbinosa per tutti, ciascuno confinato in un ruolo, ciascuno a recitare la sua parte.
I raffinati padroni di casa, che dovranno risolvere diplomaticamente il conflitto tra i turisti inglesi e i famigliari del ragazzo investito; gli ospiti della magione, che dovranno continuare allegramente a sorseggiare i loro drink, a tirare di coca, a fare sesso libero e a divertirsi; il personale marocchino al servizio dei due gay: un impeccabile maestro di palazzo e molti camerieri, ossequiosi ma segretamente disgustati; e infine David e Jo che, esposti all’ignoto, manifesteranno tutti i sintomi della crisi già in atto, preludio di una inevitabile trasformazione.
Dall’altro lato, a fronteggiare la varietà scomposta degli occidentali, la realtà locale, quella a cui appartiene il ragazzo, improbabile venditore di trilobiti: una realtà dura, aspra, impietosa. Mentalità diverse e a tratti opposte sono destinate a fronteggiarsi; diversi e opposti pregiudizi potrebbero consolidarsi o essere smantellati.
Lo sguardo di Osborne ci porta a osservare le differenti sfaccettature, ci accompagna in un viaggio avvincente attraverso opposti punti di vista, lasciandoci senza fiato e come sospesi a guardare sempre dal ciglio di un abisso.
Ma il viaggio, oltre che psicologico, si snoda anche attraverso i paesaggi e gli ambienti, descritti con lucidità e suggestiva potenza retorica.
Qui nessuno è simpatico, nessuno è innocente. Ma forse tutti hanno bisogno di essere perdonati (“Il perdonato”, infatti, è il titolo originale del romanzo). Si tratta di capire se e come questo perdono è possibile.
Romanzo densissimo, che richiama grandi autori classici come Fitzgerald, Conrad e Maugham, ci parla con asciutto disincanto del nostro presente, ma nel contempo racconta di un confronto tra mondi lontani e contrapposti che si è giocato la sua partita alcuni decenni fa e l’ha clamorosamente persa.
(Della incantevole scrittura di Osborne, scrittore e viaggiatore, non sapevo ancora nulla, ma intendo colmare ben presto l’ignoranza).
put-aside
October 28, 2016Tension squeezes the heart from the moment the book opens. A man and a woman, married, arrive in Tangier from Europe on a ferry. They are tired, and it is hot.
The couple is meant to be driving deep into the desert to participate in an annual feast put on by another European couple. The wife had thought she might want to stay until the next day, but the husband insists on going that night. The city is dirty, hot, disorienting. They rent a car and begin the drive but they are tired, and the crankiness they exhibit with one another has much more to do with their life in England than the temporary discomfort and stress of their vacation.
We are told by the cover copy that there is a “shattering conclusion” to this novel, and my stomach was roiling from the first pages. I found myself avoiding the reading of this story. Everything said, described, or implied made me anxious. When I got to the part where the couple, driving later than they’d planned and after dark, hit an Arab man with their car, I was ready to give up. The couple completed the journey to the party in the desert at the house of their friend with a dead Arab in their car.
Then I did give up.
I am not giving anything away. This all happens at the beginning of the novel and is the set up, basically. My nerves couldn’t take it. If someone showed up at a party with a dead person in their car, I think I might not enjoy that event any further. Call me a wimp. Those who get to the end, who can take a fiction as fiction, I give them all kinds of credit for nerves of steel.
The couple is meant to be driving deep into the desert to participate in an annual feast put on by another European couple. The wife had thought she might want to stay until the next day, but the husband insists on going that night. The city is dirty, hot, disorienting. They rent a car and begin the drive but they are tired, and the crankiness they exhibit with one another has much more to do with their life in England than the temporary discomfort and stress of their vacation.
We are told by the cover copy that there is a “shattering conclusion” to this novel, and my stomach was roiling from the first pages. I found myself avoiding the reading of this story. Everything said, described, or implied made me anxious. When I got to the part where the couple, driving later than they’d planned and after dark, hit an Arab man with their car, I was ready to give up. The couple completed the journey to the party in the desert at the house of their friend with a dead Arab in their car.
Then I did give up.
I am not giving anything away. This all happens at the beginning of the novel and is the set up, basically. My nerves couldn’t take it. If someone showed up at a party with a dead person in their car, I think I might not enjoy that event any further. Call me a wimp. Those who get to the end, who can take a fiction as fiction, I give them all kinds of credit for nerves of steel.
November 24, 2012
What drew me to this book was the setting. It takes place in an unglamorous part of Morocco that many tourists would never see. Lawrence Osbourne has lived the expat life in Morocco, and he seems to grasp the mindset of the Moroccan Berber people and how they view the ridiculous excesses of wealthy foreigners who come to their country. Osbourne also shows an understanding of the economic dilemma facing the poorest Moroccans who must rely on tourists for their livelihood. Many of them go to France hoping for a better life, but it's difficult to find jobs without skills, and the cost of living sends them packing back home to Morocco.
The pivotal event in the story is an accident that kills a Berber boy selling fossils by the side of the road. The driver who hits him, David Heniger, is an English doctor who is impossible to like. He's more concerned with covering his tracks and not being inconvenienced than he is with atoning for the death he has caused while driving under the influence of alcohol.
What I found more interesting than David's ordeal was the three-day bacchanal taking place at the home of David's friends, Richard and Dally. Here is where we see the contrast in cultures. The guests are all wealthy Europeans and Americans, there to indulge in an almost orgiastic fashion. The native people who are hired to serve and clean up after the visitors must be subservient, because they desperately need the money. But, as devout Muslims, they are offended and puzzled by the behaviors they witness. The "otherness" as perceived from both sides makes it clear why East and West are always at odds. [3.5 stars]
The pivotal event in the story is an accident that kills a Berber boy selling fossils by the side of the road. The driver who hits him, David Heniger, is an English doctor who is impossible to like. He's more concerned with covering his tracks and not being inconvenienced than he is with atoning for the death he has caused while driving under the influence of alcohol.
What I found more interesting than David's ordeal was the three-day bacchanal taking place at the home of David's friends, Richard and Dally. Here is where we see the contrast in cultures. The guests are all wealthy Europeans and Americans, there to indulge in an almost orgiastic fashion. The native people who are hired to serve and clean up after the visitors must be subservient, because they desperately need the money. But, as devout Muslims, they are offended and puzzled by the behaviors they witness. The "otherness" as perceived from both sides makes it clear why East and West are always at odds. [3.5 stars]
June 4, 2017
Ein vermögendes, schwules Paar lädt zur Party in ihr renoviertes, üppig dekoriertes Ksar, einer marokkanischen Siedlung. Amerikaner, Engländer und Franzosen schwelgen in Verschwendung, Suff, Drogen und sexuellen Eskapaden. Rings um sie marokkanische Diener, die finanziell von dem Paar profitieren und gleichzeitig angeekelt sind. Außerhalb der Mauern des Ksar ist alles fremd: die Landschaft, die Menschen unterschiedlicher Stämme, die sich gegenseitig verachten, ihre Armut, ihre religiöse Intoleranz.
Als auf dem Weg zu dieser mehrtägigen Party ein englisches Ehepaar einen jungen Marokkaner überfährt, nimmt das Unheil seinen Lauf.
Virtuos switcht Osborne zwischen den einzelnen Charakteren, wechselt zwischen verschiedenen Innenperspektiven, entlarvt Intoleranz und Selbstverliebtheit. Das zeigt sich in Zeilen wie "Er war sich sicher, dass ihn keine Schuld traf. Er war so fest davon überzeugt, dass ihm selbst dann keine Zweifel kamen, wenn er sich zwang objektiv zu sein."
Oder ein Dialog wie folgender:
"Die Nomaden sind unsere Rettung", erwiderte sie ernst. "Sie haben die richtige Einstellung zur Umwelt."
"Tasächlich? Und wo ist Mohammed?", fragte er.
"Er steht da drüben. Der hübsche Bursche." Sie wurde kokett. "Er sagt, das ich wie eine Nomadin aussehe. Unverdorben."
Solche entlarvenden Beobachtungen und Dialoge finden sich leider vor allem im ersten Drittel. Danach verliert sich diese Qualität etwas.
Was aber weiter die Aufmerksamkeit des Lesers fesselt, sind die sinnlichen Eindrücke wie Hitze, Schweiß, Gerüche, Staub, Farben. Und diese bilden stets einen krassen Kontrast zu der Abgeklärtheit und Kühle der westlichen Gäste. Die Fremdheit, die sich zwischen zwei diametral verschiedenen Bevölkerungsgruppen auftut, ist umso beeindruckender, weil sie nicht in Schwarz-Weiß-Zeichnungen übergeht. Alle sind glaubhaft in ihren Überzeugungen und Routinen gefangen, alle sind in ihrem Handeln angreifbar.
Insgesamt habe ich mich gerne nach Marokko entführen lassen und habe einige mir bislang unbekannte Begriffe gelernt. Zudem war mir vor der Lektüre nicht bewusst, welche bedeutende Rolle dem Fossilienhandel im Land zukommt und unter welch unmenschlichen Arbeitsbedingungen die Versteinerungen dem Stein abgerungen werden.
