The Moor's Account by Laila Lalami (English) Paperback Book

Description: The Moor's Account by Laila Lalami "Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, in 2014."--Title page verso. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description PULITZER PRIZE FINALIST • A NEW YORK TIMES NOTABLE BOOK • The imagined memoirs of the first black explorer of America—this "stunning [book] sheds light on all of the possible the New World exploration stories that didnt make history" (Huffington Post). In these pages, Laila Lalami brings us the invented memoirs Mustafa al-Zamori, called Estebanico. The slave of a Spanish conquistador, Estebanico sails for the Americas with his master, Dorantes, as part of a danger-laden expedition to Florida. Within a year, Estebanico is one of only four crew members to survive. As he journeys across America with his Spanish companions, the Old World roles of slave and master fall away, and Estebanico remakes himself as an equal, a healer, and a remarkable storyteller. His tale illuminates the ways in which our narratives can transmigrate into history—and how storytelling can offer a chance at redemption and survival. Author Biography Laila Lalami is the author of the short story collection Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits, which was a finalist for the Oregon Book Award, and the novel Secret Son, which was on the Orange Prize long list. Her essays and opinion pieces have appeared in the Los Angeles Times, The Washington Post, The Nation, The Guardian, and The New York Times, and in many anthologies. She is the recipient of a British Council Fellowship, a Fulbright Fellowship, and a Lannan Residency Fellowship and is an associate professor of creative writing at the University of California at Riverside. She lives in Los Angeles. Review PULITZER PRIZE FINALIST • A New York Times Notable Book • MAN BOOKER PRIZE NOMINEE • WINNER OF THE AMERICAN BOOK AWARD • A Wall Street Journal Top 10 Book of the Year • An NPR Great Read of the Year • A Kirkus Best Fiction Book of the Year"An exciting tale of wild hopes, divided loyalties, and highly precarious fortunes." —The New Yorker"An absorbing story of one of the first encounters between Spanish conquistadores and Native Americans, a frightening, brutal, and much-falsified history that here, in her brilliantly imagined fiction, is rewritten to give us something that feels very like the truth." —Salman Rushdie"Stunning. . . . The Moors Account sheds light on all of the possible the New World exploration stories that didnt make history." —Huffington Post "Lalami has once again shown why she is one of her generations most gifted writers." —Reza Aslan, author of Zealot"Compelling. . . . Necessary. . . . Laila Lalamis mesmerizing The Moors Account presents us a historical fiction that feels something like a plural totality . . . a narrative that braids points of view so intricately that they become one even as were constantly reminded of the separate and often contrary strands that render the whole." —The Los Angeles Review of Books "Richly rewarding." —NPR "A bold and exhilarating bid to give a real-life figure muzzled by history the chance to have his say in fiction." —San Francisco Chronicle "[A] rich novel based on an actual, ill-fated 16th century Spanish expedition to Florida. . . . Offers a pungent alternative history that muses on the ambiguous power of words to either tell the truth or reshape it according to our desires." —Los Angeles Times "Estebanico is a superb storyteller, capable of sensitive character appraisals and penetrating ethnographic detail." —The Wall Street Journal "Feels at once historical and contemporary. . . . For Lalami, storytelling is a primal struggle over power between the strong and the weak, between good and evil, and against forgetting. . . . Lalami sees the story [of Estebanico] as a form of moral and spiritual instruction that can lead to transcendence." —The New York Times Book Review "Meticulously researched and inventive. . . . Those interested in the history of the Spanish colonization of the Americas will find much to like in The Moors Account, as will lovers of good yarns of faraway lands and times." —The Seattle Times "Excellent historical fiction. . . . The way the Moors account differs from the Spaniards is amazing. Its a play on perspective in more ways than one." —Ebony "Artfully conveys the politics and power dynamics of bondage. . . . Eloquently examines the subjectivity of narrative and the creation and manipulation of the truth. . . . With this magnificent novel, Lalami, through fiction, has penned a revelation and tribute to truth." —The Millions "Tremendous and powerful, The Moors Account is one of the finest historical novels Ive encountered in a while. It rings with thunder!" —Gary Shteyngart "Laila Lalamis radiant, arrestingly vivid prose instantly draws us into the world of the first black slave in the New World whose name we know—Estebanico. A bravura performance of imagination and empathy, The Moors Account reverberates long