Tempest Lew

“All women become their mothers. That is their tragedy.”
― Jokha Alharthi, Bitter Orange Tree

“When my grandmother died, the bitter orange tree died. Day after day, it withered a little more until it was completely dried out. In vain we watered it, each taking our turn, and my father replaced the dirt just beneath and around it with fresh soil. He bought the fertilizer, and the Bengali who worked for us enlisted the help of his friends who worked on farms. They poured all their experience into the bitter orange tree, but it didn't respond to anyone's efforts. The narinjah made up its mind, and before the soil over my grandmother's burial place was dry, it had stopped sucking in water and air. It began to give off a smell of rot. The odor of goodbye.”
― Jokha Alharthi, Bitter Orange Tree

“One bitter orange tree was her favourite, but no tree that she planted and tended never withered. But still, it was our house, our courtyard, our trees. She lived with us, that's all. She didn't own the building, or the land, or even us. I think of her as my grandmother, but we weren't really her grandchildren.”
― Jokha Alharthi, Bitter Orange Tree

“Above the hills that separate Marengo from the sea, the sky was streaked with red. And the wind coming over the hills brought the smell of salt with it. It was going to be a beautiful day.”
― Albert Camus, The Stranger