Als auf dem Weg zu dieser mehrtägigen Party ein englisches Ehepaar einen jungen Marokkaner überfährt, nimmt das Unheil seinen Lauf.
Virtuos switcht Osborne zwischen den einzelnen Charakteren, wechselt zwischen verschiedenen Innenperspektiven, entlarvt Intoleranz und Selbstverliebtheit. Das zeigt sich in Zeilen wie "Er war sich sicher, dass ihn keine Schuld traf. Er war so fest davon überzeugt, dass ihm selbst dann keine Zweifel kamen, wenn er sich zwang objektiv zu sein."
Oder ein Dialog wie folgender:
"Die Nomaden sind unsere Rettung", erwiderte sie ernst. "Sie haben die richtige Einstellung zur Umwelt."
"Tasächlich? Und wo ist Mohammed?", fragte er.
"Er steht da drüben. Der hübsche Bursche." Sie wurde kokett. "Er sagt, das ich wie eine Nomadin aussehe. Unverdorben."
Solche entlarvenden Beobachtungen und Dialoge finden sich leider vor allem im ersten Drittel. Danach verliert sich diese Qualität etwas.
Was aber weiter die Aufmerksamkeit des Lesers fesselt, sind die sinnlichen Eindrücke wie Hitze, Schweiß, Gerüche, Staub, Farben. Und diese bilden stets einen krassen Kontrast zu der Abgeklärtheit und Kühle der westlichen Gäste. Die Fremdheit, die sich zwischen zwei diametral verschiedenen Bevölkerungsgruppen auftut, ist umso beeindruckender, weil sie nicht in Schwarz-Weiß-Zeichnungen übergeht. Alle sind glaubhaft in ihren Überzeugungen und Routinen gefangen, alle sind in ihrem Handeln angreifbar.
Insgesamt habe ich mich gerne nach Marokko entführen lassen und habe einige mir bislang unbekannte Begriffe gelernt. Zudem war mir vor der Lektüre nicht bewusst, welche bedeutende Rolle dem Fossilienhandel im Land zukommt und unter welch unmenschlichen Arbeitsbedingungen die Versteinerungen dem Stein abgerungen werden.
August 11, 2021
Marokko – da denkt der geneigte Leser doch gleich an Geschichten von blühenden Oasen, Wüstenpalästen, in denen feine Brunnen plätschern und Kühlung in der Hitze bringen, an verschleierte Prinzessinnen und wilde Berber, die in den wüsten Bergen hausen und an den Ruf des Muezzins am Morgen. Der literarisch etwas Bewanderte erinnert sich an die Ausflüge der amerikanischen Beatniks, an Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassidy und vor allem William Burroughs, die hier gern ihren Kumpel Paul Bowles besuchten, der sein Lager langfristig in Tanger aufgeschlagen hatte und mit Romanen und etlichen Kurzgeschichten von einem Marokko erzählte, das ebenso faszinierend wie furchteinflößend wirkte. Es drängen sich aber auch Gedanken daran auf, daß dieses Marokko einen Spagat zwischen einem gemäßigten Islam, Offenheit gegenüber westlichen Touristen und deren Lebensstil und einem andauernden Krieg in seinen Grenzregionen versucht. Ein Marokko, das in einem kulturellen Spannungsverhältnis lebt. In dieses Marokko kommen gern Hollywood-Produktionen und nutzen die Kulisse, wenn sie eigentlich Somalia, den Irak oder gar Afghanistan darstellen wollen. Und manchmal einfach nur die Oberfläche fremder, unentdeckter Planeten.
In genau dieses Marokko versetzt Lawrence Osborne den Leser in seinem Roman DENEN MAN VERGIBT (THE FORGIVEN; Original erschienen 2012, Dt. 2017). In einer geschickt konstruierten, erbarmungslos kühl erzählten Geschichte, evoziert er die oben beschriebenen Bilder, spielt mit ihnen, spielt mit dem Leser und gibt kaum Auswege zu erkennen, wie der sich distanzieren kann von dem, was er da liest.
An einem langen Wochenende lädt ein schwules Pärchen – ein Engländer und ein Amerikaner – zu einer wilden Party mitten in der Wüste. Hier haben Richard und Dally einen Ksar gekauft, ein altes Berber-Dorf, das sie peu à peu nach ihren Vorstellungen – die durchweg von eben jenen fiktiven Ideen und Bildern gespeist sind, die man aus einschlägigen Büchern und Filmen kennt – haben instand setzen lassen. Internationaler Jet-Set reist an, Globetrotter, die Speerspitze der Globalisierung: Stars, Lords, Finanzberater und Analysten, Menschen, die ihr Arbeitsleben auf den Flughäfen und in den Hotels der Metropolen zwischen USA, London und Shanghai verbringen. Man gibt sich international, man gibt sich abgeklärt und zynisch, man genießt die Völlerei und die Orgien und die Drogen, während Einheimische als Dienerschaft fungieren und dafür Sorge tragen, daß der Schampus und der Kif nicht ausgehen, daß immer schon die Kanapees bereitstehen, ehe überhaupt jemand merkt, daß er Hunger hat.
Auf dem Weg in diese Oase des vermeintlichen Glücks sind auch David und Jo. Das britische Paar streitet erbittert auf der Fahrt durch die Wüste, offensichtlich steht es nicht zum Besten um diese Ehe. Und dann springt plötzliche jemand vor ihr Auto. Stunden später treffen sie in der Oase ein und haben einen Leichnam auf dem Rücksitz. Richard, der seine Party gefährdet sieht, müht sich, alle Widrigkeiten mit den Behörden schnell und unauffällig zu lösen. Der Tote soll möglichst schnell unter die Erde oder zumindest weggebracht werden – als Ausrede dient hier der Brauch, Verstorbene wenn möglich noch am Tag ihres Todes zu beerdigen – , der Fortgang des Wochenendes darf möglichst wenig gestört werden. Doch all die schönen Pläne werden durchkreuzt, als der Vater des Toten vor dem Ksar auftaucht und Genugtuung verlangt. Er will, daß David, den er als Alleinverantwortlichen betrachtet, ihn und seine Begleiter sowie den Leichnam in deren Heimatdorf begleitet und (mindestens) an der Trauerfeier teilnimmt. Widerwillig muß sich David auf das Arrangement einlassen und tritt eine Reise ins Ungewisse an, während Jo auf der Party verweilt. Ein wildes Wochenende für alle Beteiligten bricht an.
Osborne spielt gnadenlos mit den Klischees, den der gemeine Westler sich vom Orient (auch, wenn dies gar nicht der „Orient“ ist) so macht. Er führt mit Richard und Dally, den Gastgebern, zwei gebildete und zugleich ignorante Vertreter jener Entwicklungen ein, die sich seit den 80er Jahren unter „Postmoderne“ subsumieren lassen. Der Ort, den sie sich hier, mitten in der Wüste, in „feindlicher“ Umgebung, geschaffen haben, entspricht ihren Ideen und hat mit der Lebenswirklichkeit des Landes nichts zu tun. Der Ksar, den Richard gekauft hat, ist letztlich ebenso Kulisse, wie die Bauten, die George Lucas einst für seine STAR WARS-Filme in die marokkanischen Wüste stellen ließ. Ihr Verhältnis zu den Einheimischen ist das von Kolonialherren zu den Bevölkerungen der Länder, die sie besetzt halten. Weder interessiert sie deren Lebenswirklichkeit, noch die Kultur des Landes. Richard und Dally sind Ästhetizisten, ihre Hintergründe sind die Auktionshäuser und Kunstgalerien New Yorks und Londons, ihr Referenzrahmen ist ausschließlich jene Klasse der Superreichen, die es sich weiterhin leisten kann, ein Leben nach dem Vorbild der Aristokratie zu führen. Nur, daß das Entree in diese Kreise nicht qua Geburt gegeben ist (obwohl mit Lord Swann ein waschechter englischer Lord anwesend ist), sondern per Scheckbuch erkauft werden kann. Dekadenz als Lebensprinzip, wie es vielleicht in den späten 60er und den 70er Jahren die Rolling Stones und andere Rockbands vorgelebt haben.
Kontrastiert wird dies durch die Geschichte des Toten – Driss – und der gnadenlosen Haltung dessen Vaters Abdellah, der von David verlangt, die Wahrheit über die Unglücksnacht zu erzählen. Abdellah ist Patriarch in einem weitaus tristeren Wüstenkaff, als es Richards Phantasie-Ksar darstellt. Dessen Bewohner leben davon, in den Sedimentschichten des Maghreb nach Fossilien zu graben, die sie dann entweder am Straßenrand an Touristen oder aber – für etwas mehr Geld – an Zwischenhändler verkaufen, die ihrerseits hohe Gewinne bei Sammlern und Museen erzielen. Gewinne, von denen diejenigen, die im Staub nach den vorzeitlichen Exponaten suchen, nie etwas sehen. Die Jungen wollen hier nur weg, träumen davon, nach Europa zu gelangen und dort Jobs im Dienstleistungssektor zu ergattern, um am „guten Leben“ des Westens partizipieren zu dürfen. Auch Driss hat dies bereits versucht, wie er es seinem Kumpel Ismael in jener Nacht, die die letzte seines Lebens sein sollte, erzählt hat.
