Nuruddin Farah : Voice of the Nation

[WiglessBidaar]

Basra

In thinking of you, my nipples harden. Would you care to know what else hardens my sweet? If Farah’s novels are consumed in the main by the pigmentless race, that is because every Messiah is rejected by his people. Or might it be that Somalis are not commonly noted for their patience to sit through a two hundred page sheeko dheer?

I question the impression you have formed of third world literature. Had I been asked many winters ago when I still had my own teeth what I thought it was about I would have countered it’s typical depictions of life in primitive African tribes where naked bushmen, raiding each other’s village, poke other savages with sharp objects and romance their livestock. Bosh!

Farah’s characters are plucked right from the metropolis of pre-war Somalia’s uppermost crust when the joint was booming with city professionals or from the big lights of New York come home to the motherland. It’s modern voices plunged into pre-modern darkness and how if at all they emerge. It’s not about donkeys and camel rapers. It’s about the tension between the cosmopolitan, the fractured, the divided.

Mistaken is the idea that a novel is primarily about the doings of people either. The novel is not chiefly concerned with plot. There is a finite supply of plot outlines by which all writers are bound, love, betrayal, murder and the like. Romeo and Juliet is an ancient tale older than the naked moon, but there is a reason that Shakespeare is not a plagiarist for recycling it.

The craft of the novel is the arrangement of words, the hatching of metaphors powerful enough to rewire a man’s synaptic connections, the marriage of nouns and verbs that have yet to meet let alone date. The great writer is not the great plotter; plot is one element of the whole and not a very important one at that; the writer is the great phrase-maker.

Give his novel Secrets a go my overweight lovely, the bestest work of his in my judgement and when your loins have been set aflame by the promptings of the flesh, to bed let us go!

[Cilmiile]

cilmille,

The reason I’m fond of you is that as much as your higher reflective faculties have been scattered by the childhood blows to your head, what you lack in wisdom is for more than compensated by your innocence. If two scribes working from the same finite material of man’s relation with the fauna and flora of the landscape chance to write of similar happenings it must be that one of them has aped the other is it? Funny.

A pity that no one informed the merchants of ink that any twice told tale of love and intrigue is an act of plagiarism. Let us burn all the books of the world which have analogous themes and insist on only one book for each genre, one book for love, one book for war, one book for daft kids named Cilmille whose IQ is south of ten. I recommend it.

Goodbye to a thousand years of writing because all human stories turn on the same broad themes. But till this new policy is effected and we enjoy a great bonfire of beautiful letters, move your tongue only to lick his boots.

Calool

Nuradin Farah is a plagiarist. This Bestiality thing was a devise used by Toni Morrison to give some verve to her otherwise pedesterian book. Farah noticing that Morisson garnered a Nobel with this foolishness jumped in with both feet and stole the devise to give some much needed gusto to his shoddy work. But Somalis would have given him credit for verisimilitude if he were to set his book int he mountains of s=Sheekh and the Ciise Muuse habar Awal. After all the are the ones known for diddling livestock. One Axmed Maxamuud Faarax of the Habar Awal who was a minister of Siyaad was a practitioner of this foul practice. His nickname was Laxwas loooool

[WiglessBidaar]

LOL

So you’re quite the expert in zoophilia are you? Fascinating.

What tickles me though is that in your stampede to blacken the name of our nation’s most polished scribe you’ve come undone like the flies of the randy sheep shagger.

Toni Morrison was not the first to depict the love that dare not speak its name. The concept of mounting the four legged has featured in the scribblings of the ancients since the first advanced ape sharpened his pen, cultivated an artistic air, and put down his night time games with the barnyard animals.

What young farmhand with an average libido, faced with the well sculpted rump of a stallion, has not more than once pulled down his knickers and tried to mount? I know you’ve had those illicit visions too so why the lies my kindred?

[Cilmiile]

I am not Habar Awal. They are the only Somalis who have sought the relevant experience.

[WiglessBidaar]

I am happy to accept that you are not a rear mounter, but like the highly strung pothead who can't piss straight you're missing the target when it comes to Farah and consequently urinating on the toilet seat.

You seem not to comprehend what plagiarism is. Plagiarism does not mean depicting what another has depicted for all literature draws on the same basic themes. Properly understood, plagiarism is reproducing another’s words and passing it off as one’s own creation.

I can tell right off the bat when a guy has not read Farah's work because they invariably come back to zoophilia as though a single line in one out of his eight novels is the animating theme of his corpus.

[Cilmiile]

The only decent book he wrote is The naked needle(Everytime I am putting my underwear in the washing machine I remember what he wrote in that book. The guy who never bothers to wash his underwear, just buys new one instead). It was amusing and mildly diverting. The dictatorship trilogy was readable but unremarkable. Everything after that is a turgid miasma that is fit only for use as toilet paper.

[WiglessBidaar]

I have not read The Naked Needle, but if it's anything like his Dictatorship trilogy I will give it a pass. That early stuff is all third rate. By then I don't think he found his true voice.

