Customer Reviews

False Papers

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Andre Aciman is an astoundingly gifted writer. When I first read his memoir "Out of Egypt" five years ago, I was amazed by its wit and wisdom, its precious and seamless blend of irony and deep feeling. Having followed his career in writing ever since, I am thrilled by the recent publication of "False Papers," a magnificent compilation of fourteen of his best essays from the past few years. These pieces can be seen as a kind of sequel to "Out of Egypt," an extension of its central theme of exile in new, often unexpected directions. In "Out of Egypt" Aciman vividly reminisced about his childhood years in Alexandria up to their dismal end, when amid the virulent anti-Semitism of Nasser's Egypt he and his family were expelled. The essays of "False Papers," by contrast, pertain more to the intellectual and emotional residues of exile-in particular the "confused, back-and-forth, up-and-around" way of thinking, remembering, desiring, and relating to oneself and to others that exile seems to foster. Aciman writes poignantly but analyzes ruthlessly: he may be one of the most introspective of current writers, and at a time when memoirs and confessions line the shelves, but refreshingly, he is also one of the least self-indulgent and complacent. Complexity does not faze him. He excels at finding a concrete metaphor, typically from far afield, to convey some paradox of memory or desire: for instance, his surprisingly apt use of the financial term "arbitrage" to illustrate how one might "firm up the present...by experiencing it from the future as a moment in the past," much like an arbitrageur might trade securities in different markets to benefit from different prices. He can qualify thoughts and impressions without diluting them into a muddle, and even, occasionally, cast doubt on the relevance of his most reliable figures and tropes-to wit, exile-without sacrificing any of his writing's underlying pathos. Few, in short, can match Aciman when it comes to a grasp of the fitful economy of the soul, and even fewer could hope to write about it so deftly and affectingly.

Those, like myself, who have already read and enjoyed Aciman's essays on their first appearance in print will want to own a book that brings them all together. Those who have not are to be envied the opportunity to read them in "False Papers" for the first time.

André Aciman's collection of essays on place and nostalgia is as absolutely gorgeously written as his superb family memoir OUT OF EGYPT, and covers the amazing array of places he's lived and left: Alexandria (first and foremost), Rome, Paris, and New York, with side visits to sites important to his sense of himself, Illiers-Combray (Proust's village) and Bethelhem. At his best, Aciman is funny, incisive and extraordinarily clever; his best essays involve sites where he can focus more on other people than just himself, and he can allow his wit and empathy to emerge. Since his topic is always nostalgia here, it is inevitable that much of his critical focus should be himself (as he points out repeatedly and intelligently, the urge towards nostalgia is always as much a yearning for one's self and one's memories as it is for a particular place). There are times, however, when his interest in his self tends more towards a carefully nurtured narcissism than an incisive self-critique and when you want to roll your eyes at the insufferably precious delight with which he can regard himself.

I found myself thinking of these essays throughout the day. The writing is beautiful and brilliant. Aciman explores the meaning of memory, and the poignancy of nostalgia. They are sad, and sweet, and their power will stay with you for a long, long time.

I started with his magazine articles. Then I read "Call Me By My Name," his hot little novel. Then "False Papers." Now I'm reading "Out of Egypt." Think I've start a fan club with my friends, too. Can't wait for Andre's big new novel due out next Feb. 14: "Eight White Nights."

Like other Aicman books rhis really worth reading, some wonderful insights, into a long vanished world.

Andre Aciman is our contemporary Proust--the same elegance, the same penetrating eye, the same love for memory and its cinematic clarities.

Andre Aciman is my literature professor at Bard College. I have not read much of his latest book, but I can say with certainty that Andre is a man of passion and genius. He has inspired me beyond description. I hope he has a similar effect upon you.

I found Mr.Aciman's essays suffering from a infatuation with his own self-righteousness. Preachy, bigoted and too often innacurate, he bakes a quite dull mixture of bloated prose and shallow, prejuciced view about many subjects one suspects he knows little or nothing about. The books distils the grandiose retorique of cocktail-party chatter and leaves the reader with a sad sense of having wasted his own time. My advice would be to seriously check it out at a public library before devoting time and money to this thing. Life's too short for this kind of drivel.