I finally got to read this book.

It was truly mesmerizing, and it felt like a mad dream.

I have a great love for books set in North Africa.

Although I have never been there, I really wish I had gone years ago when I was in Italy.

The three characters in the book seem to drift aimlessly from one awful hotel to another, and then to various awful restaurants and cafes.

There is nothing that anchors them at all.

They act carelessly when dealing with the Arabs, using them for their own needs, such as bringing drinks or for sexual purposes.

Their blatant disregard for another country and its people was bound to have consequences that would catch up with them.

They did exclaim about the beauty of the landscape and the mountains, but it was clear that they were just passing through on their adventure.

The story is filled with lots of shocking moments and a nightmarish ending that leaves a lasting impression.

Overall, it was a captivating read that made me think about the importance of respecting other cultures and the consequences of our actions.

He didn't consider himself a tourist; he was a traveler. The difference, he'd explain, was partly a matter of time. While a tourist usually rushes home after a few weeks or months, the traveler, belonging nowhere more than anywhere else, moves slowly, over years, from one part of the world to another.

Before meeting Port Moresby, I always saw myself as a traveler. But after a particular late-night discussion, accompanied by inebriation, interrupted by a frolic in a conveniently located exotic bordello, and then resumed over tankards of more alcoholic concoctions, he managed to convince me that I was merely a tourist.

I was at a disadvantage. I wasn't independently wealthy. I was still building a life for myself. I had three women I was seeing, all vying for a more permanent position as my wife. So yes, I could never linger while traveling because I always had a pressing need to return to my life, to shore up my business interests, and to maintain my social relationships. I was, without a doubt, a tourist. Shamefully so.

Despite knowing this about me, Port stopped by one evening to ask if I wanted to go with them to North Africa. I was disappointed that his wife Kit wasn't with him. I might as well confess now that I was in love with Kit. It was quite awkward. A psychologist might argue that my inability to choose one companion from the available women in my life actually stemmed from a deep-seated belief that eventually Kit would come to her senses, divorce Port, and throw herself into my arms.

I don't really know how it happened. I thought I had the inside track. I grew up with her. I watched her transform from a moth into a beautiful butterfly. We exchanged books and thoughts about those books. We hung out together, to the detriment of our individual studies. We occasionally kissed with more than friendly affection. I was on the verge of asking her to marry me when she abruptly disappeared on a whirlwind tour of the world. She came back with Port.

It didn't take me long to realize that my ship had sailed and Port's had docked. I was always watching (analyzing) him whenever I was around him, trying to figure out what it was about him that had so quickly convinced Kit that he was the one for her. I was more shattered than I could ever show. It was only later that I realized that my life, or at least the thought of a life with me, was something she would have found horribly confining. Port's appeal was his shiftlessness, his lack of roots, his avoidance of responsibilities. Anytime anything became TOO REAL, he moved on to somewhere else. His money was a buffer between himself and having to deal with any of the tedious expectations that others might have of him.

He was free. I was burdened.

I was still considering the North Africa trip. It would have been a perfect opportunity to spend some time with Kit because inevitably Port would disappear on some side trip in search of greater meaning. I didn't say yes right away. I assumed I'd have more than a few minutes to give Port an answer, but as usual, I underestimated his impulsive nature. They left with a fellow named Tunner.

I had met Tunner only in the most casual way. We'd once been in the same place at a party of mutual friends. I'd noticed his presence only because of the way he looked at Kit. It was probably much the same way I looked at her.

I only received one letter from Kit while they were in North Africa. The letter was disconcerting. It reeked of disassociation and had me wondering if the vast, endless horizons of the African desert were beginning to inspire some form of mental illness.

My worst fears, as it turned out, were mere childish angst compared to the trials and tribulations she actually endured. I blame Port, of course, but I also can't help but blame her. After all, she chose the wrong man.

The family, Kit's kin, came to me and asked me to go fetch her in North Africa. They didn't know anyone else with the connections to Kit or anyone with the means to make the journey. I guess a part of me thought this was finally my chance to be with her, but seeing the way she looked at me when I reached out to greet her was distressing. It was as if I were just part of the background of her life, like a chair that doesn't exist until she has the need to sit.

