The tribe that laughs at night

Author's name: Salem Al-Suqour

A disturbing text announces the birth of a great novelist. He marries language and the memory of its groans with the sculptor's blend of light. There is no literature without language, and language has no value without a concern that motivates it and a passion that drives its bleeding path in the rock.
A novel about the plight of the self in a society that strips it of even the option of sadness and demands joy. The novel's cover, by poet and professor Reda Al-Hasani, reads:
What if you were a present standing between a past threatened with extinction and a future that might be lost in the paths of eternity, rigged with nothingness? What if your tribe lacked the ability to laugh at night, and you had to offer them that incomplete laughter in the form of a newborn who refused to come?
Fifteen years spent by the novel's hero, panting after a past he wanted to rescue from the jaws of loss, a virility exhausted by doubt, and a future threatened by its inability to extend into a future that would make the tribe laugh at night with laughing children. The tube child was a faint light that flickered at the end of the tunnel after a long time, but he refused to be confident in his brilliance. Fifteen years of silent mourning and funerals that marched to the hero's chest, and no one else walked in them.
The whole story is hours between the hospital and the road, during which the hero took refuge in a memory that bled story after story, hours of a fugitive time that extended and encompassed centuries of inner torment and outer cruelty, waiting for great news after which the hero would scream in the face of the world: Yes, I have become a father, and this name is mine, and now let the end come.

But if the son is an affirmation of fatherhood and the continuation of the lineage in memory, isn't writing the fatherhood of fathers? Thus, this novel confronts us head-on, announcing the birth of a great father.