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"Lanchester’s novel…elegantly and chillingly imagines how current political attitudes might play out as the repercussions of climate change grow more severe."― New York Times

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"Lanchester’s novel…elegantly and chillingly imagines how current political attitudes might play out as the repercussions of climate change grow more severe."― New York Times

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Shared by Fajr AlKouz

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إذا الإيمان ضاع فلا أمان *** ولا دنيا لمـــن لم يحي دينا ومن رضي الحياة بغير دين *** فقد جــــعل الفناء لها قرينـا

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إذا الإيمان ضاع فلا أمان *** ولا دنيا لمـــن لم يحي دينا ومن رضي الحياة بغير دين *** فقد جــــعل الفناء لها قرينـا

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Shared by Prof. Ali Shehadeh

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“My Story” by H.H. Sheikha Mohamed bin Rashid Al Maktoum

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“My Story” by H.H. Sheikha Mohamed bin Rashid Al Maktoum

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Shared by Prof. Ali Shehadeh

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Shared by Prof. Ali Shehadeh

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Shared by Prof. Ali Shehadeh

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Shared by Prof. Ali Shehadeh

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“My Story” by H.H. Sheikha Mohamed bin Rashid Al Maktoum

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“My Story” by H.H. Sheikha Mohamed bin Rashid Al Maktoum

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Shared by Prof. Ali Shehadeh

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Shared by Prof. Ali Shehadeh

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Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery

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Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery

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Favorite Childhood book

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THE HERDSMAN
(by Alberto Caeiro - Fernando Pessoa)

I'm herdsman of a flock.
The sheep are my thoughts
And my thoughts are all sensations.
I think with my eyes and my ears
And my hands and feet
And nostrils and mouth.

To think a flower is to see and smell it.
To eat a fruit is to sense its savor.

And that is why, when I feel sad,
In a day of heat, because of so much joy
And lay me down in the grass to rest
And close my sun-warmed eyes,
I feel my whole body relaxed in reality
And know the whole truth and am happy.
- Dr. Pedro De Figuiredo

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Le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

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Le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

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- Dr. Pedro De Figuiredo

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https://www.livrarialello.pt

- Dr. Pedro De Figuiredo

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“The aim of argument, or of discussion, should not be victory, but progress.”
Joseph Joubert
- Dr. Pedro De Figuiredo

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- Dr. Pedro De Figuiredo

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Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman

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Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman

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- Dr. Pedro De Figuiredo

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- Dr. Pedro De Figueiredo

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أمّي يا حبّا أهواه  *  يا قلبا أعشق دنياه

يا شمسا تشرق في أفقي  *  يا وردا في العمر شذاه

يا كل الدنيا يا أملي  *  أنت الإخلاص ومعناه

فلأنت عطاء من ربي  *  فبماذا أحيا لولاه

ماذا أهديك من الدنيا  *  قلبي أم عيني أماه

روحي أنفاسي أم عمري  *  والكلّ قليل أوّاه

ماذا أتذكر يا أمي  *  لا يوجد شيء أنساه

فالماضي يحمل أزهارا  *  والحاضر تبسّم شفتاه

ما زال حنانك في خلدي  *  يعطيه سرورا يرعاه

-Dr. Ashraf Moustafa

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A book about changing the way you think
- Dr. Ashraf Moustafa

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Anglo Egyptian Bookstore - Jarir Bookstores - Dar Al Qalam - Dar Al Maaref
- Dr. Ashraf Moustafa

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Memoirs of a psychologist
- Dr. Ashraf Moustafa

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- Dr. Ashraf Moustafa

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Prophet Mohamed PBUH As if You Can See Him by Dr. Aaidh Al Qarni

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Prophet Mohamed PBUH As if You Can See Him by Dr. Aaidh Al Qarni

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- Dr. Ashraf Moustafa

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You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
- Dr. Emma Pearson

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Extremely moving - available in video form aswell - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LKBNEEY-c3s&t=318s
- Dr. Emma Pearson