Für David, den Alkoholiker, der sich im heimatlichen London, wo er als Arzt arbeitet, mit allerhand beruflichen Problemen konfrontiert sieht, wird dieser Trip in die Wüste zu einem wahren Erweckungserlebnis. Und obwohl er nicht dumm ist, wie sein Schulfreund Richard über eine umfangreiche Bildung verfügt, durchaus auch wachen Sinnes für die ökonomischen Bedingungen der Menschen ist, die er beobachtet, kann er doch sein grundlegendes Verhalten, seine zynische Weltsicht, nicht ändern. Wenn je ein Autor Samuel P. Huntingtons Thesen zum Clash of Cultures ernst genommen und an ihr bitterstes Ende gedacht hat, dann Lawrence Osborne. Die Ungleichzeitigkeit fortgeschrittener westlicher Lebenswelten, die teilweise längst nur noch in Blasen existieren, Blasen die – wieder das Teufelswort „Postmoderne“ – sich gegen die Realität durchaus abzuschotten verstehen, und einer Welt, die prinzipiell noch lange nicht aus ihrer Geschichte als Kolonialland, also kolonialisiertes Land, herausgefunden hat (und somit den weitaus größeren Teil dieses Planeten stellt) wird von Osborne wie unter einem Brennglas offengelegt und seziert. Und folgt man Osborne bis an das bittere Ende seines Romans, wird es wohl auch keine Konvergenz mehr geben. Denn Menschen wie Richard, David oder Jo sprechen nicht nur wortwörtlich keine Sprache, in der sie sich tiefergehend mit den Einheimischen austauschen könnten, sondern auch nicht im übertragenen Sinne. Die kulturellen und sozialen Gräben zwischen diesen Lebenswelten können nicht mehr überwunden werden.
Osborne zeichnet glaubwürdige Figuren, deren Innenleben wir verstehen. Er driftet nicht in Klischees ab, er bietet kaum schwarz-weiße Zeichnungen dieser Menschen, sondern zeigt kühl auf, daß Reichtum, daß westliche Bildung, daß Intelligenz und Welterfahrung keineswegs dazu führen müssen, die Welt und ihre Bedingungen besser – oder überhaupt – zu verstehen. Mehr noch: Er zeigt, daß gerade Reichtum, Bildung und Intelligenz auch dazu führen können, sich abzuschotten, sich den moralischen – oder ethischen – Problemen und Implikationen des eigenen Handelns zu entziehen. Man kann ja sowieso nichts tun. Und dann kann man ja, wenn es das Konto erlaubt, ein Als-Ob-Leben führen, das so typisch ist für die Postmoderne. Es ist einfacher – und in mancherlei Hinsicht eben auch schöner – in der Phantasievorstellung eines Ksars zu leben, als in einer historisch akkurat hergestellten Nachbildung oder gar einer musealen Aufbereitung. In dieser Welt wird jeder zum Statisten im Leben der anderen. Für Richard sind sogar die Gäste seiner Partys, die natürlich internationale Aufmerksamkeit generieren, lediglich Statisten. Immer wieder werden wir intime Zeugen seiner teils verachtenden Betrachtungen dieser Gäste, die er im Großen und Ganzen nicht leiden kann.
Doch Osborne geht noch weiter und bietet mit dem Pärchen Jo und David eine Blaupause, anhand derer wir erleben müssen, wie die Verdrängung des Elends, die innere Abschottung letztlich auch ein Gift freisetzt, das sich nach und nach gegen die wendet, die meinen, sich abschotten zu können. Denn auch sie sind nicht davor gefeit, von der Wirklichkeit eingeholt zu werden. Das ist hier ganz wörtlich zu nehmen, wenn Jo recht unterkühlt zusieht, wie ihr Mann in die Wüste entschwindet, sich zwar sorgt, zugleich aber ihre plötzliche Freiheit genießt und zu sich selbst zu kommen scheint. Und dennoch kann auch sie ihrem Schicksal nicht entrinnen. Denn in der Wirklichkeit unter der gleißenden Sonne Marokkos gibt es Werte, die um nahezu jeden Preis aufrecht zu erhalten sind. Denn der Tod eines Menschen mag für Richard und die seinen die unliebsame Störung eines Wochenendes sein, für den Vater des Toten ist dieser Tod nicht nur ein gräßlicher Verlust, sondern auch ein ökonomischer Einschnitt, wird hier, am Berg, doch jeder Arbeiter gebraucht. Und so zeichnet Osborne auch von den Marokkanern kein umfänglich positives Bild, sondern lässt uns auch an Abdullahs Gedanken und Gefühlen teilhaben, die nicht frei sind von Zweifeln, von Verachtung, von Hass und Rachelust.
Osborne, der lange als Reportage-Journalist die Welt bereist hat, ist da ein kleines Meisterwerk gelungen. Ein kühler Blick auf westliche Arroganz und Dekadenz, auf ein historisches Verständnis, das sich trotz aller vermeintlicher Erkenntnisse des späten 20. Jahrhunderts kaum weit von dem des 19. Jahrhunderts entfernt hat. Und er lässt es mit einer Welt kollidieren, in der eine Härte vorherrscht, die wir Westler kaum zu verstehen in der Lage sind. Diese Menschen, so resümiert es David während seines Aufenthalts in Abdellahs Dorf, sind jahrhundertelang durch den Wüstenwind, die Hitze, die Sonne und den Staub geformt worden. Geformt durch eine Wirklichkeit, die ein Nordeuropäer, geprägt durch Kälte, Regen, durch Wiesen und Wälder, nicht nachvollziehen kann – und in die ein Europäer schlicht nicht passt. Osborne macht dies unmißverständlich klar. Und bietet wenig – nein, er bietet keinen – Ausblick auf Verständnis. Keine Hoffnung. Nirgends.
In genau dieses Marokko versetzt Lawrence Osborne den Leser in seinem Roman DENEN MAN VERGIBT (THE FORGIVEN; Original erschienen 2012, Dt. 2017). In einer geschickt konstruierten, erbarmungslos kühl erzählten Geschichte, evoziert er die oben beschriebenen Bilder, spielt mit ihnen, spielt mit dem Leser und gibt kaum Auswege zu erkennen, wie der sich distanzieren kann von dem, was er da liest.
An einem langen Wochenende lädt ein schwules Pärchen – ein Engländer und ein Amerikaner – zu einer wilden Party mitten in der Wüste. Hier haben Richard und Dally einen Ksar gekauft, ein altes Berber-Dorf, das sie peu à peu nach ihren Vorstellungen – die durchweg von eben jenen fiktiven Ideen und Bildern gespeist sind, die man aus einschlägigen Büchern und Filmen kennt – haben instand setzen lassen. Internationaler Jet-Set reist an, Globetrotter, die Speerspitze der Globalisierung: Stars, Lords, Finanzberater und Analysten, Menschen, die ihr Arbeitsleben auf den Flughäfen und in den Hotels der Metropolen zwischen USA, London und Shanghai verbringen. Man gibt sich international, man gibt sich abgeklärt und zynisch, man genießt die Völlerei und die Orgien und die Drogen, während Einheimische als Dienerschaft fungieren und dafür Sorge tragen, daß der Schampus und der Kif nicht ausgehen, daß immer schon die Kanapees bereitstehen, ehe überhaupt jemand merkt, daß er Hunger hat.
Auf dem Weg in diese Oase des vermeintlichen Glücks sind auch David und Jo. Das britische Paar streitet erbittert auf der Fahrt durch die Wüste, offensichtlich steht es nicht zum Besten um diese Ehe. Und dann springt plötzliche jemand vor ihr Auto. Stunden später treffen sie in der Oase ein und haben einen Leichnam auf dem Rücksitz. Richard, der seine Party gefährdet sieht, müht sich, alle Widrigkeiten mit den Behörden schnell und unauffällig zu lösen. Der Tote soll möglichst schnell unter die Erde oder zumindest weggebracht werden – als Ausrede dient hier der Brauch, Verstorbene wenn möglich noch am Tag ihres Todes zu beerdigen – , der Fortgang des Wochenendes darf möglichst wenig gestört werden. Doch all die schönen Pläne werden durchkreuzt, als der Vater des Toten vor dem Ksar auftaucht und Genugtuung verlangt. Er will, daß David, den er als Alleinverantwortlichen betrachtet, ihn und seine Begleiter sowie den Leichnam in deren Heimatdorf begleitet und (mindestens) an der Trauerfeier teilnimmt. Widerwillig muß sich David auf das Arrangement einlassen und tritt eine Reise ins Ungewisse an, während Jo auf der Party verweilt. Ein wildes Wochenende für alle Beteiligten bricht an.
