Planet of clay

A girl from Damascus finds refuge in literature during the Syrian Civil War in this chilling work from Syrian writer Yazbek (The Crossing). At three, Rima decides to stop speaking. To keep her safe during the fighting, her mother takes extreme precautions, such as tying Rima's hand to the bed every time she goes to work, with a rope long enough that Rima can still wander around her bedroom. As her isolated childhood unfolds, Rima finds happiness by drawing scenes from The Little Prince and making up "hard to invade" planets. Then, when Rima is a teen, her mother is killed by soldiers at a checkpoint, and Rima is taken to a military hospital, where she witnesses more suffering and death. From there, the narrative becomes labyrinthine, and Rima's accounts often resemble a fever dream, reflecting the effects of her trauma and attempts to survive. Rima's tendency to jump from one story to the next without resolution can be frustrating and difficult to follow, but the individual moments are nonetheless wrenching. Despite its flaws, this offers a remarkable account of wartime despair. (Sept.)

A view of war-ravaged Damascus from a girl who doesn't speak. The narrator of Syrian writer Yazbek's latest novel is a young girl who may or may not have a mental illness; others certainly think she does, and her mother tells people that Rima is mad to excuse her odd behavior. But as a narrator, she has a fluid, lyrical style, if not an entirely reliable one. When Rima starts walking, she finds it difficult to stop, so when her mother has to leave her alone in the one-room apartment where they live with Rima's older brother, she tethers Rima to the bedpost. Rima herself hardly ever goes out. One morning, however, she and her mother set off across town to visit the librarian who took Rima under her wing--teaching her to read, supplying her with pens and drawing paper. They're stopped at a checkpoint, and what happens there sets in motion the events of the rest of this harrowing novel. It grows bleaker and bleaker as it progresses. The only real light spot is Rima herself, who makes for a brilliant guide--though she'd probably disagree. "Drawing is better than words," she says at one point. "If I had my paints, I could make you understand me much more clearly." Only toward the end does the novel's central conceit--the conditions under which Rima is writing the words we're reading--begin to show any cracks. Still, Rima is a fantastic character, and if the novel is imperfect, it's worth reading for Rima alone. That's a major success in itself. A flawed novel with a main character whose quirks and eccentricities more than make up for it. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.