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- Dr. Emma Pearson

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I would definitely have to say I prefer libraries over bookstores. There is something about the feeling of awe that you get in some libraries (including the history of the books, who has read them before you, who will read them afterwards etc.) that you can't find anywhere else.
- Dr. Emma Pearson

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Spread love wherever you go. Let no one ever come to you without leaving happier. Mother Teresa
- Dr. Emma Pearson

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Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe

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Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe

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- Dr. Emma Pearson

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- Dr. Emma Pearson

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Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe

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Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe

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- Dr. Emma Pearson

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- Dr. Emma Pearson

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Public Libraries
- Dr. Maria Efstratopoulou

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A mind that is stretched by New experiences can Never go back to its old Dimensions by Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.
- Dr. Maria Efstratopoulou

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- Dr. Maria Efstratopoulou

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- Dr. Maria Efstratopoulou

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I'm not sure it heals the soul, but this is my favorite poem: The Traveling Onion by Naomi Shihab Nye

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I'm not sure it heals the soul, but this is my favorite poem: The Traveling Onion by Naomi Shihab Nye

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Shared By Dr. Mona Aljanahi

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By Dr. Mona Aljanahi

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By Dr. Mona Aljanahi

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"Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light"
Shared by Dr. Mona Aljanahi

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By Dr. Mona Aljanahi

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By Dr. Mona Aljanahi

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By Dr. Mona Aljanahi

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By Dr. Mona Aljanahi

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Just a wonderful 'feel good' read.

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I was interested to read this one and am so far neither enjoying it nor finding it interesting but I am here until the end....

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We agreed to meet a few hours after the funeral. In the Frogmore gardens, by the old Gothic ruin. I got there first.. He had that in common with my mother. Maybe that was why he'd been such a fan. Long before she was Princess Diana, back when she was simply Diana Spencer, kindergarten teacher, secret girlfriend of Prince Charles, my grandfather was her loudest advocate. Some said he actually brokered my parents' marriage. If so, an argument could be made that Grandpa was the Prime Cause in my world. But for him, I wouldn't be here. be here. If she hadn't married Pa . . ., she once confessed to an interviewer.want-peace between her boys, and between us two and Pa. And among the whole family.

I looked around, saw no one.

The wind picked up, turned colder. I hunched my shoulders, rubbed my arms, regretted the thinness of my white shirt. I wished I'd not changed out of my funeral suit. I wished I'd thought to bring a coat. I turned my back to the wind and saw, looming behind me, the Gothic ruin, which in reality was no more Gothic than the Millennium Wheel. Some clever architect, some bit of stagecraft. Like so much around here, I thought.

Another gust of wind. Funny, it reminded me of Grandpa. His wintry demeanor, maybe. Or his icy sense of humor. I recalled one particular shooting weekend years ago. A mate, just trying to make conversation, asked Grandpa what he thought of my new beard, which had been causing concern in the family and controversy in the press.

I moved from the stone wall to a small wooden bench. Sitting, I checked my phone again, peered up and down the garden path.

Everyone laughed. To beard or not to beard, that was the question, but leave it to Grandpa to demand

I thought of Grandpa's strong opinions, his many passions-carriage driving, barbecuing, shooting, food, beer. The way he embraced

Neither would my older brother.

I recalled one recent chat, just me and Grandpa, not long after he'd turned ninety-seven. He was thinking about the end. He was no longer capable of pursuing his passions, he said. And yet the thing he missed most was work. Without work, he said, everything crumbles. He didn't seem sad, just ready.

I glanced now into the distance, towards the mini skyline of crypts and monuments alongside Frogmore. The Royal Burial Ground. Final resting place for so many of us, including Queen Victoria. Also, the notorious Wallis Simpson. Also, her doubly notorious husband Edward, the former King and my great-great-uncle. After Edward gave up his throne for Wallis, after they fled Britain, both of them fretted about their ultimate return-both obsessed about being buried right here. The Queen, my grandmother, granted their plea. But she placed them at a distance from everyone else, beneath a stooped plane tree. One last finger wag, perhaps. One final exile, maybe. I wondered how Wallis and Edward felt now about all their fretting. Did any of it matter in the end? I wondered if they wondered at all. Were they floating in some airy realm, still mulling their choices, or were they Nowhere, thinking Nothing? Could there really be Nothing after this? Does consciousness, like time, have a stop? Or maybe, I thought, just maybe, they're here right now, next to the fake Gothic ruin, or next to me, eavesdropping on my thoughts. And if so . . .