Osborne spielt gnadenlos mit den Klischees, den der gemeine Westler sich vom Orient (auch, wenn dies gar nicht der „Orient“ ist) so macht. Er führt mit Richard und Dally, den Gastgebern, zwei gebildete und zugleich ignorante Vertreter jener Entwicklungen ein, die sich seit den 80er Jahren unter „Postmoderne“ subsumieren lassen. Der Ort, den sie sich hier, mitten in der Wüste, in „feindlicher“ Umgebung, geschaffen haben, entspricht ihren Ideen und hat mit der Lebenswirklichkeit des Landes nichts zu tun. Der Ksar, den Richard gekauft hat, ist letztlich ebenso Kulisse, wie die Bauten, die George Lucas einst für seine STAR WARS-Filme in die marokkanischen Wüste stellen ließ. Ihr Verhältnis zu den Einheimischen ist das von Kolonialherren zu den Bevölkerungen der Länder, die sie besetzt halten. Weder interessiert sie deren Lebenswirklichkeit, noch die Kultur des Landes. Richard und Dally sind Ästhetizisten, ihre Hintergründe sind die Auktionshäuser und Kunstgalerien New Yorks und Londons, ihr Referenzrahmen ist ausschließlich jene Klasse der Superreichen, die es sich weiterhin leisten kann, ein Leben nach dem Vorbild der Aristokratie zu führen. Nur, daß das Entree in diese Kreise nicht qua Geburt gegeben ist (obwohl mit Lord Swann ein waschechter englischer Lord anwesend ist), sondern per Scheckbuch erkauft werden kann. Dekadenz als Lebensprinzip, wie es vielleicht in den späten 60er und den 70er Jahren die Rolling Stones und andere Rockbands vorgelebt haben.
Kontrastiert wird dies durch die Geschichte des Toten – Driss – und der gnadenlosen Haltung dessen Vaters Abdellah, der von David verlangt, die Wahrheit über die Unglücksnacht zu erzählen. Abdellah ist Patriarch in einem weitaus tristeren Wüstenkaff, als es Richards Phantasie-Ksar darstellt. Dessen Bewohner leben davon, in den Sedimentschichten des Maghreb nach Fossilien zu graben, die sie dann entweder am Straßenrand an Touristen oder aber – für etwas mehr Geld – an Zwischenhändler verkaufen, die ihrerseits hohe Gewinne bei Sammlern und Museen erzielen. Gewinne, von denen diejenigen, die im Staub nach den vorzeitlichen Exponaten suchen, nie etwas sehen. Die Jungen wollen hier nur weg, träumen davon, nach Europa zu gelangen und dort Jobs im Dienstleistungssektor zu ergattern, um am „guten Leben“ des Westens partizipieren zu dürfen. Auch Driss hat dies bereits versucht, wie er es seinem Kumpel Ismael in jener Nacht, die die letzte seines Lebens sein sollte, erzählt hat.
Für David, den Alkoholiker, der sich im heimatlichen London, wo er als Arzt arbeitet, mit allerhand beruflichen Problemen konfrontiert sieht, wird dieser Trip in die Wüste zu einem wahren Erweckungserlebnis. Und obwohl er nicht dumm ist, wie sein Schulfreund Richard über eine umfangreiche Bildung verfügt, durchaus auch wachen Sinnes für die ökonomischen Bedingungen der Menschen ist, die er beobachtet, kann er doch sein grundlegendes Verhalten, seine zynische Weltsicht, nicht ändern. Wenn je ein Autor Samuel P. Huntingtons Thesen zum Clash of Cultures ernst genommen und an ihr bitterstes Ende gedacht hat, dann Lawrence Osborne. Die Ungleichzeitigkeit fortgeschrittener westlicher Lebenswelten, die teilweise längst nur noch in Blasen existieren, Blasen die – wieder das Teufelswort „Postmoderne“ – sich gegen die Realität durchaus abzuschotten verstehen, und einer Welt, die prinzipiell noch lange nicht aus ihrer Geschichte als Kolonialland, also kolonialisiertes Land, herausgefunden hat (und somit den weitaus größeren Teil dieses Planeten stellt) wird von Osborne wie unter einem Brennglas offengelegt und seziert. Und folgt man Osborne bis an das bittere Ende seines Romans, wird es wohl auch keine Konvergenz mehr geben. Denn Menschen wie Richard, David oder Jo sprechen nicht nur wortwörtlich keine Sprache, in der sie sich tiefergehend mit den Einheimischen austauschen könnten, sondern auch nicht im übertragenen Sinne. Die kulturellen und sozialen Gräben zwischen diesen Lebenswelten können nicht mehr überwunden werden.
Osborne zeichnet glaubwürdige Figuren, deren Innenleben wir verstehen. Er driftet nicht in Klischees ab, er bietet kaum schwarz-weiße Zeichnungen dieser Menschen, sondern zeigt kühl auf, daß Reichtum, daß westliche Bildung, daß Intelligenz und Welterfahrung keineswegs dazu führen müssen, die Welt und ihre Bedingungen besser – oder überhaupt – zu verstehen. Mehr noch: Er zeigt, daß gerade Reichtum, Bildung und Intelligenz auch dazu führen können, sich abzuschotten, sich den moralischen – oder ethischen – Problemen und Implikationen des eigenen Handelns zu entziehen. Man kann ja sowieso nichts tun. Und dann kann man ja, wenn es das Konto erlaubt, ein Als-Ob-Leben führen, das so typisch ist für die Postmoderne. Es ist einfacher – und in mancherlei Hinsicht eben auch schöner – in der Phantasievorstellung eines Ksars zu leben, als in einer historisch akkurat hergestellten Nachbildung oder gar einer musealen Aufbereitung. In dieser Welt wird jeder zum Statisten im Leben der anderen. Für Richard sind sogar die Gäste seiner Partys, die natürlich internationale Aufmerksamkeit generieren, lediglich Statisten. Immer wieder werden wir intime Zeugen seiner teils verachtenden Betrachtungen dieser Gäste, die er im Großen und Ganzen nicht leiden kann.
Doch Osborne geht noch weiter und bietet mit dem Pärchen Jo und David eine Blaupause, anhand derer wir erleben müssen, wie die Verdrängung des Elends, die innere Abschottung letztlich auch ein Gift freisetzt, das sich nach und nach gegen die wendet, die meinen, sich abschotten zu können. Denn auch sie sind nicht davor gefeit, von der Wirklichkeit eingeholt zu werden. Das ist hier ganz wörtlich zu nehmen, wenn Jo recht unterkühlt zusieht, wie ihr Mann in die Wüste entschwindet, sich zwar sorgt, zugleich aber ihre plötzliche Freiheit genießt und zu sich selbst zu kommen scheint. Und dennoch kann auch sie ihrem Schicksal nicht entrinnen. Denn in der Wirklichkeit unter der gleißenden Sonne Marokkos gibt es Werte, die um nahezu jeden Preis aufrecht zu erhalten sind. Denn der Tod eines Menschen mag für Richard und die seinen die unliebsame Störung eines Wochenendes sein, für den Vater des Toten ist dieser Tod nicht nur ein gräßlicher Verlust, sondern auch ein ökonomischer Einschnitt, wird hier, am Berg, doch jeder Arbeiter gebraucht. Und so zeichnet Osborne auch von den Marokkanern kein umfänglich positives Bild, sondern lässt uns auch an Abdullahs Gedanken und Gefühlen teilhaben, die nicht frei sind von Zweifeln, von Verachtung, von Hass und Rachelust.
Osborne, der lange als Reportage-Journalist die Welt bereist hat, ist da ein kleines Meisterwerk gelungen. Ein kühler Blick auf westliche Arroganz und Dekadenz, auf ein historisches Verständnis, das sich trotz aller vermeintlicher Erkenntnisse des späten 20. Jahrhunderts kaum weit von dem des 19. Jahrhunderts entfernt hat. Und er lässt es mit einer Welt kollidieren, in der eine Härte vorherrscht, die wir Westler kaum zu verstehen in der Lage sind. Diese Menschen, so resümiert es David während seines Aufenthalts in Abdellahs Dorf, sind jahrhundertelang durch den Wüstenwind, die Hitze, die Sonne und den Staub geformt worden. Geformt durch eine Wirklichkeit, die ein Nordeuropäer, geprägt durch Kälte, Regen, durch Wiesen und Wälder, nicht nachvollziehen kann – und in die ein Europäer schlicht nicht passt. Osborne macht dies unmißverständlich klar. Und bietet wenig – nein, er bietet keinen – Ausblick auf Verständnis. Keine Hoffnung. Nirgends.
August 23, 2021
Io dico solo che non vedo l’ora.
September 26, 2012
My Thoughts
This was very good. Not fast paced, but a slow simmering suspense. I’m going to share one extra tidbit to make this even more enticing. The father of the young man that David struck and killed shows up at the ksar. He wants David, and ONLY David to come back to their village to attend his son’s burial and as such, atone for what he did.
Oh really? A bereaved Muslim father wants an unbeliever, an infidel, to come alone to their distant village. What happens to David? And in David’s absence, what’s his wife up to? The Muslim servants at the party find out very early about the “accident”. This, along with the hedonistic activities that are taking place, also creates an undercurrent of tension. Does anyone come out of this unscathed?
Well written. Heart Pounding. Descriptive. Sizzling.
Bravo Mr. Osborne.
Thank you Crown Publishing and Netgalley for allowing me to read this in exchange for an unbiased review.