She told me everything on the journey home. The death of Port. The rape and, worse, the acceptance of rape. She allowed herself to become a possession, a man's plaything. For a while, she even enjoyed it because she didn't have to make decisions about anything. She traded sex for some semblance of peace. She tried a couple of times to crawl into my bunk on the way home, but I would only hold her against me, trapping her hands when they ventured near my groin. She found that particular solace with one of the young sailors or maybe more than one.

I went through all the stages of grief: fear, anger, depression. But by the time we arrived in New York, I'd finally reached some level of acceptance.

The last I heard, Kit was in New Mexico, but by the time a letter would reach her, she'd be somewhere else. I often wondered, late at night, with a warm snifter of cognac in my hand and a good book close by, whether if I'd agreed to go on the trip, would Port still be alive, and would Kit be a less damaged version of herself.

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The Sheltering Sky is an extremely unnerving and spiraling descent into oblivion. Bowles masterfully employs evocative descriptions of a journey that delves deep into the Sahara, cleverly mirroring a journey of the disintegration of the human spirit. The narrative is replete with disquieting and wistful insights. For instance, “The wind blew, the sand would settle, and in some as yet unforeseen manner time would bring about a change which would only be terrifying, since it could not be a continuation of the present.”

Just like the landscape, the characters in the story are surreal. They seem more like expressions of various aspects of people rather than real, flesh-and-blood individuals. The male protagonist embodies an aloofness as he searches for emptiness. His wife, an even less believable construct, has no will of her own and merely conforms to the circumstances and the desires of men.

Artfully written, the desert images exquisitely convey the profound emptiness of two souls in their arduous search for meaning in a bleak world. However, no matter how great Bowles' skillfulness may be, I found it extremely difficult to derive any satisfaction from such a nihilistic depiction of our existence. This very beautiful yet very depressing story is only recommended for those who possess a strong inner faith to guide them safely through its desolate wasteland or for those who have entirely given up on life and are seeking some form of confirmation.

In my younger days, I had a profound sense that this was a rudely under-appreciated book. Merely being acclaimed, it truly deserved to be included within the canon of the literary Gods themselves, such as Hemingway, Melville, Joyce, and McCarthy.

More recently, I have come to realize that it wasn't just the book qua narrative that influenced me. Instead, its singular intimacy with my person colored the profoundness of my love-affair with this novel. As a result, my review must necessarily be peculiarly subjective, considering someone like me who is so accustomed to the pretense of objectivity.

Whether its effect on my life stemmed from the epoch in which I read it (adolescence) or a nascent affinity, I simply cannot know. Either way, the very themes that Bowles obsesses over are the same ones that motivate the several pathologies of myself as both a man and a human being.

It is indeed true that The Sheltering Sky is primarily a love story. However, in this story, the desert itself - its hajji, its pathogens, its sterile expanse - serves as an antagonist just as much as the tension between refractory lovers. Bowles' position is thus that of the experientialist: meaning derives from experience, and without experience, life stands bereft of meaning.

But there is so much more to be said. For although Port and Kit's love is brought into this world as a burden, the promise is that the very foreignness of the land is what will bring it to resolution. This is not the myth of the expatriate (that the foreign place will cure all domestic malaise), but a more general principle: the longer one cannot find that which one seeks within the familiar, the more likely it lies in some place strange and horrible.

And indeed, they do find resolution, but not the one they knew themselves to be searching for. Instead, it is a resolution that leaves both the reader and Bowles' protagonists haunted by the heaviness of love and the chaos of the exotic.

Perhaps what drew me most into this world and its ethos is Bowles' style itself. It matches with unnerving certainty the psychology of his characters to their external circumstance. In this way, a breathtaking comprehensiveness is stitched by prose that is at once robust and feminine, Möbius in its intention, and Attic in its certainty.

This correspondence between psychology and circumstance provides a veritable well of affect, both for the characters and the reader. As a consequence, The Sheltering Sky has not only inspired the sole piece of complete writing I ever authored but also assisted in authoring the much more sincere trajectory of my own experience.

Highly recommended.

