شرموطة جزائرية تمص زب اخيها بطريقة مذهلة افلام نيك جزائري

لم اكن لافعلها و اشاهد افلام نيك جزائري العاجز المسكين لولا اني اشفقت لحاله فانا حين رايته بتلك الحال عرفت انه ممحون و بحاجة الى امراة و لم اجد الا انا من يقدر على التكفل به و اخ مسكين مقعد و مشلول بعدما تعرض لحادث مرور قبل سنوات و قد ناهز الثلاثين من عمره . و كنت انا اغير ثيابه و اعتني به  ولم افكر ابدا في الامور الجنسية و حتى زبه كنت احاول اخفاءه قدر المستطاع لكن في ذلك اليوم اقتربت منه حتى اطعمه فرايته ينظر الي بطريقة غريبة و لما وقع من يدي الخبز على حجره حاولت امساك قطعة الخبز و لكن يدي وقعت على زبه لاده منتصب بطريقة مدهشة جدا .

و للحظة واحدة احسست بان اخي بحاجة الى حنان جنسي و امراة تطفي جمرته  وطبعا لا توجد اي فتاة تقبل بهكذا رجل تتزوجه او تقيم معه علاقة عاطفية و رحت اشاهد افلام نيك جزائري بكل جراة رغم انه كان يحاول منعي و ايقافي . و اخرجت الزب من البوكسر لاجد مثل العمود الحديدي و امسكته بيدي لاتحسس نعومته و حنانه ثم من دون ان امص او افعل اي شيء جلست فوق الزب و تركته يدخل في كسي للخصيتين و عندها بدا اخي ينازع و كانه يتالم و المحنة الجنسية فيه كبيرة وحارة جدا و انا اشاهد افلام نيك جزائري و اتركه يتمتع احلى متعة جنسية

افلام نيك جزائري

و كان زبه يتحرك في كسي الضيق و انا اصعد و انزل و انظر اليه واشاهد افلام نيك جزائري و اقول له اعرف حبيبي هذا خطئ و لكن لابد لزبك ان يتمتع فانت من حقك ان تعيش و تتلذذ بزبك بحياة جنسية مثل الرجال و كنت انظر اليه  واصعد و انزل بكل حرارة على ذلك الزب اللذيذ و اخي ينازع من دون ان يتكلم و يغمض عينيه . و اشعلت حرارة اخي و زبه حتى احسست بالنيران تتدفق داخل كسي و زب اخي كان يكب و يقذف بكل حرارة في فرجي الساخن و انا لم اتوقف عن التحرك و انا اشاهد افلام نيك جزائري و اصعد و انزل عليه بكل حرارة و في جنس محارم ساخن و مشتعل

ثم نزلت من على الزب لاراه اصبح صغير جدا و فرق كبير بين الحال التي كان عليها و بين حالته بعد القذف واخي يبتسم و خجول جدا مني و لكن انا قبلته من فمه  واخبرته اني ساكون اخته و حبيبته في نفس الوقت و اي وقت ينتصب زبه سيجد كسي امامه لامتاعه . و اعطيت اخي يومها احلى متعة و غسلت له زبه و نظفته و حاولت اللعب به حتى ينتصب مرة اخرى و لكن الزب بقي نائم و مرتخي و لكن انا ايضا شعرت بالذة والمتعة و انا اشاهد افلام نيك جزائري فقد كان زبه كبير نوعا ما و غليظ و متماسك اثناء الانتاصب خاصة حين كان داخل كسي

 

Thanks to Net Galley and to Houghton Mifflin Harcourt and Mariner Books for providing me a free ARC copy of this novel in exchange for an honest review.

This is the first of Patrick Modiano’s novels I read, so I can’t comment on its similarities or differences with the rest of his oeuvre or how well it fits in with his usual concerns.

The novel, translated into English by Mark Polizzotti, is a wander through his memories and the city of Paris by Jean, a writer who fifty years ago, when he was very young, kept a black notebook where he wrote all kinds of things: streets and people’s names, references to writers he admired and events he experienced, sentences people said, rumours, he recorded information about buildings that were about to disappear, dates, visits to places, locations…

The story can be read as a mystery novel, as there are clues referring to false identities, strange men who meet in underground hotels, breaking and entering, robberies and even a serious crime is hinted at. There’s a police interrogation and suggestions of political conspiracy/terrorism, as the original events take place shortly after Algeria’s War of Independence, and a few of the characters are Moroccan and have a reputation for being secretive and dangerous. There is also Dannie, a woman a few years older than Jean, who has a central role in all the intrigues, or at least that’s how it seemed to him at the time. What did he really feel for her? Is he revisiting a love story? Although it is possible to try a conventional reading of the novel, the joy of what French theorist Roland Barthes would call a readerly approach to it, is in making up your own meaning, in accompanying Jean in his walks not only around the real Paris, but also the Paris of his memory, those moments when he feels that he can almost recapture the past, through reading his notes, and relive the moment when he was knocking at a door, or observing outside of a café. Sometimes, more than recapturing the past he feels as if he could bridge the gap of time and go back: to recover a manuscript he forgot years ago, turn off a light that could give them away, or ask questions and clarifications about events he wasn’t aware of at the time.

