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Quote by هلال شومان

“سألاحظ الأشخاص أسفل نافذتي الموجودة على يميني. البائع الذي يصبِّح على جاره علانيةً ويهمس شاتماً لما يدخل إلى محله. نسب التنزيلات الملصقة على واجهة محلات الألبسة وهي تكثر وتقل، تكبر وتصغر. زمير أبواق السيارات وزحمة الشارع. النزلاء في الفندق المقابل وهم يغلقون ستائر غرفهم. أسراب الحمام في سماء الشارع الضيق، تمر سويةً وترحل معاً بإشارة من رجل على سطح بناء قريب. تلك الجارة التي لا تنتبه إلى الستارة المفتوحة إلا بعد أن تخلع بنطالها، ويبين لباسها الداخلي. طاولة الطعام التي يتجمع عليها أفراد عائلة من ذووي الملامح الصامتة. الولد الشقي الذي يدخل رأسه في فتحة الدرابزين الحديدي وينادي لأخته كي تساعده في إخراج رأسه الذي علق. عادةً ما يستغرق الأمر خمس دقائق قبل أن تدخل الفتاة لتخبر أمها وتأتي الأم مستشيطة غضباً. سأشاهد الخادمة، سريلنكية الجنسية، وهي تتواصل مع صديقتها السريلنكية في البناية المقابلة. الكلمات في لغتهما الهجينة تمر في الفضاء بين البنايتين. سأتابع "سيدتها" وهي تخرج مجابهةً إياها بشتائم من العيار الثقيل، لأنها "تقلل من مستواها".”

Quote by هلال شومان

Book:ما رواه النوم
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ما رواه النوم

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هلال شومان

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“The first inkling of this notion had come to him the Christmas before, at his daughter's place in Vermont. On Christmas Eve, as indifferent evening took hold in the blue squares of the windows, he sat alone in the crepuscular kitchen, imbued with a profound sense of the identity of winter and twilight, of twilight and time, of time and memory, of his childhood and that church which on this night waited to celebrate the second greatest of its feasts. For a moment or an hour as he sat, become one with the blue of the snow and the silence, a congruity of star, cradle, winter, sacrament, self, it was as though he listened to a voice that had long been trying to catch his attention, to tell him, Yes, this was the subject long withheld from him, which he now knew, and must eventually act on. He had managed, though, to avoid it. He only brought it out now to please his editor, at the same time aware that it wasn't what she had in mind at all. But he couldn't do better; he had really only the one subject, if subject was the word for it, this idea of a notion or a holy thing growing clear in the stream of time, being made manifest in unexpected ways to an assortment of people: the revelation itself wasn't important, it could be anything, almost. Beyond that he had only one interest, the seasons, which he could describe endlessly and with all the passion of a country-bred boy grown old in the city. He was beginning to doubt (he said) whether these were sufficient to make any more novels out of, though he knew that writers of genius had made great ones out of less. He supposed really (he didn't say) that he wasn't a novelist at all, but a failed poet, like a failed priest, one who had perceived that in fact he had no vocation, had renounced his vows, and yet had found nothing at all else in the world worth doing when measured by the calling he didn't have, and went on through life fatally attracted to whatever of the sacerdotal he could find or invent in whatever occupation he fell into, plumbing or psychiatry or tending bar. ("Novelty")”

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“أعرف مثلاً أنني -يوماً ما- سأقضي حياتي متنقلاً بين شقة وأخرى في المناطق التي لم أعش فيها يوماً في هذا البلد وتبدو لي غريبة. برج حمود مثلاً. المجتمع الأرمني يجذبني. ربما لأنني لا أعرف عنه كثيراً. يجنح بي الخيال لأرى نفسي في حضرة عجوز أرمنية في كرسي هزاز فيما أنا تحت قدميها، أجلس القرفصاء وأستمع لحكاياتها التي لا تنتهي عن بطل أرمني ما ذبحه الأتراك. وستخبرني العجوز الأرمنية عن الرمّان وهي تقدم لي بعض حبوبه. تقول لي أن كوز الرمان يحوي 365 حبة. تقول لي أن الرمان أنقذ العائلات الأرمنية من الموت المحتم في زمن الأتراك. في الكهوف جلسوا. كلٌّ بيده رمانة. حبة واحدة كل يوم. حبة تبعد الموت لعام كامل. هل هذا صحيح؟ الأرجح لا. لكنّ قصة الرمانة تبقى، شأنها شأن كل القصص، شأنها كل المشاهد التي رأيتها والتي لستُ حتى واثقاً من حدوثها فعلياً.”

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“It must take a lot of self-discipline,' she said. 'Oh, I don't know. I don't have much.' He felt himself about to say again, and unable to resist saying, that 'Dumas, I think it was Dumas, some terrifically prolific Frenchman, said that writing novels is a simple matter - if you write one page a day, you'll write one novel a year, two pages a day, two novels a year, three pages, three novels, and so on. And how long does it take to cover a page with writing? Twenty minutes? An hour? So you see. Very easy really.' 'I don't know,' she said, laughing. 'I can't even bring myself to write a letter.' 'Oh, now that's hard.' ("Novelty")”

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“If writers only dared to dare, a Suetonius or a Tacitus of the Novel could exist, for the Novel is essentially the history of manners, turned into a story and a play, as is History itself often enough. And there is no other difference than this: that the one, the Novel, cloaks its manners under the disguise of invented characters, while the other, History, provides names and addresses. Only, the Novel probes much deeper than history. It has an ideal, and History has none; it is limited by reality. The Novel also holds the stage much longer. ("A Woman's Vengeance")”

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“The men were smashing windows and aiming their weapons through them. The driver had opened the door and was shouting for the women and children to get out and run and hide. But Ilina realized in some vague way that he never managed to actually say the word "hide." He really said, "Women and children, get out, get out, get out! Run and..." The clerk's wife thought it was odd that he had stopped in the middle of a sentence, and even stranger that she herself knew the word, heard the word "hide" in her head when the driver stopped talking.”

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