I'm on the hunt for a book centered around white people who have a penchant for excessive drinking. Do you happen to have anything along those lines? Oh, right this way, sir. Here in the front, we have our dedicated shelf for "White People Who Drink Too Much." Wow, there's an entire shelf filled with such books, huh? Yes, it turns out that almost every single book ever penned seems to revolve around this theme. Gosh! Do these characters sometimes engage in sexual encounters with each other that they later come to regret? Always, sir. Without fail. Oh, good. I've been curious about how white people who drink too much might feel about having ill-advised sexual liaisons with one another.

Wait a minute, though. This particular book seems to take a rather sharp turn into the realm of existential horror. It's not that I was unaware that people would meet their demise in these stories. I understand that it's a common occurrence. But I didn't quite anticipate it to be so drawn out. It all feels a bit too real here, which, if we're being honest, is rather unseemly.

And then, at the end, well... I'm not entirely sure what this is. To an untrained eye, it would seem that a man has written a semi-autobiographical book in which he is betrayed by his own wife, whose weakness leads to his death, and who is then more or less gang-raped as penance for it, and enjoys it. Now, it can't possibly be this blatantly nasty, can it? Oh, yes, sir, it can indeed. These men often are.

Look: Book One is rather dull, Book Two is staggeringly brilliant, and Book Three is extremely unpleasant business. So... what does that amount to? Three stars? Three stars, and perhaps I need another drink.

Appendix: a story about Paul Bowles
As pointed out by my wonderful friend S., here's a story about traveling all the way to Morocco to meet Paul Bowles. I've linked you directly to the meeting part in case you don't have 20 minutes to spare. But if you do, go ahead and listen to the whole thing. Because it's not really about meeting Paul Bowles anyway. It's about being Edgar Oliver, one of those individuals who has decided to be exactly who he is at all times. This is something you can really only do if who you are is so peculiarly strange that camouflage becomes difficult or even impossible. Like, I'm a little weird myself? But I can basically pass for normal, and of course, I do because it is so much easier to go about doing everything when people aren't distracted by one's oddities.

When someone is weird, you have to take everything into account. What kind of weirdness does this person exhibit, and how am I going to feel about it? When someone is weird, all bets are off. Will he grope me in a stairwell? Will he offer me peyote, and I'll suddenly have to try to recall whether I'm in favor of peyote or not? If it turns out they're just having a conversation about when Game of Thrones is coming back, you may find it hard to concentrate because you're so busy trying to determine whether they're wonderfully weird or creepily weird and why they are the way they are. It is very challenging, and I've tried being weird a few times (or just been so intoxicated that it amounts to the same thing), and you can tell people are doing all this mental gymnastics.

For the rest of us, those of us who can blend in, we generally do so because it's much easier to get around when everyone has a basic understanding of how you might behave in a given situation. You're likely to be somewhat on time, not initiate extremely intense conversations in coffee shops, wear appropriate clothing, not be intoxicated at unexpected times, and be able to pay your share of the bill. These are comforting things to know.

Anyway, so the only people who truly let their freak flags fly are those whose freak flags are too large to be tucked away. And here we have Edgar Oliver, somewhat of a NYC theater legend. The moment he speaks and/or moves, you're like, oh, we have a one-of-a-kind on our hands. So, the 20 minutes of this story is really about simply basking in Edgar Oliver being exactly who he is. Which, for those of us who usually pass as normal, is a moving experience. What a difficult and special life he must lead.

When you recall reading a book a long time ago and remember having a fondness for it, have faith in your instincts. Read it once more. I did just that, and in the instance of The Sheltering Sky, I had no regrets whatsoever. I adored the exotic North African setting. And the perpetually slightly off-kilter love triangle involving Port, Kit, and Tunner (such peculiarly wonderful names).

There are also some stop-me sentences. I have a great affection for stop-me sentences. I never breeze past them. Not even with a cursory glance. In fact, if there's no one behind me, I often go back and refrain from skimming through them again. Ah! The allure of a writer's writing!

