There Are Rivers in the Sky

by Elif Shafak

He cries then, for the first time. It is his first disappointment in life, his earliest sorrow, not being able to hold on to a beauty that has touched him briefly and, just as suddenly, melted away.

“Words are like birds,” says Mr. Bradbury. “When you publish books, you are setting caged birds free.

just like two drops of rain join on a windowpane, weaving their paths slowly and steadily, an invisible thread connects those who are destined to meet.

he meets new characters beyond his wildest imagination—Mesopotamian kings, gods and goddesses…priests, librarians and musicians…cup-bearers, tavern-owners and canal-builders…soothsayers, necromancers and interpreters of dreams…Their stories pile up on one another, like pebbles meeting at the bottom of a creek, tossed about by stronger currents.

But no matter how tall your grandfather, you have to do your own growing.”

The past, no matter how remote or unknown, is not bygone. It is alive. The past is a clay tablet, worn and chipped, but hardened by the heat of centuries.

Tears from the destroyed cities of Mesopotamia mingle with the haze of torrents yet to come.