July 26, 1998
By Mark Lindquist
By Rabih Alameddine
One of the narrative voices in this first novel by the painter Rabih Alameddine
remarks: ''I wish I could write better. . . . I have had many ideas which could not
translate well into painting.'' It's a daring admission, since most readers will wind up
wishing Alameddine himself had more literary flair. Despite some interesting ideas and
memorable imagery, his book demonstrates little feel for narrative. In fact, there is
hardly any dramatic urgency in this collage of observations, thoughts and vignettes. You
know what will happen next: somebody will die, either of AIDS in the United States or in
combat in Lebanon, and then somebody will wax philosophic about life, and then somebody
famous may offer a non sequitur. (Tom Cruise appears to announce, ''I am not a
homosexual,'' and Krishnamurti advises Julio Cortazar to avoid books by David Leavitt and
Deepak Chopra.) Jean-Luc Godard once observed that every story needs a beginning, a middle
and an end, though not necessarily in that order. An accomplished novelist can keep his
readers' interest in a topsy-turvy story. But Alameddine has a long way to go before he
can pull off that trick. Mark Lindquist
