From Publishers Weekly
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From Booklist
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Review
[A] masterpiece...writing cannot really get much better than Hage's. (Literary Review of Canada 20070401)
...De Niro's Game discloses much to a Canadian audience largely sheltered from the physical and emotional effects of war...Bassam's voice, though emotionally restrained, tells a story that is not only vivid, but also illuminating. (Matrix Magazine 20061109)
...provides an essential historical context to current political turmoil in Lebanon... (The Dominion 20070401)
...the incredibly affecting tale of a young man's fight to remain sovereign, intellectually and politically... (The Hour 20070401)
De Niro's Game is a feverish nightmare of a book, written with a distinctly European flair...it stubbornly refuses to offer the reader any easy comfort...[readers] will be seduced by the undoubted visceral power of this suddenly current narrative. (Toronto Star 20070416)
East meets West in this stunning first novel yielding a totally fresh perspective on war-torn Beirut...Both terse and lyrical, Hage's narrative is a wonder, alternately referencing modern American action heroes and ancient Arabic imagery. The blend of the two is as startling as it is beautiful. (Booklist 20070501)
Hage's energetic prose matches the brutality depicted in the novel without overstating the narrative's tragic arc-an impressive first outing for Hage. (Publishers Weekly 20061207)
The excitement of Hage's action-packed plot is supplemented by his visually and viscerally descriptive language... (January Magazine 20070601)
The novel is full of poetic descriptions of the surreal and horrific nature of war delivered through Bassam's stream of consciousness narrative. There are lines that you are compelled to read again and again due to their raw beauty and their insight into how war irreparably shapes human psyches. (Fast Forward Weekly )
A magnificent achievement...the work of a major literary talent. (Dublin IMPAC Literary Award Jury )
Book Description
There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. In Rawi Hage's unforgettable novel, winner of the 2008 IMPAC Prize, this famous quote by Camus becomes a touchstone for two young men caught in Lebanon's civil war. Bassam and George are childhood best friends who have grown to adulthood in war torn Beirut. Now they must choose their futures: to stay in the city and consolidate power through crime; or to go into exile abroad, alienated from the only existence they have known. Bassam chooses one path: obsessed with leaving Beirut, he embarks on a series of petty crimes to finance his departure. Meanwhile, George builds his power in the underworld of the city and embraces a life of military service, crime for profit, killing, and drugs.
Told in the voice of Bassam, De Niro's Game is a beautiful, explosive portrait of a contemporary young man shaped by a lifelong experience of war. Rawi Hage's brilliant style mimics a world gone mad: so smooth and apparently sane that its razor-sharp edges surprise and cut deeply. A powerful meditation on life and death in a war zone, and what comes after.
(20070401)From the Publisher
Scotiabank Giller Prize, Finalist (2006)
Commonwealth Writer's Prize—Best First Book, Finalist (2007)
Winner, Paragraphe Hugh MacLennan Prize for Fiction (2006)
Winner, McAuslan First Book Prize (2006)
Governor General's Award—Fiction, Finalist (2006)
Rogers Writer's Trust Fiction Prize, Finalist (2007)
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I went down the street and strolled under the falling bombs. The street was empty. I walked above humans hidden in shelters like colonies of rats beneath the soil. I passed photos of dead young men posted on wooden electric poles, on the entrances to buildings, framed in little shrines. Some were hailed as heroes, others as victims. Beirut was the calmest city ever in a war. I walked in the middle of the street as if I owned it. I walked through the calmest city, an empty city that I liked. I thought, All cities should be emptied of men and given to dogs. A bomb fell not far from me. I looked for the smoke, waited for the moaning and screams. There were none. Maybe the bomb has hit me, I thought; maybe I am the dead one in the backseat of a car, my blood pouring out little happy fountains, mopped by a stranger’s clothes, drunk by a warlord or some God whose thirst could never be quenched, a petty tribal God, a jealous God celebrating his tribe’s carnage and gore, a God who chooses one servant over the other, a lonely lunatic imaginary God poisoned by lead and silver bowls, distracted by divine orgies and arranged marriages, mixing wine and water and sharpening his sword.