So indeed: there is some plot, a great deal of characterization, an abundance of mood, and – in some mysterious way – sand in your shoes after each reading. The conclusion after the conclusion is also a remarkable achievement. Poor Kit. Fortunate reader. Which can only signify that Reading Resolution #1 of 2016 will be to read another work by Bowles. Perhaps The Spider's House?

Five stars have never been awarded so effortlessly...

\\n  

Before her eyes, there was only the violent blue sky - nothing else. For an endless moment, she gazed into it. Like a powerful and overwhelming sound, it wiped out everything in her mind and paralyzed her. Someone had once told her that the sky hides the night behind it and shelters the person beneath from the horror that lies above. Without blinking, she fixed her eyes on the solid emptiness, and the anguish began to stir within her. At any moment, a rip could occur, the edges could fly back, and the giant maw would be revealed.

\\n
This is like a trippy rendition of Conrad's Heart of Darkness. Here, the Sahara desert replaces the Congo river. Both Port and Kit are confronted with the existential crisis similar to Kurtz. And there is no Marlow to witness the ravages of a pitiless universe when 'the sheltering sky' is pierced.

Bowles' prose is both hallucinogenic and luscious, and his barbs are sharp, especially when it comes to Mrs Lyle. Her ignorance is only equaled by her loud-mouthed proclamations of it. The scenes where Kit faces her ultimate human helplessness are presented in a way that feels uncomfortably masculine. (She is coerced into sex and passed between two men) However, it should be noted that this was published in 1949.

Bowles manages to create an atmosphere of haunting alienation, which is manifested through the travels of this New York couple into French North Africa. But in reality, their destination is far more amorphous and terrifying as they are confronted with what remains when the sheltering sky - of culture, of identity, of self-hood - is torn away. The couple's journey becomes a metaphor for the human condition, exploring themes of isolation, meaninglessness, and the fragility of our constructed realities. As they venture deeper into the unknown, they are stripped of the familiar and forced to face the raw and unforgiving nature of existence. Bowles' masterful use of language and imagery draws the reader into this world of uncertainty and dread, leaving a lasting impression long after the final page is turned.

I'm going to commence with the sole positives I possess for this novel.

First and foremost, I relished the writing style. Bowles' proficiency in English is outstanding. He has the ability (when he opts to) to vividly paint a picture and constructs some remarkable phrases within. Similarly, there are a couple of exceptional passages in this novel.

Regrettably, that is all I sense this book has in its favor. Despite his masterful utilization of the language, he entirely fails to fabricate any content that I could delight in.

There is scarcely any genuine plot to mention. The fact is, I have perused numerous books that have a rather flimsy plot. Normally, in those situations, the narration or the characters come to the rescue. They transform into individuals you desire to be around, or the author immerses you in the world they have fashioned, and that is just fine, if it is an interesting place to be.

The Sheltering Sky is not like that. The characters are completely unlikable, but worse still, they are completely forgettable. The three protagonists are as thin as paper, dried and crispy husks of people. Unbelievable throughout. I have encountered sock puppets with more character.

The plot, well, what little there is of it, holds together rather poorly as well. There are a number of random happenings that simply add nothing. They are not interesting, nor do they progress the story. They are simply meaningless. The worst aspect regarding the plot, though, is that almost all the major advancements are brought about by poor decisions made by the protagonists. That is a real issue, as they are so completely unrealistic themselves that I found myself being utterly uninterested in whatever they were doing. I felt no empathy when things went awry, but I didn't wish them ill either. I just couldn't care.

I suppose I have missed something, though. This is regarded as a classic and is highly esteemed here, but upon reading the reviews, I'm uncertain whether I have read the same story. I have read that The Sheltering Sky is a great attempt at depicting the desert. As a metaphor, I would concur. There is an awful lot of this book, but very little of it is interesting.

