One of the things that struck me about The Map of Salt and Stars was how metaphor-heavy the text was. In some ways that made the prose feel almost like poetry, in fact (this may have been a reason I loved it so much, honestly). The use of metaphor allows the reader to feel more fully and accurately the hurt and longing Nour and Rawiya feel on their journeys away from home.
Though we primarily follow Nour's story and she is the narrator, she isn't the only one to speak in metaphor. Al-Idrisi, in his ordinary speech, uses beautiful metaphors: "I loved it in spite of the terrible weight of its hope" (loc 1525), he says, speaking of his earliest adventures. Nour is young, but her metaphors are mature; they come naturally to her from her father's stories of Rawiya. She has inherited them: "What did Baba used to call me? I try and remember his voice: Ya baba, my sapling. My daughter is as strong as a new palm" (loc 2494). Nour discovers the poetry she has inherited from her mother when she chips away the paint on the map she was given. Here is another metaphor: "The words were on our backs, . . . It's a map of us" (4272).
One could argue that the story and character of Rawiya work a double and metaphor for the journey and character of Nour. Though Rawiya's return home is more literal--she came from Ceuta and she returns to Ceuta--Nour, in a more complex way, returns home. Home is not Manhattan. Home is not Homs. Home is a place of both becoming and memory--and for the time being, at least, that is Ceuta. Nour is with her remaining family. She is with her own and mother's memories of her father. She is in a place of love, and wherever she goes next that love will be with her.
In no way would I say that the metaphors of this book take the reader to a land of make believe. Neither would I argue that the story of Rawiya is an escape. No, I would say the opposite. The metaphors here serve to make the story more physical, more visceral and complete. Through metaphor even the emotional pain is presented to us physically. Nour carries the deaths of her father and Abu Sayeed in her pocket, a heavy rock. These deaths are physical. Her sorrow is physical. She carries it throughout her journey. She carries her family's history, a map on her back. That history is literal before it becomes symbolic. She carries it on her back throughout her journey, an object that she protects, that she keeps dry in the sea, that she is careful to keep from greedy hands.
I love the notion that Nour "inherited" metaphors from her Baba, it brings new meaning to her delivery of the ancient story. On one hand she probably has innate storytelling abilities and on the other she was carefully trained through repetition and love. This blog is beautiful.
ReplyDeleteI love this reading of the story, and I agree with Booz about the inheritance of metaphor. For me, the telling of Rawiya's story was narrated by the father, because Nour emphasized that it had to be told exactly the way her father told it. So I think this pushes that idea of inheritance even a little further, she learns it by repeating. I also really like your point about the metaphors making the story seem more visceral. It makes it realer for the reader, harder to ignore in a way.
ReplyDeleteI hadn't thought of this until i read your post and it's kind of insider (and not necessary to enjoy the book). Most things in Arabic are metaphoric and kind of operatic. For instance, you never say someone is my sweetie, you say my heart (ya eini), my spirit (ya rouhi). And you, as a poet, might be interested to know that zazal, a long standing tradition of oral poetry contests, happens after most big meals. And wo, metaphor circus. All that is to say, that if it weren't deeply embedded in metaphor, Arabs might read it distinctly as an American take. That's not a bad thing. It's just different. So thank you for jogging this thought.
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