An Unnecessary Woman

by Rabih Alameddine

Well, life kills everyone.

When I was planning for my later years, I did not expect to spend every night in my darkened bedroom, lids half open, propped up on unfluffable pillows, holding audience with my memories.

the choice of a first book, the book that opens your eyes and quickens your soul, is as involuntary as a first crush,

There is none more conformist than one who flaunts his individuality.

I clasp my locks into a makeshift bun and cover my head with a scarf, making sure I show enough neck skin. I don’t want anyone to think I’m covering up for asinine religious reasons.

Beirut is the Elizabeth Taylor of cities: insane, beautiful, tacky, falling apart, aging, and forever drama laden.

who smokes as much as a French philosopher,

to paraphrase the ever-paraphraseable Freud, who said something to the effect that when you speak about the past you lie with every breath you take,

G. Sebald. He describes a great-uncle Alphonso in the act of painting: “When he was thus engaged he generally wore glasses with gray silk tissue instead of lenses in the frames, so that the landscape appeared through a fine veil that muted its colors, and the weight of the world dissolved before your eyes.”

One of the things that concerns me is that I’m turning into the kind of old woman I’ve desperately tried to avoid becoming, the one always directing the conversation back to herself.

More like the tip of an ice cube, if you ask me.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace.

Henri Matisse once said, “It has bothered me all my life that I do not paint like everybody else.”