On a blanket of snow

The realm of words in Emily Nasrallah's writing knows no bounds. Time and place accompany her; two eras are her constant companions, her suitcases in perpetual motion; from village to city, from the age of the carriage to the age of the jet. She travels by air on the pages, across lands and skies, to wherever the magic carpet lands. This time, it has landed on a carpet of snow, where the world begins, or rather, where it continues... There, where the sun floats on the horizon for six months—a period that should be considered meager—and where the night embraces a white carpet in a gray dance for six months, the writer has created a period within the embrace of a temperate icy landscape, among people who are prevented from wearing two garments: one that would eradicate tradition, and the other that would usher in the civilization of the age. But Emily Nasrallah's journey does not end; it is before our eyes and on lips that savor silence, where words transform into artifice—the very life of humankind on this earth. The world of words knows no limits of time and place when Emily Nasrallah spells it out. She accompanies him, carrying her bags on an endless journey, from village to city, from the age of carriages to the age of jet planes. It is a world of eternal travel on the pages, in distant lands and skies, to where the magic carpet lands. And this time it seems to have landed on a carpet of snow, where the world begins, or rather, where it ends... There, where the sun remains suspended on the horizon for six months, the duration of its long, meager visit. Where the veil of night embraces a white carpet in a gray dance for six months. The writer spent time in the embrace of a warm, icy environment, among people who wear two attire, one of heritage and the other of modern civilization. But Emily Nasrallah's journey does not end. It continues before the eyes and lips that whisper in silence, where words transform into images, representing the life of a human being on this earth.