At An End

Finished Mahmoud Darwish's In the Presence of Absence earlier today. It took me quite some time to read due, no doubt, to the poetic intensity brought to what is referred to as a unique hybrid of verse and prose on the back cover. I had the feeling as I read, especially in the early chapters, that it's one of those texts that is basically untranslatable. Initially it seemed extremely abstract to me, and not in a good way. But I must say that the second half, dealing with the writer's later years in what I slowly began to realise was intended as a kind of poetic memoir, struck me as far more accessible. As he moved from exile in Vienna & Tunis & Beirut & other far places back to Ramallah the specificity of his experiences made my reading a good deal more rewarding. But I was glad to finish, which isn't a good sign. I sort of feel bad I didn't enjoy the book more, but that says more about me and my limitations as a reader than the work itself.