Joan Tatar's memory falters on scenes that Syrians experienced in the laboratory of their torment. It is the slow Syrian time that brings and brings with it in Tatar’s diary the various elements of the experience: starting from the market, to the soldier, to being discharged from it, in a biography that contradicts time, from symbolic death to symbolic birth, in a country that resembles a long dormitory crowded with people. Throughout this cycle of Syrian life, murmurs and stinks are present. Life, as Joan Teter portrays it in this book, is an experiment with low sounds that end in final silence. An experiment with the depths of fear. Is it deeper than we imagined? Is it possible to escape from the fear that has become part of water, and from thirst, part of glut, and part of hunger? Many opposites meet on that distant horizon that made the Syrian dough in the soldier’s laboratory. Were they prisoners or soldiers? Are they condemned or heroes? Everything is equal, all values are equal in that horizon which is the space of Syria, the space of fear and pleas for freedom.
In the beginning, there was a confession of an unintentional murder of a victim who suddenly disappeared from sight, from a girl who was known in the neighborhood for her kind heart and love of volunteer and charitable work. After that, the victim appeared and there were 3 criminals who committed the same crime.
The police thought it was a murder with intent to steal, and after that they discovered the victim's diabolical intentions towards his stepdaughter who had run away 5 years ago, and then that call that solved the mystery of the case.
What connects criminals? Is it a relationship of feelings? Or an exchange of interests? Of course the brilliant investigator and the officer's brilliant deductions brought together the threads of evidence.
Seasons:
Miniatures that tell seasons of feeling... are small prose texts
Every miniature says a lot...
For everyone who suffers from distress and boredom due to excessive chatter...
Whose imagination cannot contain enough words...
Whoever is certain one day that the best words...
With it, I will pass the seasons of indulgence to the point of escape
