I have never read anything that so accurately describes the insidious fear that is ever-present, or the dreaded boredom, depression and loss of self-respect that come from living in the Kingdom. When you awaken, wipe your nap-drool from the book and go exchange it posthaste for one with an identifiable plot. Rooney precisely articulates everything that's going on below the surface; there's humor and insight here as well as the pleasure of getting to know two prickly, complicated people as they try to figure out who they are and who they want to become. They're the smartest kids in their class, and they forge an intimacy when Connell picks his mother up from Marianne's house.

Based on Mantel's own experiences in Saudi Arabia, [1] the novel explores different peoples' struggles with the contrast in cultures, including those of people of different Islamic cultures, and misunderstandings between the Saudis and Westerners, as well as between women and men. I remember the hostile sunshine, the barren line of hills, the absence of birdsong and the distant line of the freeway: the tiny, silent cars moving from somewhere to somewhere, leaving me behind with my journal. As for her description of Saudi Arabia, I came away with very little, other than the impression that it was dusty, bureaucratic, and a nightmare to drive in. Officially, like a lot of other things (alcohol and extramarital sex being two other obvious examples) bribery does not exist but it clearly does.But the death isn't ruled a murder—and might never have been if one of the gang—a cadging sybarite named Bunny Corcoran—hadn't shown signs of cracking under the secret's weight. A bunch of ever-so-mandarin college kids in a small Vermont school are the eager epigones of an aloof classics professor, and in their exclusivity and snobbishness and eagerness to please their teacher, they are moved to try to enact Dionysian frenzies in the woods. Here's just one example of the fantastic writing: "He kept his eyes from the woman as if she wore an aura of barbed wire.

Like so many who joined Peace Corps to make a difference (myself absolutely included) what do you do when faced with people who stubbornly refuse to accept the new colonialist’s ways?Yes, I think Mantel had quite a range, but of course, those big historical novels have been talked about so much and won awards, so her other books perhaps get forgotten. Lo stretto legame tra l'autrice e la protagonista, assente nei due libri precedenti, è qui evidente nelle vicende di base: una coppia di trentenni inglesi, Frances («slight, neat» nella descrizione del marito) e Andrew si trasferiscono a Jeddah, in Arabia Saudita, negli anni Ottanta; e prima erano stati insieme in Africa: Zambia e Botswana. I read this book with a mounting sense of dread, all the more appropriate in the light of recent events in the Saudi Arabian consulate in Turkey. Se davvero questa decisione entrerà in vigore nel giugno del prossimo anno, una parte di questo libro diventerà meno comprensibile. Her second has already won the Costa Novel Award, among other honors, since it was published in Ireland and Britain last year.

Frances and Andrew spend time with other expats connected to the company Andrew works for, they are a pretty horrible bunch. As her days empty of certainty and purpose, her life becomes a blank – waiting to be filled by violence and disaster. She and her husband Andrew have been living and working in Africa since they met but now Andrew’s work is bringing them to Saudi Arabia. A really interesting read and, as is so often the case, based on Mantel's experience - apparently she did the same. As Frances listens to her friend “explain” Islam and the ways of Islamic women, she has food for thought at last, but not in the way she expected.

The regime is corrupt and harsh, the expatriates are hard-drinking money-grubbers, and her Muslim neighbours are secretive and watchful. My now totally virtual book group (international members joined during COVID) chose to read Hilary Mantel’s early novel Eight Months on Ghazzah Street in April. There is also, at the end, a short chapter of first-person narration (I won’t say by who) which, while not jarring, seemed somewhat gratuitous.