SPOILERS

The world is a complex tapestry of sorrow and adventures. We often find ourselves longing for something different, whether it's a change of place or a new experience. Port Morseby is a man who embodies this restlessness. He is a traveler, not a tourist, moving slowly from one part of the earth to another over years. His marriage to Kit is a fragile thing, ultimately falling apart not because of infidelity but because of his untimely death from a disease. Kit, lacking Port's adventurous spirit, follows him out of loyalty, but struggles to find herself and preserve her self-confidence.

The book makes us realize the vastness and smallness of the world at the same time. Our troubles follow us wherever we go, and there is always more. We are like Port, moving from one place to another with ease, but our souls remain transfixed. We take things and people for granted, only realizing their true value when it's too late. This book is not about adventure or travel, but about two people being pushed to their limits and failing. However, as long as there is life, there is hope.

Despite the tragic ending, this book is a powerful exploration of the human condition. It makes us think about our own lives, our relationships, and the choices we make. It reminds us to appreciate the present moment, to treat ourselves and those around us with kindness and respect, and to make the most of the time we have. It is a book that will stay with you long after you've finished reading it.

A very unhappy tale unfolds about Americans in post WWII North Africa. They find themselves completely unable to cope with this extremely strange world and are ultimately consumed by it. Port Moresby and his wife, Kit, along with their traveling companion Tunner, wander through French North Africa, in search of a civilized sort of adventure. However, they are morally impaired. Port visits a prostitute, and Kit has an affair with Tunner. They also suffer greatly from the physical location. Port eventually contracts a fatal disease, and Kit goes mad, becoming a slave to a local. In addition, they are befriended by a very odd young Brit and his mother. The mother never stops complaining, and the son manages to rob them. Corrupt French officials complete this very dark tale of naiveté that is destroyed by ignorance. Interestingly written, it is filled with a dark view of America in a hostile world, as personified by these people. It does not hold the Americans in high regard either, which is quite troubling.

The title of this book is alluded to by both protagonists, and it seems to embody a spiritual and existential terror of what lies beyond the earth's atmospheric canopy.

The shelter serves as a safeguard against the fear of nothingness, with no God or protector to shield against the festering human condition. This condition is exemplified by the western culture that has despoiled the earth and the psyche, for which Port yearns to escape.

The unrelenting sun of the Sahara recurs, and its penetrating gaze is regarded as malevolent. Port craves that oblivion, determined to experience it at all costs, as an unknown but potentially effective antidote against the over-intellectualized culture of his era.

This was a book like no other I've ever encountered, provoking a plethora of thoughts. The author is highly present in all the characters, as I've discovered through reading about him.

To begin with, the time frame is distinctively attuned to the post-WW2 mindset, where the worldwide devastation is an integral part of the landscape, even in northern Africa. I often tend to forget that there was a significant war there too, with all its geopolitical implications.

This stands in contrast to what Brokaw termed the "great generation" who constructed America into what it is today, propelled by the capitalist opportunities presented by the war. Bowles belongs to that angst-ridden generation who struggle to come to terms with the horrors of mankind's nature, as exposed by the war.

He is closer, both geographically and psychically, to Camus, the other French novelist who wrote about Africa and moral ambiguity in The Stranger (the only one of his works I've read, back in the 80's). Bowles also appears to be affiliated with the beat generation, having associated with Burroughs in Algiers and Ginsberg.

Actually, it made me wonder if the dream sequences of Kit and Port were inspired by writing under the influence of cannabis. Bowles seems like an authentic renaissance man of old, renowned for his musical compositions and performances, as well as being multi-linguistic, multi-cultural, an outstanding translator, and a literary novelist, essayist, and poet.

They don't produce many like him anymore. I'm curious to know what you all think about watching the movie after reading the book. That can sometimes spoil it for me. But, enough about the author and the movie, this was an extraordinary book with a captivating allure of its own.....

