The Book of Seasons by Ghazi Al-Qusaibi, first edition

Seasons Ghazi Algosaibi.

This book is not a novel, a collection of poetry, or an essay. I do not know what the classification of this book is. Ghazi Al-Qusaibi talks about his sad seasons at the age of sixty-five.

For the first time, I find Ghazi Al-Qusaibi talking about his private life in this way.

Ghazi Al-Qusaibi decided, as it seems, to broadcast his deep sighs, involve the reader in his thoughts, and expressly confess to him his hidden pain that he lived with since his early childhood, and then the sixty-fifth came, bringing with it successive waves of grief and loss that made that painful revelation an urgent necessity to restore his balance.

Ghazi Al-Qusaibi lists the names of all the old dead, brothers, sisters, wives of brothers, husbands of sisters, sons of brothers and nephews of sisters, those who passed away suddenly without a prior appointment or an announced preparation, and those who left after suffering and sickness in pain and exhaustion, young and old.

Ghazi was stripped of all positions and put on the man's dress, which was guided by the longing for his brothers who were absent from him during a close period of time. Al-Gosaibi, that iron man, writes with his tears, he returns to a child who yearns and misses, and the faces feel the pages of his memories, pictures that seasons did not pass, as they did with the rest of the things. With the seasons, Al-Qusaibi navigates us as if he is telling us that no matter how many shapes and colors there are, and how many positions there are, the end is the same.