The narration, in first person, puts the reader firmly inside of Jean’s head, observing and trying to make sense of the same clues he has access to, although in our case without the possible benefit of having lived the real events (if there is such a thing) at the time. But he insists he did not pay enough attention to things as they were happening, and acknowledges that often we can only evaluate the importance of events and people we come across in hindsight when we can revisit them with a different perspective.

The writing is beautiful, fluid, nostalgic, understated and intriguing at times. The book is also very short and it provides a good introduction to Modiano’s writing. But this is not a novel for readers who love the conventions and familiarity provided by specific genres and who want to know what to expect when they start reading, or those who like to have a clear plot and story, and need solid characters to connect with. Here, even the protagonist, Jean, remains a cypher or a stand-in for both, the reader and the writer.

I enjoyed the experience of reading this book, although as mentioned it is not a book for everyone. But, if you love Paris, enjoy a walk down memory lane, like books that make you work and think, have an open mind and are curious about Modiano’s work, I recommend it.

 

bookshelves: african-continent, nonfiction, pirates-smugglers-wreckers, autumn-2012, published-2010, turkish-and-or-ottoman-root, afr-morocco, afr-tunisia, afr-algeria, war

 

When the New York Review of Books republished this in 2006, a lot was made of its relevance to modern US-led adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan. This is kind of true, but also a bit irritating (because a well-told history like this shouldn't require modern parallels to be worth reading), and for that matter also overstated – the differences were really more striking to me than the similarities. America was fighting in a foreign country. France was not, and that was really the whole point. I don't think I had appreciated before quite how French Algeria was considered to be. It wasn't like neighbouring Morocco or Tunisia. Those were French protectorates, administered by the foreign office; but Algeria came under the interior ministry, and on paper it was as French as Normandy or Provence. The French had been there since 1830, and generations of European families – the so-called pieds noirs – had grown up there who had never set foot in mainland France. Here's the (left-wing) French PM in 1953:

Mesdames, Messieurs, several deputies have made comparisons between French policy in Algeria and Tunisia. I declare that no parallel is more erroneous, that no comparison is falser or more dangerous. Ici, c'est la France!

This is one reason why the Algerian War was characterised by such total intransigence on each side. In Paris it was politically unthinkable to imagine giving up an integral part of France itself; while the pieds noirs themselves were fighting for the survival of their whole world. The French military were desperate not to lose again after humiliation in 1940 and later in Indochina. On the Muslim side, it was a simple matter of liberty and representation, which had been denied them to an extraordinary extent. Unlike, say, the British in India, who had trained a whole middle class of native administrators and civil servants that could gradually take over as the British pulled back, the French had allowed only the most token participation from Muslims in Algerian affairs.

One of the most depressing things about this story is how many good viable alternatives to war were clearly available in the 1950s. At first there was a huge middle ground of Europeans and Muslims who would have been very happy with interim solutions – a protectorate, for example, or quotas to ensure Muslim representation in state councils. Again and again such ideas were shot down by hawks in Paris and by the burgeoning independence movement in Algeria. And once they had finished shooting down ideas, they started shooting down people. Gradually – in a process that becomes a theme of this book – moderates were turned, one by one, into extremists.

It was a very violent conflict. The nationalist FLN was basically just a sprinkling of inexperienced politicians over a vast mass of angry guerrillas, whose two main targets were European civilians and moderate Muslims. Bombs in cafés, cinemas, dancehalls in the cities; in the countryside, throat-slitting, or the "Kabyle smile". Towards French soldiers, once these started to arrive in greater numbers, the guerrillas could be more cruelly creative, and the troops were always aware that they were risking not death, but something worse. Here's a French para describing how his colleague was caught in a firefight while the rest of them were pinned down by an FLN group.

My poor friend V. lay howling on his bed of stones till morning. He suffered unimaginably, both physically and mentally, a prey to mortal terror. He only really stopped at dawn, when we could perhaps have saved him. For several hours a rebel had been slithering towards him. He could have seen him all that while. There he was. The rebel touched his body. He took away his weapons. Then he gouged out his eyes. Then he slashed his Achilles' tendons, afraid, perhaps, that he might still come back and die with us. But he didn't finish him off, merely wanting him to have to lie still and suffer.

If that sounds bad, consider how sickening it is to have to say that the French were no better. In response to FLN outrages, gangs of soldiers and pieds noirs would go on indiscriminate rampages through Muslim parts of Algiers, looting shops and killing any Muslims they could lay their hands on. Towards the end, when it was clear which way the wind was blowing, some of them came together to organise a counter-terrorist group called the OAS which carried out a revolting series of bomb attacks both in Algeria and in mainland France. The French army, meanwhile, often resorted to the worst of methods to try and extract information from their prisoners: Algeria was where the whole business of institutionalised military torture first came under the spotlight in a serious way.