What exactly is the author attempting to convey with this book? Could it be that he is promoting existentialism through this novel? Maybe so. What is his stance on the relationship of the central couple, both with each other and with their friends? This remains unclear as well. The two main protagonists are striving to connect with one another, but do they manage to succeed? This brings us back to the author's philosophical message. Perhaps it suffices that the book directs our attention to these questions. The answers are not evident.

What does the author intend to express with the title? This too is ambiguous, yet worthy of discussion.

The first half of the book significantly differs from the second half. I don't sense that the two parts cohere. The first half centers on philosophy and has numerous parallels with Camus’ “The Stranger”. Both are set in Africa, one in Morocco and the other in Algeria. There is a streetcar in both. In neither case do the individuals have control over their lives; rather, it is the opposite. Life simply occurs, and one must submit. The second half features a completely distinct writing style. It transitions from philosophical analysis to a plot-oriented, adventure story reminiscent of “One Thousand and One Nights”. Depending on your preferences, you will favor one or the other…but not both.

The audiobook narration by Jennifer Connelly is superb. She differentiates between English and American characters, which indeed makes you smile… Maybe this is because I now reside in Europe? French, English, and Arabic languages are employed, and this is done skillfully. The languages are not translated. Although I don't view this as an issue, I was glad that I could easily understand the French. The chosen slang feels authentic; that's precisely how people would express themselves.

A central theme of the book is the contrast between travelers and tourists. In fact, this is the reason I selected the book, having lived in different countries myself. The main protagonists perceive themselves as travelers, but I felt they often behaved as tourists. Instead of being curious about a new environment and culture, they were disgusted and apathetic. They couldn't possibly have expected anything other than the difficulties that emerged and the filth they witnessed! They seemed to be seeking a clean, problem-free journey. This appears highly illogical. Part of this is explained by the difference between the man and the woman, and it is interesting to contemplate which one of them was truly the “traveler”.

There are loose ends in this novel, characters introduced that one cannot fully comprehend. What occurs to them is left entirely unresolved. Nope, this was not well executed.

There is quite a lot that can be debated in this book, but I can only rate it two stars. It wasn't terrible, but just mediocre.

Like a smooth-talking charmer, Bowles lured me in with his crystalline prose. His sentences seemed to whisper gently in my ear and nibble at my nape, effectively erasing all thought from my haze-addled brain.

Later, many days after that initial encounter, I awoke with a throbbing headache and a sour taste lingering in my mouth. The crystal that had seemed so enchanting turned out to be crystal meth, and it had severely corroded my judgment. What I had initially perceived as beautiful and enticing was nothing more than a jaded street hustler peddling the same tired old goods that had been passed around one too many times. Naive, privileged Westerners seek the purity of the savage wilderness, only to be ultimately destroyed by the horror, the horror of the eternal Om.

Yes, I understand. The desolate landscape of the Saharan desert serves as a substitute here for the equally bleak desert of the American suburban landscape (as seen, for example, in American Beauty). Protective facades are stripped away, revealing the isolation and alienation that lie at the core of Kit, Port, and their relationship. I can even fathom why some people might love this work.

However, what really irks me is the idea that in this, Bowles was somehow being hard-nosed and rejecting romanticism. It may perhaps be a rejection of a particular romantic concept that salvation can be found outside of civilization through the Essential and the Real (as seen, for example, in Kerouac). But this view of the Other as that blind, unfeeling, un-Western entity that shreds the corrupt, rootless white man is simply disguised romanticism. It is a precious existentialist reading of civilization by someone who has the luxury of dismissing it, someone who doesn't have to dodge murderous soldiers to obtain water or till a parched field to feed his family.

Make no mistake, I am no advocate for the ills of rampant capitalist consumerism nor am I some foolish lover of the anomie that characterizes corporate life. But life is what it is. If you're going to venture to Africa without getting your vaccinations, you're a damn fool. And you would be just as much of a fool if you attempted to scale the north face of the Matterhorn in the nude, despite its proximity to consumerist, luxury-filled St Moritz.

(Three stars: -2 stars for the story, +5 for the writing.)