after the final page." —Henry Louis Gates, Jr. Review Quote PULITZER PRIZE FINALIST * A New York Times Notable Book * MAN BOOKER PRIZE NOMINEE * WINNER OF THE AMERICAN BOOK AWARD * A Wall Street Journal Top 10 Book of the Year * An NPR Great Read of the Year * A Kirkus Best Fiction Book of the Year "An exciting tale of wild hopes, divided loyalties, and highly precarious fortunes." -- The New Yorker "An absorbing story of one of the first encounters between Spanish conquistadores and Native Americans, a frightening, brutal, and much-falsified history that here, in her brilliantly imagined fiction, is rewritten to give us something that feels very like the truth." --Salman Rushdie "Stunning. . . . The Moors Account sheds light on all of the possible the New World exploration stories that didnt make history." -- Huffington Post "Lalami has once again shown why she is one of her generations most gifted writers." --Reza Aslan, author of Zealot "Compelling. . . . Necessary. . . . Laila Lalamis mesmerizing The Moors Account presents us a historical fiction that feels something like a plural totality . . . a narrative that braids points of view so intricately that they become one even as were constantly reminded of the separate and often contrary strands that render the whole." -- The Los Angeles Review of Books "Richly rewarding." --NPR "A bold and exhilarating bid to give a real-life figure muzzled by history the chance to have his say in fiction." -- San Francisco Chronicle "[A] rich novel based on an actual, ill-fated 16th century Spanish expedition to Florida. . . . Offers a pungent alternative history that muses on the ambiguous power of words to either tell the truth or reshape it according to our desires." -- Los Angeles Times "Estebanico is a superb storyteller, capable of sensitive character appraisals and penetrating ethnographic detail." -- The Wall Street Journal "Feels at once historical and contemporary. . . . For Lalami, storytelling is a primal struggle over power between the strong and the weak, between good and evil, and against forgetting. . . . Lalami sees the story [of Estebanico] as a form of moral and spiritual instruction that can lead to transcendence." -- The New York Times Book Review "Meticulously researched and inventive. . . . Those interested in the history of the Spanish colonization of the Americas will find much to like in The Moors Account , as will lovers of good yarns of faraway lands and times." -- The Seattle Times "Excellent historical fiction. . . . The way the Moors account differs from the Spaniards is amazing. Its a play on perspective in more ways than one." -- Ebony "Artfully conveys the politics and power dynamics of bondage. . . . Eloquently examines the subjectivity of narrative and the creation and manipulation of the truth. . . . With this magnificent novel, Lalami, through fiction, has penned a revelation and tribute to truth." -- The Millions "Tremendous and powerful, The Moors Account is one of the finest historical novels Ive encountered in a while. It rings with thunder!" --Gary Shteyngart "Laila Lalamis radiant, arrestingly vivid prose instantly draws us into the world of the first black slave in the New World whose name we know--Estebanico. A bravura performance of imagination and empathy, The Moors Account reverberates long after the final page." --Henry Louis Gates, Jr. Description for Reading Group Guide The questions, discussion topics, and suggested reading list that follow are intended to enhance your groups experience of reading Laila Lalamis The Moors Account . We hope they will provide you with many ways of approaching this groundbreaking historical novel from the author of Secret Son and Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits . Discussion Question for Reading Group Guide 1. The Moors Account chronicles a heros journey into the unknown. In what ways does this journey follow the conventions of the epic genre, and in what ways does it subvert them? 2. Spanish conquest of the Americas relied upon several myths, including the myth that exploration was the preserve of white men and that native men and women were mostly silent witnesses. How does Estebanico challenge these myths? 3. The novel takes the form of a sixteenth-century Arabic travelogue. How does this structure help the story? 4. How would you describe Estebanicos voice? What stylistic choices did the author make to give him a distinctive sound? 5. Estebanico writes, "The only thing at once more precious and more fragile than a true story is a free life." What thwarts his attempts at regaining his freedom, again and again? 