Anatomy of a Disappearance

A Novel

by Hisham Matar

Anatomy of a Disappearance

Paperback, 262 pages, Dial Press, List Price: $15 | purchase

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Title
Anatomy of a Disappearance
Subtitle
A Novel
Author
Hisham Matar

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Hardcover, 240, Random House Inc, $22, published August 23 2011 | purchase

Purchase Featured Book

Title
Anatomy of a Disappearance
Subtitle
A Novel
Author
Hisham Matar

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Book Summary

Born into exile, 11-year-old Nuri, the son of worldly parents who fled the revolution in their Arab country, is transfixed along with his widowed father by an Arab-English woman who joins their family, a situation that is complicated by Nuri's father's disappearance.

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Hisham Matar has already enjoyed great success — his novel In the Country of Men was an international best-seller. But with all of the recent upheaval in the Middle East, and especially in his native country of Libya, Matar is experiencing a newfound cultural significance. His latest novel, Anatomy of a Disappearance, has been acclaimed both in the U.S. and overseas. In it, he tells the story of Nuri, a

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Note: Book excerpts are provided by the publisher and may contain language some find offensive.

Excerpt: Anatomy of a Disappearance

Chapter 1

There are times when my father's absence is as heavy as a child sitting on my chest. Other times I can barely recall the exact features of his face and must bring out the photographs I keep in an old envelope in the drawer of my bedside table. There has not been a day since his sudden and mysterious vanishing that I have not been searching for him, looking in the most unlikely places. Everything and everyone, existence itself, has become an evocation, a possibility for resemblance. Perhaps this is what is meant by that brief and now almost archaic word: elegy.

I do not see him in the mirror but feel him adjusting, as if he were twisting within a shirt that nearly fits. My father has always been intimately mysterious even when he was present. I can almost imagine how it might have been coming to him as an equal, as a friend, but not quite.

×××

My father disappeared in 1972, at the beginning of my school Christmas holiday, when I was fourteen. Mona and I were staying at the Montreux Palace, taking breakfast — I with my large glass of bright orange juice, and she with her steaming black tea — on the terrace overlooking the steel-blue surface of Lake Geneva, at the other end of which, beyond the hills and the bending waters, lay the now vacant city of Geneva. I was watching the silent paragliders hover above the still lake, and she was paging through La Tribune de Genève, when suddenly her hand rose to her mouth and trembled.

A few minutes later we were aboard a train, hardly speaking, passing the newspaper back and forth.

We collected from the police station the few belongings that were left on the bedside table. When I unsealed the small plastic bag, along with the tobacco and the lighter flint, I smelled him. That same watch is now wrapped round my wrist, and even today, after all these years, when I press the underside of the leather strap against my nostrils I can detect a whiff of him.

×××

I wonder now how different my story would have been were Mona's hands unbeautiful, her fingertips coarse.

I still, all of these years later, hear the same childish persistence, "I saw her first," which bounced like a devil on my tongue whenever I caught one of Father's claiming gestures: his fingers sinking into her hair, his hand landing on her skirted thigh with the absentmindedness of a man touching his earlobe in mid-sentence. He had taken to the Western habit of holding hands, kissing, embracing in public. But he could not fool me; like a bad actor, he seemed unsure of his steps. Whenever he would catch me watching him, he would look away and I swear I could see color in his cheeks. A dark tenderness rises in me now as I think how hard he had tried; how I yearn still for an easy sympathy with my father. Our relationship lacked what I have always believed possible, given time and perhaps after I had become a man, after he had seen me become a father: a kind of emotional eloquence and ease. But now the distances that had then governed our interactions and cut a quiet gap between us continue to shape him in my thoughts.

Excerpted from Anatomy of a Disappearance by Hisham Matar. Copyright 2011 by Hisham Matar. Excerpted by permission of The Dial Press, a division of Random House, Inc.

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