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128 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1995
Each visitor brings his own memory, each relates that biographical detail he himself witnessed, or knows by hearsay. So, little by little, a novel is built out of many voices, a hagiography composed of anecdotes, witticisms, character traits, a long list of virtues, good deeds, and unsuspected talents that no one would think of disputing. Piously arranged, the novel keeps evolving as long as it continues to be transmitted.
These voices are no more, replaced today by those of itinerant trinket salesmen and sidewalk peddlers. But one voice, that of the muezzin, always makes itself heard, braving time and the vicissitudes of history--gentle at dawn, aggressive at midday, lazy in the afternoon, serene at sunset, appeased in the evening.
What did Haroun al-Rashid look like? Al-Mutanabbi? Averroes? We’ll never know. Of course there was, during certain periods, a knowledge of painting, but it didn’t occur to anyone to have their portrait made. Our ancestors were faceless.
Piously arranged, the novel keeps evolving as long as it continues to be transmitted. But eventually one notes with consternation that the novel is getting thinner, falling apart, flaking away. In place of that wealth of incidents, that luxuriance of scenes and tableaux, only a few stereotypical episodes are left, languishing and wasting away.