Name: de Niro's Game
Price: $1.28 USD
Availability: InStock
Author: Hage, Rawi
ISBN: 9780061470578

About This Book

De Niro's Game by Rawi Hage is a powerful and evocative novel that delves into the complexities of life in war-torn Beirut. This book is a must-read for anyone interested in the human experience during times of conflict and the choices we make to survive.

Who Uses It?

Primarily, this book is used by students and educators in literature and cultural studies courses, particularly those focusing on Middle Eastern history and contemporary issues. It's also a valuable resource for anyone interested in exploring the psychological and emotional impacts of war on individuals and communities.

History and Editions

Published on August 5, 2008, by HarperCollins, De Niro's Game has been a significant addition to literary fiction since its release. The book won the prestigious International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award in 2008, solidifying its place in the literary canon. This edition is part of the P.S. Series and includes 304 pages of vivid storytelling and poetic prose.

Author and Other Works

Rawi Hage is a Lebanese-Canadian author known for his unique and captivating writing style. De Niro's Game is his first novel, which he wrote after immigrating to Canada. Hage's work often explores themes of identity, culture, and the human condition, making him a notable figure in contemporary literature.

Detailed Information

ISBNs and Formats

Hardcover: ISBN-13: 9780061470578

eTextbook: ISBN-13: 9780061470578 (The ebook for "De Niro's Game" is available right here on eCampus.com!)

Rental Options: Available through eCampus.com with various rental durations

Publication Details

Publisher: HarperCollins

Publication Date: August 5, 2008

Number of Pages: 304

Language: English

Item Weight: Not specified

Dimensions: 5.30 x 7.90 x 0.80 inches

Other Editions and Formats

While there are no other specific editions or formats listed for this book, it is available in various formats through eCampus.com.

Related ISBNs:

9780061470578 (The ebook for "De Niro's Game" is available right here on eCampus.com!)

9780061470578 (The hardcover for "De Niro's Game" is available right here on eCampus.com!)

Note: The ISBNs provided are accurate and specific to the book De Niro's Game by Rawi Hage.

De Niro's Game
A Novel

One

ten thousand bombs had landed, and i was waiting for George.

Ten thousand bombs had landed on Beirut, that crowded city, and I was lying on a blue sofa covered with white sheets to protect it from dust and dirty feet.

It is time to leave, I was thinking to myself.

My mother's radio was on. It had been on since the start of the war, a radio with Rayovac batteries that lasted ten thousand years. My mother's radio was wrapped in a cheap, green plastic cover, with holes in it, smudged with the residue of her cooking fingers and dust that penetrated its knobs, cinched against its edges. Nothing ever stopped those melancholic Fairuz songs that came out of it.

I was not escaping the war; I was running away from Fairuz, the notorious singer.

Summer and the heat had arrived; the land was burning under a close sun that cooked our flat and its roof. Down below our white window, Christian cats walked the narrow streets nonchalantly, never crossing themselves or kneeling for black-dressed priests. Cars were parked on both sides of the street, cars that climbed sidewalks, obstructed the passage of worn-out, suffocating pedestrians whose feet, tired feet, and faces, long faces, cursed and blamed America with every little step and every twitch of their miserable lives.Heat descended, bombs landed, and thugs jumped the long lines for bread, stole the food of the weak, bullied the baker and caressed his daughter. Thugs never waited in lines.

george honked.

His motorcycle's cadaverous black fumes reached my window, and its bubbly noise entered my room. I went downstairs and cursed Fairuz on the way out: that whining singer who makes my life a morbid hell.

My mother came down from the roof with two buckets in her hands; she was stealing water from the neighbour's reservoir.

There is no water, she said to me. It only comes two hours a day.

She mentioned something about food, as usual, but I waved and ran down the stairs.

I climbed onto George's motorbike and sat behind him, and we drove down the main streets where bombs fell, where Saudi diplomats had once picked up French prostitutes, where ancient Greeks had danced, Romans had invaded, Persians had sharpened their swords, Mamluks had stolen the villagers' food, crusaders had eaten human flesh, and Turks had enslaved my grandmother.

War is for thugs. Motorcycles are also for thugs, and for longhaired teenagers like us, with guns under our bellies, and stolen gas in our tanks, and no particular place to go.

We stopped at the city's shoreline, on the ramp of a bridge, and George said to me, I have a mashkal (problem).

Talk, I said.

This man, Chafiq Al-Azrak I think his name is, parks his car down from my Aunt Nabila's place. When he leaves, he still reserves the space for himself. I moved the two poles marking his spot so my aunt can park. So she parks, and we go up to have coffee at her place. This Chafiq fellow knocks at my aunt's door and asks her to move her car. It is his space, he says. My aunt says, It is a public space . . . He insults her . . . She shouts . . . I pull out my gun, put it in his face, and kick him out of the house. He runs down the stairs and threatens me from below. But we will show him, won't we, quiet man ?

I listened and nodded. Then we hopped back on the motorbike and drove under falling bullets, oblivious. We drove through the noise of military chants and a thousand radio stations all claiming victory. We stared at the short skirts of female warriors and drove beside schoolgirls' thighs. We were aimless, beggars and thieves, horny Arabs with curly hair and open shirts and Marlboro packs rolled in our sleeves, dropouts, ruthless nihilists with guns, bad breath, and long American jeans.

I will see you tonight, late, George said to me when he dropped me back home. Then he drove away.

midnight came; the noise of George's motorbike filled the neighbourhood. I went down to the alley where the men watched the late-Friday-night Egyptian movie, smoking on small balconies, gulping cold beer and araq, cracking fresh green almonds, and with their filthy yellow nails crushing American cigarettes in folkloric ashtrays. Inside their houses, the impoverished women carefully, economically, dripped water from red plastic buckets over their brown skins in ancient Turkish bathtubs, washing away the dust, the smells, the baklava-thin crust, the vicious morning gossip over tiny coffee cups, the poverty of their husbands, the sweat under their unshaven armpits. They washed like meticulous Christian cats that lick their paws under small European car engines that leak corporate oil extracted by exploited Nigerian workers from underneath the earth where devils roam, and worms gnaw on the roots of dead trees that are suffocated by factory fumes and the greedy breath of white-skinned engineers. Those lazy cats lingered under unwashed cars, watching the passing of Italian shoes, painted nails, colourful and torn-out cuffs, pointy high heels, plastic flippers, stomping naked feet, and delicious exposed ankles that thick hands would bind, release, and slip higher to reach a flow of warm fluid that carefully, generously turned into a modest flood smelling of eel, red fish, and rosewater.

We drove fast toward George's aunt's house. When we arrived, George said, That is Chafiq Al-Azrak's car. He pulled out his gun. I gave the motorcycle gas and made it roar. George shot the wheels of the car, and the air in them was released. He aimed higher and shot the car's lights, the door, the tinted glass, the seat inside, his own reflection in the mirror. He fired silently, and calmly danced around the car, then pointed and fired again. The broken metal was penetrated with tiny, damaging holes, quick and sharp. It was a lethal, entertaining act of vengeance, and I liked it.

Excerpted from De Niro's Game by Rawi Hage
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