Time was air. Seconds transformed into tiny magical orbs that glinted like mercury as they wriggled past the glass inspection windows in the brass tubes that snaked through the control room. The silver spheres were the only indication of what was happening in the ballast tanks. It was his job to keep an eye on them, to see how fast they moved, in which direction, and when they stopped.
I imagine that this is what it must have been like a hundred years ago, when those majestic old steamers used to lose their way in the great marshes down south and the travellers simply drifted in circles for weeks, unable to extricate themselves, going quietly but firmly out of their minds.
Born to a British mother and a Sudanese father, Mahjoub explores the emotional complexity of a post-colonial world. His sixth novel, an intricate piece of storytelling, unravels the cultural identity of a mixed-race woman in London.
(retrieved from Amazon Thu, 12 Mar 2015 18:21:27 -0400)
We must all forge lives for ourselves in the places we happen to be, and 'The Drift Latitudes' explores with great humanity and warmth how people who have drifted away from their origins survive by improvising their own beliefs and certainties.