An “old” divorcee, translator of many titans of literature into Arabic, trundles about her Beirut apartment, constantly dredging up the past. When her family attempts to hoist her estranged mother upon her, she instead starts tracking new paths of memory and trails in her conjoined mind and city.

Constantly shifting from pivotal moments that crafted her into the insular, friendless shut-in—preferring books to people by far—we learn about her quiet life. The suffering of her Art and her nature seemingly invalid to her, humanity and compassion drips onto the page to juxtapose her own conclusions about herself.

I love novels like this. Where nothing much happens and it is all wonderful rendered interiority. Where the character cannot view themselves fully by virtue of their solipsism, yet the reader catches glimpses that endear and humanize them. Coupled with a wonderful ecosystem of references to literature that make sense for a translator and her interests, there is just the right amount of pretension here, for me. I found this very moving and completely absorbing.