When I was deeply engrossed in reading Paul Bowles' remarkable The Sheltering Sky, I couldn't help but jot down a significant phrase in my notes - the ambiguities of human behavior. As we, the members of the human species, engage in the act of creating art, we are often inclined to place the art within a context that is easily digestible. However, perhaps the term "guilt" isn't entirely appropriate here, as it implies a transgression. In fact, this context might be entirely necessary, as art must be capable of being internalized in some way; otherwise, it fails to communicate anything meaningful at all.

When it comes to writing, this translates into the creation of a pleasing and familiar story arc, complete with a discernible beginning, middle, and end. Many readers find great solace and comfort in this familiarity. In fact, they often demand it in their novels. The popularity of book series is a clear indication of this phenomenon. In these series, we are given the opportunity to reenter a familiar set of literary preconditions and immerse ourselves among characters we have grown accustomed to.

Conversely, these same readers often despise books that disrupt the standard story arc. For them, books are not a place to be challenged, thrown off balance, or left adrift in a morally ambiguous universe. They enjoy novels precisely because they clarify moral situations, rather than muddying them. It goes without saying that readers of this sort will undoubtedly loathe The Sheltering Sky and its exploration of the ambiguities of human behavior.

However, for the rest of the reading world, this novel offers a profound and deeply moving experience. This evening, my son asked me which book I had enjoyed the most during the past month. Without hesitation, I told him it was this one. In fact, I have already made plans to continue my exploration of Bowles' works and will begin reading Let It Come Down tonight.

Books like The Sheltering Sky, which are so acutely observant of human frailty, are truly a rarity. By having the courage to show us our own frailties, it presents us with rare and beautiful truths. In some respects, I am surprised that this novel isn't more highly valued, although I do note that it is ranked among the best books of the 20th century.

The first time I delved into this book, I was in my 20's. It left an indelible mark on me, and I adored it with great passion. However, that was such a distant memory that I was astonished and a bit disheartened to discover that I recalled not a single detail. Only towards the conclusion, when the strange events that unfolded no longer took me by surprise, did I have even a sense of deja vu. It felt as if I was reading it anew.

Once more, I was captivated by the lyrical prose and the sweeping scope of the story.

Bowles is a masterful storyteller, propelling the pace with a rapid and ever-changing perspective. He effortlessly glides between the diverse consciousnesses of his characters, presenting the reader with a sort of psychic bird's-eye view that enables us to have an intimacy with characters who, when viewed from the outside, might not be all that charming in their demeanor or even understandable in their actions. Certainly, in their total self-absorption and their callous disregard for their traveling companion, the apathetic Kit and the imperious Port are more anti-heroes than intrepid travelers. Their efforts to attain equilibrium and their private musings as they traverse the foreign terrain somehow endeared them to me. The fact that they were fated from the beginning only heightened my concern. I yearned to reach out, from my safe vantage point as a reader, and nudge them towards a gentler outcome. The logic of their story is unyielding, though, a stylized descent into the underworld of consciousness. The harsh conclusion assumes the inevitability of a dream.

Definitely, there are mixed feelings on this one.

I firmly believe that a great deal of Bowles's writing, along with his masterful use of imagery and metaphor, is truly brilliant. However, I find myself rebelling against his message.

I must admit that I don't possess much patience for novels that wallow in existential despair. Searching for meaning is one thing, but proclaiming that there is no meaning to be found is an entirely different matter.

If your philosophy of life leads you to the conclusion that life is meaningless, and this realization brings about despair, then it should serve as a sign that your philosophy needs to be reexamined. If life has no meaning, why are we hardwired to desire meaning and need a purpose? Where do these desires ultimately originate from? Our very discomfort with meaninglessness should be a clue that there is more to the universe than cold and uncaring randomness. There is meaning beyond the merely material. Love is a real and actual thing. There is someone, not just something, behind and beneath it all.