A chilling novel, despite the arid desert setting. It was more hostile and unsettling than I expected. The author managed to create an atmosphere that sent shivers down my spine. The vast and desolate desert, with its scorching sun and swirling sands, served as the perfect backdrop for this thrilling story. The characters seemed to be at the mercy of the unforgiving environment, adding an extra layer of tension to the plot.

As I turned the pages, I found myself completely immersed in the world of the novel. The vivid descriptions made it easy to picture the harsh conditions and the struggles of the characters. The author's use of language was masterful, painting a vivid picture of a place that was both beautiful and terrifying.

Overall, this was a truly unforgettable reading experience. The novel managed to combine elements of mystery, suspense, and horror to create a story that kept me on the edge of my seat until the very end. If you're looking for a book that will keep you entertained and scared at the same time, this is definitely one to check out.

I had seen the film adaptation of this book several years ago and was truly captivated by it. Ever since then, I had a strong desire to read the original book. The opportunity finally presented itself when, inspired by reading Lawrence Durrell's The Alexandria Quartet, I wanted to explore something related.

Although this story is set in North Africa during the colonial era and mainly focuses on the Westerners' encounter with the local culture, it might not seem directly relevant. In fact, it may not be closely related to the numerous novels about travels to places outside the Western world. This is not a book that portrays the enchanting experience of engaging with an exotic culture in an open and cosmopolitan environment. On the contrary, it delves into something darker.

A married couple from America, going through a phase of alienation in their relationship, visit Algeria shortly after World War II. Their aim is to journey into the Sahara Desert and explore its most remote cities, hoping to find peace and rediscover themselves. At first, everything seems to be going well. Despite facing some harassment from fellow travelers and having minor cultural misunderstandings with the locals, the couple relaxes and even takes unnecessary risks. However, as they venture deeper into the desert and come into closer contact with the unfamiliar environment and the mysterious culture of the region, their sense of detachment intensifies. When things start to go wrong, they begin to feel isolated. The desert, which initially seemed so inviting, now becomes dangerous. But in a strange twist, it also seems to offer a form of healing at its own pace.

This novel begins as a typical account of a journey to an unknown place, with beautiful descriptions of the desert and the culture that gradually immerses the protagonists in its charm. However, it then evolves into something deeper and more foreboding, not in the sense of a descent into the heart of darkness, but rather an exploration of the point where the unknown source of fascination turns into a source of concern. This is what makes the journey presented by the author complete and more realistically depicts the experience of Westerners visiting these places during the colonial era, an experience that the author knew firsthand. Of course, this story has broader implications, and I imagine there is ample room for metaphorical interpretations that can reveal much about human psychology, adding even more value to this already significant book. In conclusion, I highly recommend this wonderful book to all my fellow literature enthusiasts. It is a must-read, and of course, one should also watch its excellent film adaptation.

Bowles's writing has a certain allure that still manages to get under one's skin. However, upon a second reading over the weekend, it didn't hold up as well as I had expected.

I recall reading "The Sheltering Sky" when I was in my twenties. What seemed profound and captivating back then now appears considerably less so. The ennui of the main protagonists, which didn't overly bother me during my initial reading, this time around left me frustrated. I found myself repeatedly wanting to reach into the pages and slap them to their senses.

By and large, they seemed primarily shallow, stupid, and self-centered to an extent that it becomes hard to truly care about what happens to them.

And yet, there is something about the writing itself that manages to keep you engaged and reading, despite the loathsomeness of the protagonists. It is this aspect that led me to bump my rating up to three stars.

"The Sheltering Sky" does indeed leave an impression. But if you are the kind of reader who is put off by unlikeable characters, as I often am, then this book may not be the best fit for you.

It's a complex and somewhat polarizing work that requires the reader to look beyond the flaws of the characters and appreciate the artistry of the writing.

“A novel of alienation and existential despair” was penned just after the Second World War. I had expected to like it, but alas, I didn't.

It primarily focuses on three Americans游荡 around North Africa and the Sahara in the immediate postwar period. Kit and Port Moresby, a married couple on a journey, are at the center of the book, and their friend Tunner accompanies them for part of the trip. Bowles is deeply engaged with the distinction between a tourist and a traveler. He spent his later years residing in North Africa.