Publish date: September 25, 2012
This was very good. Not fast paced, but a slow simmering suspense. I’m going to share one extra tidbit to make this even more enticing. The father of the young man that David struck and killed shows up at the ksar. He wants David, and ONLY David to come back to their village to attend his son’s burial and as such, atone for what he did.
Oh really? A bereaved Muslim father wants an unbeliever, an infidel, to come alone to their distant village. What happens to David? And in David’s absence, what’s his wife up to? The Muslim servants at the party find out very early about the “accident”. This, along with the hedonistic activities that are taking place, also creates an undercurrent of tension. Does anyone come out of this unscathed?
Well written. Heart Pounding. Descriptive. Sizzling.
Bravo Mr. Osborne.
Thank you Crown Publishing and Netgalley for allowing me to read this in exchange for an unbiased review.
Publish date: September 25, 2012
July 4, 2013
In a word, outstanding. Best novel I've read in a long time. The prose is utterly seductive. Within a few pages I was straight back in Morocco, which I only know from one visit, but there I was, seeing and smelling it all so vividly. I love the blend of impartiability and compassion, the despair and dogged hope, the quiet English irony of the travelled writer. Although he's English, he osborne has more in common for me with American writers like McInerney - very sensuous, never fidgety the way so many English writers are.
I can't recommend it highly enough. In fact I've embarked on the rest of his writing. Just finished Bangkok Days, easily the ebst travel book I've ever read and am now on another non-fiction book of his, The Accidental Connoiseur.
I can't recommend it highly enough. In fact I've embarked on the rest of his writing. Just finished Bangkok Days, easily the ebst travel book I've ever read and am now on another non-fiction book of his, The Accidental Connoiseur.
March 29, 2013
I chose to read this book based on the books synopsis on Goodreads. It sounded alluring. What I found this book to be was the Great Gatsby set in Morrocco. Full of superficial wealthy characters who spend there days worrying about what they will eat next and what parties they will go smoke weed at or get drunk at next. I also felt the author gave way too much detail on insigniciant parts of the story. I cant say that he doesn't pay attention to detail, it was overkill though. Political commentary on Muslims, Americans, Iraq, etc. I think he had to make to storyline fit the title and it wasn't really smooth. I am sure glad this was a free download from my library.
January 8, 2014
I wanted to like this book more than I did. Everything seemed aligned for my enjoyment: a story about travel in Morocco, lush, elegant writing that explores the problematic consciousnesses, not just of the Americans and British expats, but of the local people who are trapped in poverty and frustration. But there was something that made the book slow and even laborious so that I never really wanted to return to it. I'm not exactly sure what that was (perhaps it was my own impatience), but I think it had to do with Osborne's habit of interrupting dramatic situations with extended and repeated descriptions and interior examinations. None of the scenes were allowed to properly develop energy and tension without intrusions of what began to feel like the "narrator," or, to use a clumsy phrase, the "writer." Osborne is an excellent writer and I wanted to love this book, but just didn't, though I'll certainly give his next one a try.
January 12, 2014
”…one forgets that the point of life is death.”
The story seemingly describes a culture clash, between traditional Moroccan Muslims trying to scratch out a living and affluent Westerners who have too much of a living. But it could equally have been set in a vast country estate of the wealthy in 19th-century Britain, pitting the lords against the peasants.
Or in the crowded streets of New York….I just realized what this story has in common with The Bonfire of the Vanities: a car driven by a rich person hits a poor person of a different race in a different country (the Bronx was like a different country to Sherman McCoy). The plot lines diverge, but we are provoked in to considering the moralities at play.
Who is to be forgiven? In this case, most obviously forgive the driver that killed the man. But by the end of the book I am asking who, or who else? Should it be the boy whose perceived criminal intent put into motion the series of events that culminated in his own death? And because of this, he deprives his own father of his only son? Should it be Should it be everyone, because everyone has done, will do, wrong; that is what it is to be human.
But maybe it is referring to the sense of entitlement of the perpetual colonialists, the expats, who seem to feel as if nothing is their fault, as if everything they’ve done wrong should be forgiven because they wouldn’t have done it if events or actions by others had not impelled them. The adult manifestation of the child’s plaintive cry, “But he made me do it! It’s not fair! I wouldn’t have done this if he hadn’t done that!” Their relative wealth confers great power over the ‘natives’. The powerful are forgiven; the subjugated are punished.
What is the distance between revenge and forgiveness?
The story seemingly describes a culture clash, between traditional Moroccan Muslims trying to scratch out a living and affluent Westerners who have too much of a living. But it could equally have been set in a vast country estate of the wealthy in 19th-century Britain, pitting the lords against the peasants.
Or in the crowded streets of New York….I just realized what this story has in common with The Bonfire of the Vanities: a car driven by a rich person hits a poor person of a different race in a different country (the Bronx was like a different country to Sherman McCoy). The plot lines diverge, but we are provoked in to considering the moralities at play.
Who is to be forgiven? In this case, most obviously forgive the driver that killed the man. But by the end of the book I am asking who, or who else? Should it be the boy whose perceived criminal intent put into motion the series of events that culminated in his own death? And because of this, he deprives his own father of his only son? Should it be Should it be everyone, because everyone has done, will do, wrong; that is what it is to be human.
But maybe it is referring to the sense of entitlement of the perpetual colonialists, the expats, who seem to feel as if nothing is their fault, as if everything they’ve done wrong should be forgiven because they wouldn’t have done it if events or actions by others had not impelled them. The adult manifestation of the child’s plaintive cry, “But he made me do it! It’s not fair! I wouldn’t have done this if he hadn’t done that!” Their relative wealth confers great power over the ‘natives’. The powerful are forgiven; the subjugated are punished.
What is the distance between revenge and forgiveness?
March 24, 2022
Ambientazione suggestiva e narrazione lenta, sapiente, raffinata, che immerge il lettore, pagina dopo pagina, in uno stupefacente angolo di mondo. C’è un villaggio berbero abbandonato e trasformato da una coppia di stramiliardari in una villa grandiosa. Una lunga festa con molti invitati, tra i quali una coppia di inglesi, che arrivando nella notte investe e uccide un giovane indigeno. L’episodio contrappone in un faccia a faccia carico di tensioni i due estremi dell’umanità: da un lato gli infedeli, arroganti e immorali, dall’altra gli arabi del deserto, poveri, fanatici e selvaggi, e tutti, da un lato e dall’altro della fossa, arroccati sulle proprie incrollabili certezze. Ma nessuno è come sembra; e nessuno è senza colpa. È possibile capirsi e addirittura perdonarsi, in un tale abisso di mentalità e culture? In un lento e avvincente crescendo, la storia sale come una strada a tornanti, fra questione spinose e insolubili, e insoluta rimane, nonostante il gran finale.
Felice di aver scoperto un ottimo romanziere a me fin qui ignoto, che non vedo l'ora di esplorare.
Felice di aver scoperto un ottimo romanziere a me fin qui ignoto, che non vedo l'ora di esplorare.
October 2, 2012
(Reprinted from the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography [cclapcenter.com]. I am the original author of this review, as well as the owner of CCLaP; it is not being reprinted illegally.)
Now that I'm finished with it, I find myself having a hard time deciding what exactly to think of critical darling and "professional nomad" Lawrence Osborne's latest novel, the engaging but also meandering The Forgiven. Because on the one hand, its Graham-Greene-meets-the-Tea-Party setting is going to be fascinating to most sheltered Westerners like myself; almost the entire story takes place within a former Moroccan village that an upper-class gay British couple have bought in its entirety and turned into a private sybaritic estate, where the former family hovels have been turned into WiFi-equipped guest bungalows, and once a year a week-long orgy of drugs and group sex is thrown for the spoiled globetrotters who fly in specifically for it, so notorious that it regularly makes the society pages back in the UK and US publications where most of the guests are from. And the plot that this veteran journalist and academic favorite places within this setting is fascinating as well; two of the guests, a bickering middle-aged British couple, decide to drive to the compound from the airport themselves, accidentally hitting and killing a local African teen in the middle of the night while the driver is slightly sauced, which serves as the catalyst for both a blow-up and deconstruction of their crumbling marriage, the husband's growing alcoholism, the wife's infidelity, the hosts' "tongue-in-cheek imperialist" lifestyle, and even such local issues as scared bravado masked as fiery political rhetoric, and pride versus familial duties. But on the other hand, it takes an awfully big suspension of disbelief to buy into the main plot turn that fuels the entire second half of the book -- that the drunken spoiled vehicular manslaughterer in question would voluntarily ride into the desert with the father of the slain teen and his knife-wielding buddies, for a weekend of penance and possible extortion to "atone" for the accident -- with the entire book sort of falling apart if you don't buy into this unlikely turn of events; plus there's the fact that, while Osborne provides satisfyingly complex looks at his white characters, he often falls back on lazy cliches for the local Moroccans, and of course the age-old argument among academic character-heavy novels that not a whole lot actually happens once this wonderfully complex milieu is established, although by definition this will bother some people a lot less than others. So when all is said and done, in general I recommend the book but with some caveats, that you need to be ready for a slower-paced story whose main joy is merely in lazily lounging among the characters in question, and not in finding out "what happens next." If you're able to do this, you'll find in The Forgiven a beautifully written, thought-provoking examination of 21st-century imperialism, and the debate over whether this attitude is simply baked into all Westerners from childhood by default or if it's a specific result of the same sociopathic urge that drives the One Percenters to become those people in the first place.