At least one general freely admitted that torture was used, and seemed perfectly happy with it. The preferred method was the infamous gégène – a field dynamo with electrodes attached to the victim's body, usually to the genitals. Occasionally things were even worse: girls deflowered with glass bottles, high pressure hoses inserted in the rectum, and so on.

Almost as painful as the torture inflicted on oneself was the awareness of the suffering of others nearby: "I don't believe that there was a single prisoner who did not, like myself, cry from hatred and humiliation on hearing the screams of the tortured for the first time," says Alleg, and he records the horror of the elderly Muslim hoping to appease his tormentors: "Between the terrible cries which the torture forced out of him, he said, exhausted: ‘Vive la France! Vive la France!’ "

I've lived with this book for a couple of weeks, and typing this passage out is making me lose my breath with distress all over again. There are a few heros: Paul Teitgen, head of the Algiers police, was faced with a real-life example of the famous "ticking bomb" scenario, when a terrorist was caught planting a device in a gasworks, but it was believed there was already a second bomb somewhere which had not yet gone off. Would Teitgen give permission to torture the suspect to find out where it was, potentially saving dozens of lives? Teitgen had himself been tortured by the Gestapo. He refused. "I trembled the whole afternoon. Finally the bomb did not go off. Thank God I was right. Because if you once get into the torture business, you're lost."

And the French were lost. French society was increasingly outraged by what it heard, and by the time the war ended – it went on longer than either of the world wars – it had directly brought down no fewer than six French governments.

Alistair Horne tells the story well, but thoroughly – this is a very dense book and I don't know that it could really be considered general interest. There are a few updates in it, but most of the writing is from 1977, and I'm curious to know what historical sources have become available since then, especially on the Algerian side. Historians have been nervous of touching the subject because A Savage War of Peace is so widely considered, still, to be the definitive treatment. And it's easy to see why. Modern parallels or not, this is extremely enlightening.

Writing about your favourite and the most influential single book of your life—not that that means anything—is a little like staring into the sun, the same sun here in an Australian suburb as that of an Algerian beach: so I shall squint, if you don’t mind.



Firstly, Sandra Smith’s work is excellent. I have read all four English translations of L’Étranger that I am aware of (Stuart Gilbert, Joseph Laredo, and Matthew Ward being the other three. If you know of another, please let me know…) at least once over the years. Each has its own life, appropriately; which could be just as much to do with me as it does with the translation itself. I am learning French, starting this year, with the express intention of one day reading this book as the author wrote it. It’s a five year plan.

I have particular imaginings related to Camus’ writing this. He wrote this between 1939-40, but it was not published until the Spring of 1942 in occupied Paris.

This is a story about how someone lives. Meursault is an ordinary enough office clerk, with a strange kind of anti-social sincerity that the reader immediately encounters in the first two sentences, one of the most famous opening lines in literature. Meursault talks to us in a very candid manner, as if he’s talking to himself. As if, sometimes, he’s trying to re-assure himself. Is he a sociopath? No: he is aware of how people react to him, and he genuinely wants people to not be upset. But he also wants to engage with people clearly and openly. He is disinterested—in that kind of scientific manner—but not uncaring. His way of caring is to be honest. Most of all, it is to experience that he leans. He is a caring hedonist, a hedonist who wishes to experience pleasure, but doesn’t wish any more meaning be ascribed to it than the universe offers.

Which is none.

Marie: ‘A moment later, she asked me if I loved her. I told her that didn’t mean anything, but I didn’t think so.’



But he sees her pain, and responds as best he can. It surprises him when he answers genuinely and others are so surprised. He is capable of lying, and he does so several times, when someone is bothering him and he realises what they want to hear and so he gives them it so they will go away. But to people he cares for, he is himself.

When he looks at the world his descriptions of a plain Sunday afternoon are almost like a beautiful impressionist painting. ‘It was truly a Sunday.’ He likes smoking. He likes chocolate. He likes swimming and women. He tells the Judge in Part II: ‘One of the characteristics of my personality was that physical sensations often get in the way of my emotions.’

He shoots and kills a knife-wielding Arab on a beach. Later, in the courtroom, he says it was because of the sun. The ever present heat overhead, the inevitability of life, that-which-cannot-be-avoided-and-beats-down-on-us-all.

This was not before he stopped his friend from doing the same thing earlier. But:

The sky seemed to split apart from end to end to pour its fire down upon me. My whole body tensed as I gripped the gun. It set off the trigger.


…and it was then, with that sharp, deafening sound, that it all began.’ Until his on the way to the guillotine and ‘…it might be finished…

That journey is Meursault’s journey towards an acceptance of the Absurd: to put simply, Camus’ notion that human beings live in an essentially meaningless universe where they are compelled—as part of that ‘living’—to search for (and often demand) some sort of essential meaning.

It is not until his last outburst at a chaplain purges him of evil, and empties him of hope, that he can finally, for the first time, open himself ‘…to the tender indifference of the world.’ This indifference—tender indifference—is an understanding of how to live in that gap, to be happy, to allow for happiness, within that Absurd gap. He is happy on the path to death, and he is willing the participation of others in it, even if they are hateful.

Meursault is the '...only Christ we deserve.'