Knowing only Arabic, French and English, Aaliya produces translations of translations through a somewhat tortured system of her own design – an extra layer of derivation that naturally is not lost on her. And although over fifty years she has translated thirty-seven beloved books, her works have never been published or read by anyone. Aaliya tells us: “I long ago abandoned myself to a blind lust for the written word. Literature is my sandbox... If literature is my sandbox, then the real world is my hourglass – and hourglass that drains grain by grain. Literature gives me life, and life kills me.” Each manuscript, once completed, is exiled into boxes in the empty rooms and bathrooms of her apartment. Aaliya's life's work is uncommunicated, unknown, invisible – much in the way that Aaliya is, herself. She is keenly aware of this obscurity, and Alemeddine writes of how alone she is, “how utterly inconsequential my life has become, how sad.” Aaliya manifests the displeasure of the unnecessary. Absorbing the creative spirit of the great writers she admires allows Aaliya to live without feeling like a tragic figure. Alemeddine's protagonist is a thinker and a lover of art, and of ideas – and of