Out of 10: 8.8
Now that I'm finished with it, I find myself having a hard time deciding what exactly to think of critical darling and "professional nomad" Lawrence Osborne's latest novel, the engaging but also meandering The Forgiven. Because on the one hand, its Graham-Greene-meets-the-Tea-Party setting is going to be fascinating to most sheltered Westerners like myself; almost the entire story takes place within a former Moroccan village that an upper-class gay British couple have bought in its entirety and turned into a private sybaritic estate, where the former family hovels have been turned into WiFi-equipped guest bungalows, and once a year a week-long orgy of drugs and group sex is thrown for the spoiled globetrotters who fly in specifically for it, so notorious that it regularly makes the society pages back in the UK and US publications where most of the guests are from. And the plot that this veteran journalist and academic favorite places within this setting is fascinating as well; two of the guests, a bickering middle-aged British couple, decide to drive to the compound from the airport themselves, accidentally hitting and killing a local African teen in the middle of the night while the driver is slightly sauced, which serves as the catalyst for both a blow-up and deconstruction of their crumbling marriage, the husband's growing alcoholism, the wife's infidelity, the hosts' "tongue-in-cheek imperialist" lifestyle, and even such local issues as scared bravado masked as fiery political rhetoric, and pride versus familial duties. But on the other hand, it takes an awfully big suspension of disbelief to buy into the main plot turn that fuels the entire second half of the book -- that the drunken spoiled vehicular manslaughterer in question would voluntarily ride into the desert with the father of the slain teen and his knife-wielding buddies, for a weekend of penance and possible extortion to "atone" for the accident -- with the entire book sort of falling apart if you don't buy into this unlikely turn of events; plus there's the fact that, while Osborne provides satisfyingly complex looks at his white characters, he often falls back on lazy cliches for the local Moroccans, and of course the age-old argument among academic character-heavy novels that not a whole lot actually happens once this wonderfully complex milieu is established, although by definition this will bother some people a lot less than others. So when all is said and done, in general I recommend the book but with some caveats, that you need to be ready for a slower-paced story whose main joy is merely in lazily lounging among the characters in question, and not in finding out "what happens next." If you're able to do this, you'll find in The Forgiven a beautifully written, thought-provoking examination of 21st-century imperialism, and the debate over whether this attitude is simply baked into all Westerners from childhood by default or if it's a specific result of the same sociopathic urge that drives the One Percenters to become those people in the first place.
Out of 10: 8.8
April 16, 2016
After a couple drinks, a bickering English couple set off from Tangier to a house party in the desert, driving at night, the road unfolding before them. This will not end well, I thought, and kept reading. Echoes of Paul Bowles and his clueless/arrogant Westerners of course, but also the acidulous observation of Edward St. Aubyn. I was more than halfway through the book before I realized how well it was written. The fine-grained point of view shifts constantly, between man and wife, between hosts and guests, between Europeans and Arabs. No one is spared. Osborne rarely resorts to caricature. The chief exception is an unnamed French woman berating American imperialism, and I couldn't help but enjoy the malice.
In a phrase: insight without compassion (Bowles again) and shimmering sentences. To understand all is to forgive nothing.
In a phrase: insight without compassion (Bowles again) and shimmering sentences. To understand all is to forgive nothing.
September 20, 2016
... we have fossils and our children...laments the old fossil digger Abdellah,"...the desert is what we fish and the fossils are our fish....
He, like many others living along the slopes of the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, eke out a meager living through digging, prepping and trading in fossils, nightmare life forms from another geological era. Lawrence Osborne, experienced world traveler and writer, is familiar with the Moroccan landscapes and the local traditions. His novel draws on his deep knowledge and fascination with the place and his empathy with and understanding of the local people. In THE FORGIVEN he juxtaposes the precarious circumstances of the fossil diggers with the luxurious and carefree lifestyle of a group of the rich and famous, who revel in the delights of luxury hotels or private villas. Every year, Richard and Dally, the owners of a part-way glamorously restored 400-year old "ksour"(a walled-in cluster of villas, chalets, gardens and pools), invite a group of mainly Europeans friends and business associates to indulge in a feast of plenty with the best that money can buy, served diligently by local "servants". Feeling somewhat self-conscious about the wealth amidst all the poverty, Richard justifies the restoration of the ksour in that it provides employment of any number of young Moroccans and the influx of tourism is also good business for the fossil traders.
The contrasts between the two groups, is clearly what preoccupies the author and he elaborates the different aspects which reach from the economic to the cultural and language differences to the fundamental positions on religion, values and morality. The chasm between the world views of local Muslim population and that of the visitors is very explicit and comes across as irreconcilable.
The events of the novel play out against the backdrop of the festivities and overindulgence at the ksour and Osborne gives us more than enough intimate and intricate details. It is, however, one particular "incident" that epitomizes the underlying misunderstandings and mistrust between the two groups and that takes over the narrative. Two guests, Jo and David, have an accident late at night en route to the ksour: a young Moroccan man, who they feel, was about to rob them, runs towards the speeding car and is killed. Not knowing what to do they take the body with them to their hosts who, in communication with the local police, will, hopefully, sort out the mishap. But the "sorting out" develops very differently from what David and Jo anticipate. Driss, the young man is the son of the old fossil digger Abdellah who comes to claim the body...
Osborne describes the emotional tension between David, who in the locals's view may be regarded a murderer, and Abdellah, the grieving father, very poignantly: " Between the two men there existed a mental chasm - centuries of antagonism and mutual ignorance.... There was a much deeper misunderstanding between them, one that went so far back into the mind that the beginning could not be conceptualized." Will there be revenge or can there be forgiveness? The author imagines the exchanges and the pauses with sensitivity and empathy.
For me the hard positions of the Europeans and the Moroccans about each other come across as somewhat extreme and in danger of being stereotypical. Yet, the author, I assume, deliberately overdraws the contrasting perspectives to illustrate how far away the cultural positions are from any opening towards mutual respect and appreciation. To give some hope for a middle ground, Osborne introduces a couple of individuals as "interpreters": Anouar, a younger and linguistically skilled man accompanies Abdellah and David's encounters, while Hamid, the quiet, reserved and highly efficient manager of the ksour plays an important mediating role between the staff, the locals, Richard and the guests.
He, like many others living along the slopes of the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, eke out a meager living through digging, prepping and trading in fossils, nightmare life forms from another geological era. Lawrence Osborne, experienced world traveler and writer, is familiar with the Moroccan landscapes and the local traditions. His novel draws on his deep knowledge and fascination with the place and his empathy with and understanding of the local people. In THE FORGIVEN he juxtaposes the precarious circumstances of the fossil diggers with the luxurious and carefree lifestyle of a group of the rich and famous, who revel in the delights of luxury hotels or private villas. Every year, Richard and Dally, the owners of a part-way glamorously restored 400-year old "ksour"(a walled-in cluster of villas, chalets, gardens and pools), invite a group of mainly Europeans friends and business associates to indulge in a feast of plenty with the best that money can buy, served diligently by local "servants". Feeling somewhat self-conscious about the wealth amidst all the poverty, Richard justifies the restoration of the ksour in that it provides employment of any number of young Moroccans and the influx of tourism is also good business for the fossil traders.
The contrasts between the two groups, is clearly what preoccupies the author and he elaborates the different aspects which reach from the economic to the cultural and language differences to the fundamental positions on religion, values and morality. The chasm between the world views of local Muslim population and that of the visitors is very explicit and comes across as irreconcilable.
The events of the novel play out against the backdrop of the festivities and overindulgence at the ksour and Osborne gives us more than enough intimate and intricate details. It is, however, one particular "incident" that epitomizes the underlying misunderstandings and mistrust between the two groups and that takes over the narrative. Two guests, Jo and David, have an accident late at night en route to the ksour: a young Moroccan man, who they feel, was about to rob them, runs towards the speeding car and is killed. Not knowing what to do they take the body with them to their hosts who, in communication with the local police, will, hopefully, sort out the mishap. But the "sorting out" develops very differently from what David and Jo anticipate. Driss, the young man is the son of the old fossil digger Abdellah who comes to claim the body...
Osborne describes the emotional tension between David, who in the locals's view may be regarded a murderer, and Abdellah, the grieving father, very poignantly: " Between the two men there existed a mental chasm - centuries of antagonism and mutual ignorance.... There was a much deeper misunderstanding between them, one that went so far back into the mind that the beginning could not be conceptualized." Will there be revenge or can there be forgiveness? The author imagines the exchanges and the pauses with sensitivity and empathy.