Here is an excerpt from a review of the book by Tennessee Williams:

"In this external aspect, the novel is, therefore, an account of startling adventure. In its interior aspect, 'The Sheltering Sky' is an allegory of the spiritual adventure of the fully conscious person into modern experience. This is not an enticing way to describe it. It is a way that might suggest the very opposite kind of a novel from the one that Paul Bowles has written. Actually, this superior motive does not intrude in explicit form upon the story, certainly not in any form that will need to distract you from the great pleasure of being told a first-rate story of adventure by a really first-rate writer.

"I suspect that a good many people will read this book and be enthralled by it without once suspecting that it contains a mirror of what is most terrifying and cryptic within the Sahara of moral nihilism, into which the race of man now seems to be wandering blindly."

[Addendum (1/3/25)]:

Another item that I intended to discuss but forgot to mention: What's the deal with these books that are published with introductions that contain plot spoilers? The edition I purchased has an introduction written by Tobias Wolff which reveals a major event in the latter half of the book. After that, I skipped the remainder of said introduction. Even if a novel has been around for a long time, it seems to me that something labeled as an "introduction" preceding the text of the novel should not be a literary analysis that assumes the reader is already familiar with the book. Such analyses or literary criticisms should be placed at the back of the book.

Anyway, if your edition includes the Wolff intro, skip it and read it afterwards!

Death is always on the way, but the fact that we don't know when it will arrive seems to distance the finite nature of life.

It is that terrible precision that we hate so much. Because we don't know, we think that life is an inexhaustible well.

However, everything happens only a certain number of times, in fact a very small number. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, an afternoon that is so deeply a part of you that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Maybe four or five more times. Maybe not even that much.

How many more times will you contemplate the full moon rising? Maybe twenty. And yet, everything seems limitless.

We often take life for granted, not realizing its preciousness and the limited opportunities it offers. We should cherish each moment, each experience, and make the most of our time on this earth.

Because once those moments are gone, they can never be retrieved. We should not waste our lives on trivial matters but focus on what truly matters and makes us happy.

Only then can we look back on our lives with no regrets and know that we have lived to the fullest.

"Each man's destiny is personal only inso as it may resemble what is already in his memory."

This profound quote by Eduardo Mallea opens The Sheltering Sky in a rather unique way. Many authors use such devices to set the tone or summarize the essence of their work. Above this quote lies another intriguing phrase, "Tea in the Sahara," a chapter title that has become somewhat familiar yet hard to precisely locate. Interestingly, The Police took this phrase to introduce their own song of the same name, which is inspired by a story from the book. It forms an interesting web, highlighting the impact this book has on people, especially those who cherish it.

I was deeply influenced by this book. I engaged in some rather strange activities. I purchased leather-bound antique tomes written by T.E. Lawrence and read them to a friend in a cozy setting of blankets and candlelight, imagining the snowstorm outside as sand, just like in the Sahara. I became obsessed with the ideas of breath and spirit as espoused by the Touareg people. I planned films and devoured the works of Isabelle Eberhardt. Finally, I took a bold step and bought a one-way ticket to Morocco to meet Mr. Bowles himself.

What followed is a long and eventful story that forms a significant part of my life. Sadly, Bowles passed away three days before my arrival. However, fate brought me to his wake, and I made friends with many of his acquaintances, most notably the famous Moroccan novelist, Mohammed Choukri. I ended up living in North Africa for about two years, spending a great deal of time in the desert and experiencing what Bowles refers to as the baptism of solitude.

In essence, this book has something truly special. It has the power to enter your soul and never let go. It makes you do things you never thought you would, shakes you up, and reminds you of forgotten emotions and fears. As the Mallea quote implies, the book only reveals what is already within you, some wilder experience or a collision with the real self that you may have forgotten or thought you had lost. For those who have watched or loved the film adaptation, I cannot comment as I have never been able to bring myself to see it. I am not a big fan of Bertolucci's work, although he does handle silence interestingly. Bowles' comment on the film, "How can you make a movie when all the action takes place inside people's heads?" sums up my own reservation about it.