The thought of her, as always, gave me a jolt of hope, and a burst of energy.

Well, Mummy . . . vice versa.

For months the Windsors had been at war. There had been strife in our ranks, off and on, going back centuries, but this was different. This was a fullscale public rupture, and it threatened to become irreparable. So, though I'd flown home specifically and solely for Grandpa's funeral, while there I'd asked for this secret meeting with my older brother, Willy, and my father to talk about the state of things.

To find a way out.

But now I looked once more at my phone and once more up and down the garden path and I thought: Maybe they've changed their minds. Maybe they're not going to come.

For half a second I considered giving up, going for a walk through the gardens by myself or heading back to the house where all my cousins were drinking and sharing stories of Grandpa.

Then, at last, I saw them. Shoulder to shoulder, striding towards me, they looked grim, almost menacing. More, they looked tightly aligned. My stomach dropped. Normally they'd be squabbling about one thing or another, but now they appeared to be in lockstep-in league.

The thought occurred: Hang on, are we meeting for a walk . . . or a duel?

Maybe she was omnipresent for the very same reason that she was indescribable-because she was light, pure and radiant light, and how can you really describe light? Even Einstein struggled with that one. Recently, astronomers rearranged their biggest telescopes, aimed them at one tiny crevice in the cosmos, and managed to catch a glimpse of one breathtaking sphere, which they named Earendel, the Old English word for Morning Star. Billions of miles off, and probably long vanished, Earendel is closer to the Big Bang, the moment of Creation, than our own Milky Way, and yet it's somehow still visible to mortal eyes because it's just so awesomely bright and dazzling.

That was my mother.

That was why I could see her, sense her, always, but especially that April afternoon at Frogmore.

That-and the fact that I was carrying her flag. I'd come to those gardens because I wanted peace. I wanted it more than anything. I wanted it for my family's sake, and for my own-but also for hers.

People forget how much my mother strove for peace. She circled the globe many times over, traipsed through minefields, cuddled AIDS patients, consoled war orphans, always working to bring peace to someone somewhere, and I knew how desperately she would want-no,

And a stab of sorrow.

I missed my mother every day, but that day, on the verge of that nerve racking rendezvous at Frogmore, I found myself longing for her, and I couldn't say just why. Like so much about her, it was hard to put into words.

Although my mother was a princess, named after a goddess, both those terms always felt weak, inadequate. People routinely compared her to icons and saints, from Nelson Mandela to Mother Teresa to Joan of Arc, but every such comparison, while lofty and loving, also felt wide of the mark. The most recognizable woman on the planet, one of the most beloved, my mother was simply indescribable, that was the plain truth. And yet . . . how could someone so far beyond everyday language remain so real, so palpably present, so exquisitely vivid in my mind? How was it possible that I could see her, clear as the swan skimming towards me on that indigo lake? How could I hear her laughter, loud as the songbirds in the bare trees-still? There was so much I didn't remember, because I was so young when she died, but the greater miracle was all that I did. Her devastating smile, her vulnerable eyes, her childlike love of movies and music and clothes and sweets-and us. Oh how she loved my brother and me.

Then again, maybe our mother

I checked my phone. No texts, no voicemails.

They must be running late, I thought, leaning against the stone wall.

I put away my phone and told myself: Stay calm.

The weather was quintessentially April. Not quite winter, not yet spring. The trees were bare, but the air was soft. The sky was gray, but the tulips were popping. The light was pale, but the indigo lake, threading through the gardens, glowed.

How beautiful it all is, I thought. And also how sad.

Once upon a time, this was going to be my forever home. Instead it had proved to be just another brief stop.