For me the hard positions of the Europeans and the Moroccans about each other come across as somewhat extreme and in danger of being stereotypical. Yet, the author, I assume, deliberately overdraws the contrasting perspectives to illustrate how far away the cultural positions are from any opening towards mutual respect and appreciation. To give some hope for a middle ground, Osborne introduces a couple of individuals as "interpreters": Anouar, a younger and linguistically skilled man accompanies Abdellah and David's encounters, while Hamid, the quiet, reserved and highly efficient manager of the ksour plays an important mediating role between the staff, the locals, Richard and the guests.
October 19, 2012
if you know osbonrne's writings The Accidental Connoisseur: An Irreverent Journey Through the Wine World you'll know, and expect, full-on sensuality and food/wine porn of the most yummy sort, and this novel brings you all that, plus too, evocation of place that is both "factual seeming" and seductive, even when it is 120 degrees in the shade and flies are biting. so, Morocco, 21st century, a 1%er's posh re-vamped (and air conditioned) hill top fort, fossil sellers out the ass, local boys as the servants, even a damn sir or lord or whatever helicoptering in from uk. then of course the piggy euros accidentally kill a hard working, innocent young hard working muslim hillbilly out in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night on a lonely empty highway, in a dust storm, of course (tongue out of cheek now) and now we have more than just a clash of west v east/ modern v tradish / muslim v chistian v hedon / but also death, sadness, unfairness, face, restitution, justice, imperialism, etc etc.. so on that thin as sand plot and some harsh juxtapositions the reader is plunged into the bowles family back-scene with lots of garcia lorca imaging and d h lawrence clean clean dirtiness. so read it for the beauty of date palms swishing, and russian women swimming and sandwiches in the hamper all cool and crisp in the hot hot sun, and forget the thin thin sand and five villages of some damn hamada that is tibesti? (well, could be tibesti anyway, might as well be) where one village is lousier than the other four. yeah forget that part of the plot. the trilobites are just there for atmosphere, that is if they are not the most important part of this lovely novel.
April 14, 2014
Someone else said about this book "I wanted to like it more than I did." My sentiments exactly. I've been to Morocco, I've read other books about Morocco and am interested in the country, the people, the impact of foreigners - both historically and presently. But - though the story was dramatic, as was the action - it seemed overwritten, too much effort to make it intense. Why do dinosaurs have red eyes? Do they - in a description of scenery, events that have nothing to do with dinosaurs. Some of the imagery and actions seemed unnecessarily "over the top," effusive. The characters, the story line are only too believable - a very rich gay couple has a extravagant party at their very fancy home in a Berber region of Morocco. A couple driving to the party late at night accidentally (?) kills a local (no spoiler alert needed as this is stated on overleaf of book). Rest of book centers -sort of - on the aftermath of this event. But both too much and not enough happen. Though the author shows a good grasp of the impact of these Westerners on local life and people - he lost me part way there.
August 12, 2016
A party in the middle of the Moroccon desert, an automobile accident with a dreadful outcome, and the consequences of that accident........make a great story.
If you treasure J.M.Coetzee or Ian McEwan, you will be gripped by the powerful writing of Lawrence Osborne. I found myself drawn into the terrain, color, sounds, minds and attitudes in this faraway, alienating stretch of Morocco with its mixture of partying Westerners utterly removed from the reality of the native Saharans and the Saharans to whom Western minds are not only bewilderingly remote but organically sinful. In an intense four-day weekend, unpredictability becomes sorted out, then unpredictable again. The language is immensely rich; here is a writer with the prose of a poet, like James Dickey in 'Deliverance'.
If you treasure J.M.Coetzee or Ian McEwan, you will be gripped by the powerful writing of Lawrence Osborne. I found myself drawn into the terrain, color, sounds, minds and attitudes in this faraway, alienating stretch of Morocco with its mixture of partying Westerners utterly removed from the reality of the native Saharans and the Saharans to whom Western minds are not only bewilderingly remote but organically sinful. In an intense four-day weekend, unpredictability becomes sorted out, then unpredictable again. The language is immensely rich; here is a writer with the prose of a poet, like James Dickey in 'Deliverance'.
April 20, 2016
****4.5 Stars****
December 14, 2015
I thought this book was going to be a western. There, I said it. Sure, it's the whole "Unforgiven" thing, but it's also that cover, which looks kind of western-y (because it looks like the picture is in the desert) as long as you don't notice the person on the left is wearing a cape. Had I noticed that, I would have thought the book was going to be a super hero western. I probably would have actually ended up disappointed in that instance.
This book is not a western, and while it is actually set in the desert, that desert happens to be the Sahara. Turns out "The West" does not have a monopoly on deserts.
None of that means anything. I'm just bored and making conversation. Oh, the book? It's pretty damn good.
The book centers on a decadent party thrown by an English couple (at one of their homes, though not their primary home) in Morocco. A pair of guests (David and Jo), on the way to the party, strike and kill a 20-something local man with their car. It's not exactly an accident, as David saw the young man step into the road and, fearing the young man was out to rob him, did not slow down, and instead strikes and kills him. The story proceeds from there.
Osborne's writing here reminds me a great deal of Graham Greene - both in his exploration of the conflict between an outsider and the foreign, and in his general writing style and acerbic wit. Osborne, not unexpectedly, writes in a more modern - hedonistic, vulgar, more cynical - style, but his prose is sharp and precise, and the themes and complications he explores would be easily at home in a Greene novel (which, if you're unaware, is very high praise) - the characterization is deep, complicated, and vibrant, and the story is compelling right to the last page.
So, recommended, all that.
This book is not a western, and while it is actually set in the desert, that desert happens to be the Sahara. Turns out "The West" does not have a monopoly on deserts.
None of that means anything. I'm just bored and making conversation. Oh, the book? It's pretty damn good.
The book centers on a decadent party thrown by an English couple (at one of their homes, though not their primary home) in Morocco. A pair of guests (David and Jo), on the way to the party, strike and kill a 20-something local man with their car. It's not exactly an accident, as David saw the young man step into the road and, fearing the young man was out to rob him, did not slow down, and instead strikes and kills him. The story proceeds from there.
Osborne's writing here reminds me a great deal of Graham Greene - both in his exploration of the conflict between an outsider and the foreign, and in his general writing style and acerbic wit. Osborne, not unexpectedly, writes in a more modern - hedonistic, vulgar, more cynical - style, but his prose is sharp and precise, and the themes and complications he explores would be easily at home in a Greene novel (which, if you're unaware, is very high praise) - the characterization is deep, complicated, and vibrant, and the story is compelling right to the last page.
So, recommended, all that.
April 24, 2013
Everyone loved this book apparently, so who am I to disagree? I will admit it was an interesting read, and I didn't have to force myself to keep reading. Here's the story: A smug alcoholic doctor and his annoying skinny wife travel from England to Morocco to attend a lavish and decadent weekend-long party given by friends they don't really like. Driving in the dark, they hit a young man who had tried to stop their car (a la
"Bonfire of Vanities" and "The Great Gatsby"). Therein lies the conflict: a contrast between the wealthy "infidels" and the impoverished zealous Muslims.
Once again, all of the characters are despicable. There is not a man, woman, or child the reader can relate to because sooner or later each of them reveals their awfulness.
The setting was interesting: somewhere in the Moroccan desert where the land's only crop is fossils. There are rock quarries where the people dig out the fossils left behind when the waters receded. These fossils are sold to buyers all over the world, and there are interesting descriptions of the various types, musings on the irony of the desert yielding ancient relics, as well as thoughts on the Europeans whose wealth allows them to transport these items from this poor country.
One of the things that drove me nuts in this book is a mistake early on ( p. 103-105). The host makes a drink for the doctor: " He didn't bother asking what David wanted. He just made up a hugely alcoholic gin and tonic, no ice. . . . . .[David finishes the drink.] . . .David stared at the ice cube at the bottom of the glass."
The story itself was so contradictory, but I don't want to spoil the plot for anyone. Let's just say, the set up seemed real enough, but the follow through seemed unbelievable.
"Bonfire of Vanities" and "The Great Gatsby"). Therein lies the conflict: a contrast between the wealthy "infidels" and the impoverished zealous Muslims.
Once again, all of the characters are despicable. There is not a man, woman, or child the reader can relate to because sooner or later each of them reveals their awfulness.
The setting was interesting: somewhere in the Moroccan desert where the land's only crop is fossils. There are rock quarries where the people dig out the fossils left behind when the waters receded. These fossils are sold to buyers all over the world, and there are interesting descriptions of the various types, musings on the irony of the desert yielding ancient relics, as well as thoughts on the Europeans whose wealth allows them to transport these items from this poor country.
One of the things that drove me nuts in this book is a mistake early on ( p. 103-105). The host makes a drink for the doctor: " He didn't bother asking what David wanted. He just made up a hugely alcoholic gin and tonic, no ice. . . . . .[David finishes the drink.] . . .David stared at the ice cube at the bottom of the glass."
The story itself was so contradictory, but I don't want to spoil the plot for anyone. Let's just say, the set up seemed real enough, but the follow through seemed unbelievable.
December 18, 2016
On his way to a lush expat party, a reckless English motorist hits and kills a young Berber man deep in the Moroccan desert. The gritty sand, the incessant whistling wind, the bright sun, the omnipresent heat and the poverty is in direct contrast to the extravagant foods, entertainment and recreational drug use at the weekend party. Two cultures feel they are superior to the other resulting in mutual distrust and disrespect, but somehow come to an agreement as to how the Englishman should atone for his sin. A mysterious journey to the boy's homeland ensues. This is a book full of setting, mood, atmosphere and social commentary and an interesting insight into another culture.