To see Farah at the height of his powers consult his later Blood in the Sand trilogy in which his prose grows mighty wings and soaring upwards and onwards kisses the seventh heaven. Begin with the last novel in the series called Secrets which smacks of the lyrical texture of Nabokov and the profundity of a sage. Here the style is the ne plus ultra of literature. I'm glad it was the first novel of his I read because had I started with his earlier productions I would daresay be talking him down as well.

Have you read that gem or are you just braying like a donkey on heat?

[WiglessBidaar]

I was more fascinated with all the somalis speaking their host native tongue, I didnt understand a word nor was it pleasing to the ear but I loved it.

Plainly you have no ear for the music of the language. Give yourself to a Scandinavian babe for a month and let her whisper soft words in your ear that turneth confusion away. Having the face of a donkey I know won't make it easy, so let me pay one to keep you company my son.

[WiglessBidaar]

[youtube]kEyG-zVf3R0&feature=related[/youtube]

[WiglessBidaar]

When did Farah get a sex operation?

[Basra-]

Wig@loool


U are disgusting. Your larsivious inuendos makes me want to puke. But i dont blame u for being sexually attracted to me, u r not alone. I am sexually attracted to myself when i look in the mirror. But please, kindly reduce speaking them aloud. Just look and admire. Or nod your head if the feeling is intense.


I am sorry to have missed your vibrant discussion between you and cilmiile. Although, i highly suspect both of you are the same person, i am slightly flabagasted as to the motive of this multi nicking and self convesationist duel. Is it schizoprenia? Is it sheer boredom, or zest thurst to seek a fellow intellectual heavy weight? Is the somalinet forum not smart enuf for your mudug historical fetish and interest?

Anyway, Wig--i think u make a major mistake by asserting ploting is not necessary in novels. I think it is essential. Novel is supposed to be a tale or a parable of human interaction. Plot is a mechanism or an incentive to induce the reader to be interested and read your novel. Prose and writing style is also paramount. I am afraid Nura lacks both. His prose do no flow naturally like a born writer is supped to articulate. His English and very low intelligence affects his writings overall. When u go to amazon.com, u will find most of his reviews are remark words like 'awkward'. Meaning Not congruent. Not wholly or structured. It is a monologue disguising itself as a novel. His characters and story lines are borderline not very interesting or captivating. Literally he embodies the saying that says---u cant make a born heart country villager into a metropolitan. I am glad u like his writings, we all have our tastes. But to me-- my brain is too much evolved for extremely below mediocre village hogwash mascarading as a writing talent. I also applaud u for articulating in his honor, you make your inaa adeer quite proud. No wonder your dreams of wishing to retire in Kismayo, u hope one day to sit in the coconut tree of calaanley, reading chapters of the naked needle with your lit hero, with his very saan balaraan nigerian hajiaat of course; musing and exchanging heart felt ogaden parables that will nourish your nolstagic savage zest for traditional tales. Cheers, darling for good O'l Nuradin Farah !

[WiglessBidaar]

Basra,

A thousand apologies for my tardy rejoinder. It's just that when I see your layer upon layer of baruur I wanna hide. No, just teasing. I was in hospital for my second hip operation.

So you think novels should serve the same functionas as parables? Fascinating. But I cannot subscribe to the notion of didacticism in literature. The novel is not a vehicle for moral preaching. If I want a sermon I will take my barefoot chillun to the Gun of the Baruur-Slayer Mosque. The art of beautiful letters is not a homilitic excercise in virtue. Art is about creating something which makes the fat woman forget momentarily that she is fat, the bald man that he is unloved and the angst-ridden teen that he should put off his suicide for another day till he completes the book. It is about taking oneself out of the sweatings and strivings of life to contemplate what is fine, what is striking and what is beautiful. No lectures are permitted.

Art is no morality tale. There is no Point to it anymore than there is a point to fingering a Fatima behind the bike shed. Like most important things in this globe of sin art is useless. It will not make you rich or thin or beautiful. It will not make you less smelly, less short, less ugly. But it can make you flash a gap toothed smile. And this Nuruddin Farah does very handsomely.

Deep beneath your outward objections to Farah's prose, deep below your twelve chins and multi-layered flesh I know that your heart beats to the sound of his name so why the pretence my sweet potatoe? Fess up: You want to put your lips on me, So you figure like every wiley schoolgirl that success lies in drawing me into the snare of making me defend a scribe whom we both know really needs no defence so that bit by bit our disputing lips may draw ever closer till Smack! you land a big wet one on my wrinkly face.

[globetrotter2]

I met him at Heathrow awhile back and told him that "From the crooked rib" was the best novel he wrote whereupon he lamented that it was written at a time when he was naive and young.

I also recall awhile back when he visited a scandnavian country and the next morning his hotel was invaded by "long feet" who wanted to meet him as tolka. He embrassed them by saying that he was a bastard and his kids were half indian

[WiglessBidaar]

I met him at Heathrow awhile back and told him that "From the crooked rib" was the best novel he wrote whereupon he lamented that it was written at a time when he was naive and young.

I also recall awhile back when he visited a scandnavian country and the next morning his hotel was invaded by "long feet" who wanted to meet him as tolka. He embrassed them by saying that he was a bastard and his kids were half indian

Pictures, or it's not true.

[globetrotter2]

I swear by the name Vlad smirnov