When my wife and I fled this place, in fear for our sanity and physical safety, I wasn't sure when I'd ever come back. That was January 2020. Now, fifteen months later, here I was, days after waking to thirty-two missed calls and then one short, heart-racing talk with Granny: Harry . . . Grandpa's gone. Where are they? Should the Queen Force Prince Harry to Shave? Grandpa looked at my mate, looked at my chin, broke into a devilish grin. THAT'S no beard! more beard. Let grow the luxurious bristles of a bloody Viking! life would You have to know when it's time to go, Harry. maybe my mother is too? Obsessively did

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Spare [Prince Harry The Duke of Sussex] on Amazon.com. *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Spare

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A friend gifted me this book to take on holiday with me.... 'Rachel's Holiday' for Rachel to take on holiday.

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Again, difficulty with the "favorite" notion, but found these 2 on my bookshelf. Odell draws on some favorite authors like Hannah Arendt, Audre Lorde and others to call for the "revolutionary potential of taking back our attention" to focus on things that matter :). Abulhawa ends her book with, "I may never find a place in this world, but for now, in this moment, I feel the purest, most perfect joy." What more could we ask for?

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I struggled with this selection so looked at my bookshelf to nominate these two. I loved both! While authors like Alice Walker, Adrienne Rich, bell hooks, Toni Morrison come to mind, along with Naomi Klein, Silvia Federici, Hannah Arendt, Marianne Williamson, and a host of other female authors come to mind, I'm not sure of a favorite. I don't know if it's because having to list favorites is a difficult task (as noted in the other post) or if it's because I'm male and too rooted in some sort of male or generational sensibility due to growing up reading dudes like Hemingway, Norman Mailer, Richard Wright, Langston Hughes, Philip Roth, John Updike, Saul Bellow, Herman Hesse, Vonnegut, and others. I tend to be drawn to fiction that comments on public life and issues but need more counter-narratives that provide completely different standpoints! Sorry, this post turned out to be a public reflective exercise :).

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The Tattered Cover brings back such wonderful memories of cozy places where I would sit and read for hours when I lived in Denver a long time ago. They extended a line of credit to me that I would run up and then have to grab the bill out of the mailbox before my wife saw how much I had spent! (Yes, it was that long ago, before credit cards, online billing and all that stuff :)). (Mark)

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"What are people for?"
"So it goes."
"This is it, this is all there is."
These seem to have stuck with me for a long time for some reason. (Mark)

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My absolute favorite book always seems to be one that I'm reading at the moment (so depends on whatever moment in time asked). I seldom read books more than once, but this one I've read 2-3 times so might qualify. (Mark)

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Plus books on my phone currently reading

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Plus books on my phone currently reading

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Both are awe-some, btw!!!

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Old is Gold! Stepping in Magrudys brings in waves of memories, unbidden. (online pic)
- Najla

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I started reading NoViolet Bulawayo's Glory today. It's a big book and a great example of anthropomorphism in practice. 

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I started reading NoViolet Bulawayo's Glory today. It's a big book and a great example of anthropomorphism in practice. 

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Posted by Fajr AlKouz

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A favorite amongst others. It's hard to pick one. 

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A favorite amongst others. It's hard to pick one. 

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By Egyptian author Radwa Ashour whose husband and son, Mourid and Tamim Al-Barghouti, are also very talented. 

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By Egyptian author Radwa Ashour whose husband and son, Mourid and Tamim Al-Barghouti, are also very talented. 

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"A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction." -Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own

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"A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction." -Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own

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Posted by Fajr AlKouz

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Posted by Fajr AlKouz

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Posted by Fajr AlKouz

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It is nowhere near the older store, but it remains my fav.

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Gallant by V.E. Schwab. Received this book as a birthday gift (along with other titles). 

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From the book, "How To Love The World: Poems Of Gratitude and Hope" edited by James Crews.

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A grocery cart to haul books, but of course!

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See here for my book loot.

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"Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?" 

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See here for my feature of the book.

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"How To Confront Climate Denial" - by our very own Dr. Mark Baildon

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"How To Confront Climate Denial" - by our very own Dr. Mark Baildon

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From Dutch Novelist Cees Nooteboom's "The Following Story

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From Dutch Novelist Cees Nooteboom's "The Following Story

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My review here.

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"Or the Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution"