Earth and Ashes by Atiq Rahimi

By Atiq Rahimi

"You recognize, father, sorrow can flip to water and spill out of your eyes, or it might probably sharpen your tongue right into a sword, or it may well develop into a time bomb that, at some point, will explode and break you"

Earth and Ashes is the spare, strong tale of an Afghan guy, Dastaguir, making an attempt desperately to arrive his son Murad, who has left his village to become profitable operating at a mine. meanwhile the village has been bombed by means of the Russian military, and Dastaguir, together with his newly-deaf grandson Yassin in tow, needs to achieve Murad to inform him of the carnage. The outdated guy is beset on each side through sorrow, that of his grandson, who can't comprehend, that of his son, who doesn't but recognize, and his personal, made even crueler by means of the message he needs to deliver.

Atiq Rahimi, whose attractiveness for writing conflict tales of substantial drama and intimacy begun with this, his first novel, has controlled to condense centuries of Afghan background right into a brief story of 3 very diverse generations. yet he has additionally created a common tale approximately fathers and sons, and the bad pressure inflicted on these bonds of kin through the unpredictable carnage of struggle.

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See the huge flakes drifting against the windowpanes. It must be the doves, surely. They finally make up their minds to come down, the little dears; they are covering the waters and the roofs with a thick layer of feathers; they are fluttering at every window. What an invasion! Let's hope they are bringing good news. -and not only the elect. Possessions and hardships will be shared and you, for example, from today on you will sleep every night on the ground for me. The whole shooting match, eh?

Well, here's the stroke of genius. [138] I discovered that while waiting for the masters with their rods, we should, like Copernicus, reverse the reasoning to win out. Inasmuch as one couldn't condemn others without immediately judging oneself, one had to overwhelm oneself to have the right to judge others. Inasmuch as every judge some day ends up as a penitent, one had to travel the road in the opposite direction and practice the profession of penitent to be able to end up as a judge. You follow me?

But decidedly I am tired and no longer want to think of that period. Let's just say that I closed the circle the day I drank the water of a dying comrade. No, no, it wasn't Du Guesclin; he was already dead, I believe, for he stinted himself too much. Besides, had he been there, out of love for him I'd have resisted longer, for I loved him-yes, [127] I loved him, or so it seems to me. But I drank the water, that's certain, while convincing myself that the others needed me more than this fellow who was going to die anyway and that I had a duty to keep myself alive for them.

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