6. What role does Estebanicos trafficking in slaves play in the story? How does it complicate his view of the Indians as well as our view of him? 7. Estebanico gives different names to many people (e.g. Kwachi, Balsehekona, Oyomasot) and many places (e.g. Portillo, Santa Mar Excerpt from Book 8. The Story of Seville All around me, voices rose and fell. Shackled slaves spoke in an overlapping multitude of languages, this one asking after an uncle, this other comforting a child, and yet these others arguing about a piece of moldy bread, their cries periodically interrupted by the bleating of goats from the animal stalls. But for a long time, I kept to my silence, wrapping myself in it like an old, comfortable cloak. I think I was still trying to apprehend the consequences of what I had done. For hours on end, I revisited the long sequence of events that had led me from the soft divans and rhythmic guenbris of my graduation feast to the timber bench and jangling chains of the caravel Jacinta, sailing with frightening speed toward the city of Seville. I had played my part in these events--I had made my decisions freely and independently at each juncture, and yet I was stunned by the turn my life had taken. The elders teach us: give glory to God, who can alter all fates. One day you could be selling slaves, the next you could be sold as a slave. The hunger I had felt so keenly in Azemmur was tamed now, if not satisfied, by the hard bread the sailors distributed once a day, though it was quickly replaced by a renewed acquaintance with all of my bodys other senses and needs. My head itched from the lice my neighbor, an old man with pockmarks dotting his face, had given me. My soiled clothes stuck to my skin, because I could not bring myself to use, on command and with little notice, the bucket that was passed up and down the gallery twice a day. My limbs grew stiff from sitting in damp and narrow quarters. My throat hurt, my feet swelled, my wrists bled. Above all, my heart ached with longing for my family. My family. They had, all of them, learned to accept their fates. Without complaint my sister had spent her girlhood watching over our twin brothers, and without protest she had returned home after her divorce. My brothers went to school every day hoping to fulfill my fathers dreams, dreams I had cruelly broken and then bequeathed to them. My mother had left her beloved people and her distinguished hometown in order to follow my father to Azemmur. As for me, I had made a habit of defying my fate. Perhaps I could do that now and find a way back to my old life. I thought of the elder al-Dib, my employer in Azemmur, who had been born to a slavewoman, but had earned his freedom as a youth. Perhaps I could do the same. Perhaps my talent would be recognized by my master, who would let me purchase my freedom; or perhaps my misery would touch the heart of an Andalusian Muslim, who would free me from bondage in order to earn the favor of our Lord. To overcome my fear, I shackled myself with hope, its links heavier than any metal known to man. Having convinced myself that my condition was temporary, I set about trying to survive it. I taught myself to ignore the stench of excretions, the moans of delirium, the sight of private parts. I learned to push back into my throat the rising taste of vomit. I tried to watch out for the rats. I slept only when my exhaustion overpowered my discomfort. And I passed the time by listening to the stories the women told their children, after the guards had left and the doors were locked for the night. In the darkness of the lower deck, the women brought to life a world entire, a world where sly girls outwitted hungry ghouls and where simple cobblers saved powerful sultans, so that at times it seemed to me I could see the ghouls sharp teeth or the sultans embroidered slippers. Then, early one morning, the anchor was dropped, its tug faintly resonating through the varnished wood under my feet. I listened to the footsteps on the upper deck. Did the customs officer come aboard to greet the captain? Was that the stevedore inquiring about the merchandise? Then at last the deck door was flung wide open. A rush of cold air blasted into the lower deck, where it met with the suppressed heat and terrified silence of two hundred slaves. Row by row, we were unshackled and led up the stairs. When I reached the upper deck, the blinding white light made me recoil in pain and I staggered like a drunkard, but after three weeks in closed quarters I was so hungry for the untainted smell of open air that I took my hands off my face. Seville reeked of fried fish, but its air was not briny, and there was a whiff of smoke coming from somewhere in the port. The morning chill gave me goose bumps and I put my arms around me, all the while steadying myself on my feet. Finally, I opened my eyes. All around me were men whose faces were covered in brightly colored kerchiefs, with openings for the eyes. They carried long sticks, with which they prodded me to the way out. As I went down the ships rope ladder, I saw that I was on a wide river. It ran fast, just like the Umm er-Rbi, and yet its sound, the particular melody it made as it rumbled beneath the ship, was different. Later, when I would learn that this river was called the Guadalquivir, the Arabic name would at once delight me with its familiarity and repulse me with its reminder of my personal humiliation. The city of Seville did not have a pier like the one in Azemmur, so we had to be taken by rowboat to the riverbank. The sky above was a turquoise blue, cut through by the black masts and white sails of the ships around us. On the shore, a man whose face was hidden behind a yellow kerchief was separating the healthy from the lame, the sturdy from the weak, the young from the old. He jabbed me with a stick, and then pointed me to the first line. All around me, the port hummed with the sounds of sailors, officers, porters, and scribes, each hurriedly going about his business. Two men standing next to a tall stack of crates were having a loud argument, I remember, and one of them seized the other by his collar. Beyond the port, the citys white, square homes were slowly rising from their slumber. Carts creaked on the cobblestone. Horses clopped in the distance. Somewhere, I knew, a father was sitting down for a morning meal with his family. Somewhere, a child was receiving her bowl of milk. Somewhere, a brother was closing the door of his house behind him as he went to work. And I was here, at the port, ready to be sold once again. A man with a red kerchief grouped a dozen of us together, the way farmers collect their eggs or bakers their loaves, tied our hands to one another with thick rope, and led us away from the port. It was a long and painful walk, because we were all weak from hunger and idleness. Periodically one of us fell and had to be helped up, but our wretched procession drew no stares of interest or curiosity from the many people we passed. Each one went about his business without the slightest pause. At a bend in the road I caught the first glimpse of an imposing tower, which looked very much like the minarets at home. What is the name of that tower? I asked the man with the red kerchief. La Giralda, he said without turning. I had heard of La Giralda years earlier--it had been built by the Almohad sultans as a replica of the Kutubiya in Marrakesh--and I had even fantasized of seeing it someday, but never under these circumstances. Around the corner from La Giralda, we stopped in front of a tall edifice, with large wooden doors and an imposing facade. As we ascended the marble steps, an older man in our group slipped and fell and we all tumbled in a pile over him. The slave merchant clicked his tongue at the delay we were causing him--his long day, already filled with labor, was made more difficult by our clumsiness. The fallen man stood up, his palm over his broken tooth and bloodied lips, even as the merchant pulled roughly on the rope and led us toward the entrance. We were brought before an imam of the Christian faith, a man of freckled complexion and colorless eyes, who spoke an ancient tongue I did not understand. I could detect no pattern to the words that poured like a river out of his mouth, but I listened nonetheless, to distract myself from my thirst and my hunger. He wore a robe of immaculate white, with carefully embroidered edges. Behind him, a stained glass window colored the morning light in various shades of red, yellow, and blue. Though I had been taught to distrust pictures of the human form, I could not help staring at the white woman with a babe in arms and the brilliantly attired men gathered around her. They seemed removed from our untidy and disgraceful world, engaged in their own story, unconcerned about the scene unfolding beneath them. Being the tallest man in my family, I was used to lowering my head when I passed through the doorway of our house and to seeing my knees stick out when I sat on my heels next to my uncles. Yet here, in this high-ceilinged church, I felt small and helpless. My hands were tied together and bound to the slaves on either side of me. If one of us moved his hands or feet in order to find a more comfortable stance, the slave merchant pulled on the rope to force the insurgent back in line. With a snap, the priest closed his book and laid it carefully on a table beside him. He nodded to the merchant, who nudged the first in our group forward, a woman with wide, protruding eyes. The priests fingers traced a cross in the air, over her face and chest. I looked at him unblinkingly, all the while wondering what the action meant and why he repeated it with each one of us. It was not until much later that I understood the significance of the sign on our bodies. I had entered the church as the servant of God Mustafa ibn Muhammad ibn Abdussalam al-Zamori; I left it as Esteban. Just Esteban--conve Details ISBN0804170622 Author Laila Lalami Short Title MOORS ACCOUNT Language English ISBN-10 0804170622 ISBN-13 9780804170628 Media Book Format Paperback Birth 1968 DEWEY FIC Year 2015 UK Release Date 1900-01-01 Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2015-08-18 NZ Release Date 2015-08-18 US Release Date 2015-08-18 Place of Publication New York Publisher Random House USA Inc Publication Date 2015-08-18 Imprint Vintage Books Audience General Pages 400 We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:95090823;

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