The Nubian Prince: A Novel

Review: The Nubian Prince by Juan Bonilla
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The Nubian Prince book. Read 11 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. A cutting, comic odyssey of a hapless hero ensnared by globalizat. The author of three novels, four short-story collections, and a children's book, he was awarded the prestigious Biblioteca Breve prize for The Nubian Prince.

Learn More - opens in a new window or tab Any international shipping is paid in part to Pitney Bowes Inc. Learn More - opens in a new window or tab. Report item - opens in a new window or tab. Seller assumes all responsibility for this listing. Item specifics Condition: Brand New: A new, unread, unused book in perfect condition with no missing or damaged pages.

Jailed Nubian activist dies in custody

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Learn more - opens in a new window or tab. There are 2 items available. Please enter a number less than or equal to 2. Select a valid country. Please enter 5 or 9 numbers for the ZIP Code. Handling time. Will usually ship within 2 business days of receiving cleared payment - opens in a new window or tab. As soon as anyone starts telling me things about his childhood, both my legs go to sleep, and for that same reason I try never to tell anyone anything about mine. I remember a certain spring night at home, watching a movie on TV with my parents and brother.

The movie was Magnolia, a collection of shocking dramas woven together with enviable skill and copious histrionics. Suddenly one of the characters--a pathetic former TV child star who's had braces put on his teeth in order to seduce the muscular waiter he's fallen for--bursts into tears after getting his face cut open in a spectacular fall. Between sobs, he cries, "I have so much love to give. To my mother's astonishment, my brother's bewilderment, and my old man's stone-faced indifference, I started repeating the character's line over and over.

My mother got up and came over to me but couldn't think of anything to do except throw the afghan she'd had in her lap around my shoulders. With any luck, they'll decide to keep him in the hospital a while. Behind me, I heard my mother say, "That boy is going through a lot.

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Heshould see a psychologist. In fact, her sole preoccupation in life was to find an appropriate name for what the rest of us called "her little thing," and which she, therefore, had no choice but to call "my little thing. Whenever her spirits darkened and she left the kitchen to sit in front of the TV until all hours, voraciously consuming carton after carton of ice cream, my brother and I would say to each other, "Mother's got her little thing again. Of course everyone in the family knew that Mother's condition was a banal mixture of boredom with her empty life, resentment of my father, disgust with herself, and, finally, an uncontrollable urge to put an end to the whole thing--a combination that did not fail to present an interesting philosophical conundrum.

Here was a cocktail of woes topped off with an ingredient whose essential purpose, in addition to giving the brew its own distinctive flavor, was to eliminate the cocktail itself. During the phases when she wasn't feeling so low that she had to remain prostrate most of the day, she would valiantly pursue the label that could reduce her problem to a few syllables.

First she went back to finish up her interrupted bachelor's degree, enrolling in night school, where her classmates were an impressivecrop of slow but determined learners. She lasted less than a year. It was true, she said, that she'd learned things about Ferdinand and Isabella and the causes of the Spanish Civil War, that she had recovered a certain taste for mathematical formulas--Ruffini's theorem struck her as "enchanting," and its derivatives inspired rapturous commentary--and had confirmed that chemistry remained as uncouth and insufferable a subject as it was when she was in college.

But something was missing. She hadn't managed to strike up a friendship with any of the students in her class, and it wasn't for lack of drinking lots of coffee with the ones who seemed most interesting.

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She decided that what was missing was exercise. Why wasn't gym a required subject in night school? She could answer the question herself simply by imagining most of her classmates in workout clothes. That same week she put all her class notes away in a drawer and rushed off to enroll in a sports club. My brother maintained that what my mother really needed was a lover. It's true that when women who are inordinately bored with their families and the dull routine of their lives find something to focus on so as to escape to a better place, they experience an upsurge in mood and looks that is in direct ratio to the neglect with which they then punish their families--and during her fitness period my mother managed to get a little closer to that better place.

I don't know whether she actually did have a lover during those months I hope she did , but it would have been difficult even to ask the question; the "upsurge" had lifted her so high above us that we would have had to scream just to get her attention. And it wouldn't have been a good idea to arouse my father's suspicions.

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He was contemptuously dismissive of my mother's attempts to save herself and find a name for "her little thing. Yes, that was it, what she needed were words, not push-ups. Maybe the lover who'd helped her love herself a little more grew tired of her constant doubts and rigorous self-examinations, deliberately intended to fuel her sense of guilt.

In any case, the gym days were followed by a brief period of prostration. Then, I imagine, she had an idea: given the impossibility of finding a name for her problem in Spanish, it might be easier to try finding it in some other language. She enrolled in a language school.

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My brother suspected that my mother's decision to study German rather than English could only be a kind of secret tribute to her lover's nationality. You see how, without knowing anything for certain, we were able to conjecture a rather odd sequence of events in order to explain something that undoubtedly required no explanation.

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Whatever the case, it was the worst decision she could have made. If she'd chosen English, she might have managed to finish the course, but with German her chances were a lot slimmer.

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Before the end of the second semester my mother abandoned her declensions and once more took refuge in silence, serving up boiled potatoes for dinner with a vacant stare, spending hours each day in front of the television, and, on the days when she felt worst, buying colossal quantities of entirely useless things.

Finally, my brother, who is much more candid than I am and consequently wound up working as a gas station attendant desp Convert currency. Add to Basket. Compare all 6 new copies. Book Description Metropolitan Books, Condition: New. More information about this seller Contact this seller. Seller Inventory M Want to Read saving…. Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Other editions. Enlarge cover. Error rating book. Refresh and try again. Open Preview See a Problem? Details if other :. Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page.