“He did not consider himself a tourist; he was a traveler. The difference lies partly in time, he would explain. While the tourist typically hurries back home after a few weeks or months, the traveler, belonging nowhere more than anywhere else, moves slowly, over the course of years, from one part of the earth to another. Indeed, he would have struggled to say precisely where, among the many places he had lived, he had felt most at home. Before the war, it was Europe and the Near East; during the war, the West Indies and South America.”

There is an early indication that this will not be a jolly travel adventure, a perceptive cultural analysis, or even a critique of colonialism when Port speaks of “infinite sadness at the core of his consciousness.” Yes, we're in for some navel-gazing and reflection on how tragic we travelers are. To give Bowles credit, there is no sense of romance in the travel; it's all rather bleak.

There is a sort of love triangle among Port, Kit, and Tunner, which is partially hinted at (especially between Port and Tunner).

One of the issues is the attitude towards the general population. Bowles, in his writings, shares his views on Moroccans, stating, “The Moroccan, educated or otherwise, simply does not believe in germs.” There is an underlying racism and numerous colonialist clichés. Even some of the minor Western characters, like the French colonial soldiers and administrators, have inner lives, while the Moroccans are not afforded that privilege.

Regarding the attitude towards women, Kit is a collection of stereotypes based on some rather disturbing male fantasies (spoilers ahead). The rape scene is a case in point: Kit immediately falls in love with her rapist (cue tropes about handsome “dusky” males and the idea that no really means yes). She is so in love that she allows another man to rape her as long as the first man is present. I may be missing some irony here, but this was truly awful.

Bowles was often derogatory about his adopted country, saying, “Thought is not a word one can use in connection with Morocco.” He frequently employs words like “purely predatory,” “essentially barbarous,” and “childlike.” He was also strongly influenced by the “Hamitic hypothesis” that everything of value in Africa originated from the Hamites, a Caucasian race superior to all the races to the south (nothing to do with skin color, of course!!!). These kinds of ideas pervade this book.

I haven't even begun to touch on the attitudes towards mental health! How did this stuff become so highly regarded?

An utterly devastating work of immense power, this story pushes the frailties of life, both physically and emotionally, to the very limits in a hostile, dangerous, and unforgiving land.

Paul Bowles, having settled in Tangier in the late 40's, uses his knowledge and experiences of French North Africa to startling effect. American couple Kit and Port Moresby, whose marriage is disintegrating, believe a trip abroad could repair their relationship. So, to avoid a ravaged Europe after the second world war, they decide to travel through Algeria with their friend Tunner, who has strong feelings for the beautiful Kit. However, things don't work out as hoped.

There are train journeys and bus rides through stunning but harsh landscapes, with deserts, valleys, and rugged terrain. The unrelenting heat of the sun is a constant factor during the days. But it's when staying in small towns that real problems start to arise. General bickering, Kit's uncomfortable mood towards their surroundings, and Port disappearing into the night all contribute to the growing tension. As a couple, they seem likely to drift further apart, with no signs of happiness on the horizon.

Slowly, an uneasiness creeps in. Figures lurk in the shadows of dark passageways, and strange looks from locals leave them uncertain. With flies buzzing everywhere, dogs barking like mad, and small children crying, a building paranoia sets in. Paul Bowles portrays everything in a stark and foreboding way. Early on, there are passages of such bleakness that it doesn't seem like a place one would want to stay for long. While the first half reads like a travel novel, it sets the scene for when events take a turn into almost unbearable tensions, leaving the reader shattered.

This is the second time in my life that I have read this book, and for the second time, I have truly loved it.

It's not just because of the surrounding setting, but also because of the writing style. The characters, with their neurotic stories and experiences, are truly captivating. Their development and transformation throughout the story are a joy to follow. I love the way the author leads them on their journey towards future events.

The story is so rich in emotions that it's impossible for the readers not to be affected. The smell, the fears, the anguish, the hate, and the love - all these feelings are so deep and real that they seem to leap off the page.

For me, it wasn't an easy read, precisely because of all these intense emotions that are engraved into the story. But that's also what makes it so special and memorable. It's a book that makes you think, feel, and appreciate the power of literature.