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" Alif studied the plump, pale woman sitting in front of him, trying to imagine whether this depth of feeling had existed within her when they had first met. The few Americans he had encountered in his lifetime had all seemed flat to him, as if freedom weakened one's capacity for intense emotion by demanding too little of it. The convert had seemed, like the others, to be always performing: opinions brisk and pat, smiles rehearsed, identity packaged for consumption by audience. To see her so candid, as she attempted and failed to preserve her self-assurance, was almost charming. Still, it was difficult to picture her in love, and in love with someone like Vikram. "
― G. Willow Wilson , Alif the Unseen
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" I don't understand," said Alif. "What does this have to do with The Thousand and One Days? It's not a holy book. Not even to the jinn. It's a bunch of fairy tales with double meanings that we can't figure out."
"How dense and literal it is. I thought it had a much more sophisticated brain."
"Your mother's dense." Alif said wearily.
"My mother was an errant crest of sea foam. But that's neither here nor there. Stories are words, Alif, and words, like ذرة, sometimes represent much grander things. The humans who originally obtained the Alf Yeom thought they could derive immense power from it-thus, it was in their best interests to preserve these manuscripts the best way they knew how. That way, even if they never cracked the code themselves, the books would be vital and healthy for future generations, who might have more success. "
― G. Willow Wilson , Alif the Unseen