March 7, 2024
'The Forgiven' is a beautifully written story of the impact of a random event on the lives of 2 men on different ends of the economic spectrum, an English physician and an old Moroccan stranger. It's relatively slow-paced, not a lot happens, but larger themes abound.
The doc, David, and wife Jo are traveling by rented car to a large party on the edge of the Moroccan desert hosted by a rich friend from the past. Lost and somewhat drunk, David runs over a young man who sprinted in front of his car in the dark, killing him. David and Jo load the body in the car and continue to the party. Richard, the host who had built a Shangri La in the midst of abject poverty and who employs many of the locals in menial and sometimes demeaning roles, notifies the police. The dead man is identified and David is exonerated since it was obviously an accident. However, the decedent's father shows up and the interaction between him and David and their subsequent journey to the dead man's home in an impoverished desert community forms the major plot of the story. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the bacchanal continues with Jo considering adultery with an American guest, the workers becoming more surly by the minute as they feel wronged by David's actions, and David wonders if he'll survive his trip with the dead man's grieving father.
The Forgiven is one of those novels that you'll have great difficulty forgetting. The omniscient narrator treats us to the inner thoughts of the various characters, most critically those of the Moslem Moroccans who both depend upon 'infidels' for their subsistence but also hate them for religious, economic, and social reasons. It's a slow burn of a book.
The doc, David, and wife Jo are traveling by rented car to a large party on the edge of the Moroccan desert hosted by a rich friend from the past. Lost and somewhat drunk, David runs over a young man who sprinted in front of his car in the dark, killing him. David and Jo load the body in the car and continue to the party. Richard, the host who had built a Shangri La in the midst of abject poverty and who employs many of the locals in menial and sometimes demeaning roles, notifies the police. The dead man is identified and David is exonerated since it was obviously an accident. However, the decedent's father shows up and the interaction between him and David and their subsequent journey to the dead man's home in an impoverished desert community forms the major plot of the story. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the bacchanal continues with Jo considering adultery with an American guest, the workers becoming more surly by the minute as they feel wronged by David's actions, and David wonders if he'll survive his trip with the dead man's grieving father.
The Forgiven is one of those novels that you'll have great difficulty forgetting. The omniscient narrator treats us to the inner thoughts of the various characters, most critically those of the Moslem Moroccans who both depend upon 'infidels' for their subsistence but also hate them for religious, economic, and social reasons. It's a slow burn of a book.
August 10, 2019
forgive; transitive verb:
1
a : to give up resentment of or claim to requital for<forgive an insult>
b : to grant relief from payment of <forgive a debt>
2
:to cease to feel resentment against (an offender) : pardon<forgive one's enemies>
With immense skill, Lawrence Osborne considers these questions, among others, in his second novel, The Forgiven. One would hardly know that Osborne is relatively new to the literary scene: his writing here moves deftly between Jamesian social satire to a more Forsterian attempt at connection and unity; in addition, Osborne's background as a travel journalist allows him to construct a very real Morocco that is both present and fantasmatic for its Western outsiders as it is for the reader. Passages like the following allow Osborne to describe the immense impact the exterior has on interior life, particularly as it relates to conflict:
On their way to the estate, David and Jo have an accident, one that will have repercussions for both them and all the guests assembled at Richard and Dally's posh retreat. A simple accident—and even the question of whether it was an accident or not—sets Osborne's questioning of Western morals into motion; not only is his juxtaposition of these hypocritical and self-righteous sensibilities with the Muslim locals surrounding their insular world very incisive in its ethical plumbing, but Osborne also points to the ways in which our cultural perspectives inform who we are, divide us from others even of the same background as ourselves, and can alienate us from truly connecting with other people on multiple registers, whether this be intimate, familial, social, or otherwise. While Osborne's query below relates to Richard and Dally's orientalized but highly occidental retreat, it is a question that reverberates in the psychic lives of the main characters throughout The Forgiven as well:
There have been many novels of the so-called post-9/11 genre in recent years, and I can honestly say that Osborne's brilliant The Forgiven is the most quiet and yet the most searing examination of the human psyche today when it comes to questions of race relations, class and socioeconomic structures, and the politics, creeds, and socially ingrained prejudices that prevent us from bridging gaps and creating bonds with others whom we encounter. This is a truly remarkable meditation on cultural identity in a fractured world, a lamentation that if we could "only connect," perhaps we might obtain the forgiveness (both personal and even beyond that) for which we so hungrily crave.
A must-read.
1
a : to give up resentment of or claim to requital for<forgive an insult>
b : to grant relief from payment of <forgive a debt>
2
:to cease to feel resentment against (an offender) : pardon<forgive one's enemies>
Would she beg to be forgiven? There was not a soul to beg... [a]nd she hadn't begged anything from anyone in her whole life. How did you do it?What is forgiveness, and to whom do we apply for this act, an act that typically requires an obeisance on the part of the one seeking forgiveness? Are we certain to be absolved and requited from any wrongdoing solely because we have come penitent and with head hanging low to the one whom we have offended? Is forgiveness ever a larger act than one involving two grieved parties—an act that can cross cultural, linguistic, and other barriers, ultimately allowing a more personal scene of forgiveness to server as metaphor for cementing these more global and universal relations? Can we ever truly forgive ourselves?
With immense skill, Lawrence Osborne considers these questions, among others, in his second novel, The Forgiven. One would hardly know that Osborne is relatively new to the literary scene: his writing here moves deftly between Jamesian social satire to a more Forsterian attempt at connection and unity; in addition, Osborne's background as a travel journalist allows him to construct a very real Morocco that is both present and fantasmatic for its Western outsiders as it is for the reader. Passages like the following allow Osborne to describe the immense impact the exterior has on interior life, particularly as it relates to conflict:
The road was steep. It passed under ponderous, fractured cliffs, winding past plots of fig trees and then slopes of iron-red dirt dark as fresh liver where tiny black goats stood stock-still with quivering ears.David and Jo Henniger are an unhappily married British couple who are adept at swallowing their sorrows and grievances with copious amounts of alcohol and a social life that privileges surface over depth. Invited to their acquaintances' new Moroccan home—itself a critique of imperial attitudes, with its reproductions of traditional architecture and design, a mansion where Richard and Dally, the hosts, parade their servants around in outlandish costumes that are more caricatures of "the orient" as viewed by "the occident."
On their way to the estate, David and Jo have an accident, one that will have repercussions for both them and all the guests assembled at Richard and Dally's posh retreat. A simple accident—and even the question of whether it was an accident or not—sets Osborne's questioning of Western morals into motion; not only is his juxtaposition of these hypocritical and self-righteous sensibilities with the Muslim locals surrounding their insular world very incisive in its ethical plumbing, but Osborne also points to the ways in which our cultural perspectives inform who we are, divide us from others even of the same background as ourselves, and can alienate us from truly connecting with other people on multiple registers, whether this be intimate, familial, social, or otherwise. While Osborne's query below relates to Richard and Dally's orientalized but highly occidental retreat, it is a question that reverberates in the psychic lives of the main characters throughout The Forgiven as well:
Was their beautiful way of life, their partial exile, so detailed and meticulously planned, now in danger of being destroyed?As I stated above, Osborne's voice is highly unique but owes much to James and Forster, especially. While local Muslims begin to surround the estate demanding answers, the Westerners enjoy their drinks, desserts, and social banter, insulating themselves against both the outside and against each other ("Would they be expected to be themselves or to impersonate people they were not?"). In these scenes, Osborne's debt to James is obvious, but the ways in which he deploys his unique vision of post-9/11 culture is obviously entirely his own, with some evocations, perhaps, of Hollinghurst, particularly The Line of Beauty. Later, as Osborne shifts geographic (and also temporal) terrain to encompass the more isolated Issomour, renowned for its trilobites, not only is Forster's famous dictum from Howards End ("only connect") resonant, but so, too, are the cultural divides he examines and crosses with such finesse in A Passage to India.
There have been many novels of the so-called post-9/11 genre in recent years, and I can honestly say that Osborne's brilliant The Forgiven is the most quiet and yet the most searing examination of the human psyche today when it comes to questions of race relations, class and socioeconomic structures, and the politics, creeds, and socially ingrained prejudices that prevent us from bridging gaps and creating bonds with others whom we encounter. This is a truly remarkable meditation on cultural identity in a fractured world, a lamentation that if we could "only connect," perhaps we might obtain the forgiveness (both personal and even beyond that) for which we so hungrily crave.
A must-read.
February 28, 2023
The writing in this novel is so sharp that the tension grabs you by throat from the first page and doesn't let go and you can almost feel the dust and the heat of Morocco. Characters may be far from loveable but definitely interesting, an excellent story expertly told, I loved it!
August 12, 2021
Oscuro, elegante, crudele. Un grande romanzo sulla gestione della colpa e le idiosincrasie della nostra società ambientato nel deserto del Marocco.
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