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A Thousand Days for Mokhtar
A collection of the short stories of Paul Bowles, spanning almost half a century of his work and set in various areas of the world. The title story is one of alienation, in which a lonely widower murders a shopkeeper and then finds life in jail preferable to that on the outside.
- GenresFictionShort Stories
176 pages, Paperback
First published February 28, 1989
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About the author
Paul Bowles
255 books883 followersPaul Frederic Bowles grew up in New York, and attended college at the University of Virginia before traveling to Paris, where became a part of Gertrude Stein's literary and artistic circle. Following her advice, he took his first trip to Tangiers in 1931 with his friend, composer Aaron Copeland.
In 1938 he married author and playwright Jane Auer (see: Jane Bowles). He moved to Tangiers permanently in 1947, with Auer following him there in 1948. There they became fixtures of the American and European expatriate scene, their visitors including Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams and Gore Vidal. Bowles continued to live in Tangiers after the death of his wife in 1973.
Bowles died of heart failure in Tangier on November 18, 1999. His ashes were interred near the graves of his parents and grandparents in Lakemont, New York.
In 1938 he married author and playwright Jane Auer (see: Jane Bowles). He moved to Tangiers permanently in 1947, with Auer following him there in 1948. There they became fixtures of the American and European expatriate scene, their visitors including Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams and Gore Vidal. Bowles continued to live in Tangiers after the death of his wife in 1973.
Bowles died of heart failure in Tangier on November 18, 1999. His ashes were interred near the graves of his parents and grandparents in Lakemont, New York.
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
July 29, 2021
What an incredible creativity and imagination, you could never guess what happens at the end of the story...
Again she went to the window and peered between the curtains down into the empty street. The wind had become a gale. She felt each blast against her face through the closed window. Listening for sounds of traffic, she heard none; even the boats seemed to have been silenced. Only the rushing of the wind was left—that and the occasional faint hissing of the fine snow against the glass. She burst into tears; she did not know whether it was out of self-pity, anger and humiliation, loneliness, or just plain nervousness.
*
With her whole life falling to pieces before her, how was it that her voice rang with such asperity, such hard self-assurance?
*
It seemed to me that life outside was like life inside. There was always somebody to stop people from doing what they wanted to do.
*
It seems to me that if one could accept existence as it is, partake of it fully, the world could be magical.
*
It can only be a dreamvestige, yet in spite of the fact that I have forgotten the dream it is very strong. And since it is gone it is unlocatable in time. It may have been this week or many years ago that the dream itself took place. The feeling, if it can be put into words at all, is one connected with languor, forgetfulness, lostness, emptiness, endlessness—one thing which would be all those things. Living my life and thinking my thoughts through that lens makes for a certain melancholy. I have tried desperately to find a door into the dream; perhaps if I could recall it, get back there, I could destroy its power. It is often a way. But it is almost as if it were an entity in itself, aware of my efforts to find it, and determined to remain hidden.
As I feel I am approaching it I seem to sense a springing away, a definite recoil into some airless, unreachable region within. I don’t like it; it worries me.
*
[...] sometimes, even though suffering be implicit in it, contact with others is preferable to the terror of solitude and the unknown.
*
his solitude never weighed on him when the weather was clear and the stars shone in the sky. But a rainy night put him in mind of the happy hours of his life, [...]
Again she went to the window and peered between the curtains down into the empty street. The wind had become a gale. She felt each blast against her face through the closed window. Listening for sounds of traffic, she heard none; even the boats seemed to have been silenced. Only the rushing of the wind was left—that and the occasional faint hissing of the fine snow against the glass. She burst into tears; she did not know whether it was out of self-pity, anger and humiliation, loneliness, or just plain nervousness.
*
With her whole life falling to pieces before her, how was it that her voice rang with such asperity, such hard self-assurance?
*
It seemed to me that life outside was like life inside. There was always somebody to stop people from doing what they wanted to do.
*
It seems to me that if one could accept existence as it is, partake of it fully, the world could be magical.
*
It can only be a dreamvestige, yet in spite of the fact that I have forgotten the dream it is very strong. And since it is gone it is unlocatable in time. It may have been this week or many years ago that the dream itself took place. The feeling, if it can be put into words at all, is one connected with languor, forgetfulness, lostness, emptiness, endlessness—one thing which would be all those things. Living my life and thinking my thoughts through that lens makes for a certain melancholy. I have tried desperately to find a door into the dream; perhaps if I could recall it, get back there, I could destroy its power. It is often a way. But it is almost as if it were an entity in itself, aware of my efforts to find it, and determined to remain hidden.
As I feel I am approaching it I seem to sense a springing away, a definite recoil into some airless, unreachable region within. I don’t like it; it worries me.
*
[...] sometimes, even though suffering be implicit in it, contact with others is preferable to the terror of solitude and the unknown.
*
his solitude never weighed on him when the weather was clear and the stars shone in the sky. But a rainy night put him in mind of the happy hours of his life, [...]
June 21, 2018
Gore Vidal said that these stories are among the best ever written by an American writer and I agree. This book is so full of day-to-day life mixed with fantasy, emotions and truth that it is difficult it will leave anybody indifferent. I loved A Thousand Days for Mokhtar but as well “Tapiama”, @Señor Ong and Señor Ha”, “Pastor Dowe at Tácate”...
April 4, 2023
I’ve never been into short stories really but this collection has some of the most vivid, engaging writing I’ve ever read. A wonderfully imaginative and atmospheric book which will likely haunt me for a while (in a good way).
January 1, 2025
As always Paul Bowles thrusts his reader into a dream like state wafting from story to story captivating in just a few pages.
March 23, 2013
This is the first Paul Bowles book I've read. It's a magnificent collection of short stories; intiguingly, a number of the stories are about outsiders who find themselves in unfamiliar places and become involved in frightening situations which destroy their self-image. Highlights include 'The Circular Valley', which is the only supernatural tale here, and the closer, 'A Distant Episode', which is just downright disturbing!
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews