The Quiet Narrative in The Female of the Four Seasons: A Reading of Ahmed Taail’s Style

Yemenat

Mohammed Al Mekhlafi

There are novels that rely on events and others that rely on ideas, but the novel The Female of the Four Seasons by the Egyptian writer Ahmed Taail does not seem overly concerned with this division. It is a novel that moves calmly, and perhaps slowly at times, focusing more on the lives of its characters and on what happens inside them over time.

From the very beginning, the writer does not try to create shock or major events. Everything proceeds almost ordinarily, and this is what makes the novel feel close to reality.

The characters change gradually, grow tired, lose things they love, and try to continue. Even the small details are given their time in the narration, as if the writer does not want to pass over anything too quickly. This is what I noticed, and perhaps it is the thing that distinguishes the novel the most. It does not depend on suspense as much as it depends on the feeling of life itself, especially as it grows heavier with time, and when a person discovers, after many years, that many things have changed without them noticing at the moment they were changing.

From the outset, The Female of the Four Seasons appears preoccupied with the idea of loss, not in the sense of death or absence, but as a feeling that everything has gradually changed. The world the protagonist once lived in and knew is no longer what it was, or perhaps only its outer form remains. People have changed, and relationships as well. Even the houses that are supposed to give a person reassurance and comfort seem as though they too have lost something old within them.

The character of “Raouf” carries this feeling from almost the beginning of the novel until its end, and this does not mean that he is an exceptional character or one filled with dramatic conflict. On the contrary, perhaps this is where the strength of the character lies. He resembles many people we know in our lives. He is like a man who lived his life ordinarily and without pretension, then suddenly found himself, with the passage of time, unable to understand what was happening around him in the same way he once did. He is neither fully capable of adapting, nor is he clinging to the past in a heroic way, as we sometimes see with certain characters.

Ahmed Taail, as it seems, does not try to beautify him too much. Rather, he lets him speak, hesitate, and sometimes repeat himself, and this is what makes the character feel more real.

As for “alienation” in the novel, it does not only mean the alienation of travel or geographical distance, but at times an alienation within the house itself and within the relationships between members of the same family.

There is a sentence Raouf says that stayed in my mind: “I was alone while I was among them.” Perhaps because it summarizes many things in the novel. Loneliness here does not mean that a person lives alone, but that he feels the distance between himself and others silently growing, even if they sit beside him every day.

This appears clearly in his relationship with his children because the novel does not present them directly as bad children. Rather, it shows how small things can accumulate over time and then turn into real distances within the family.

This is also something we see in our daily lives inside our homes, especially with social media, which has made each person live in their own world even while we are in the same place.

“The village” is strongly present in the novel, but what is beautiful is that the writer does not deal with it as though it were a perfect place free of flaws. It is true that there is a clear longing for the past, and this appears in more than one place, but the novel does not say that the old days were better in every way. Perhaps they were simply simpler, or perhaps people were closer to one another, at least from Raouf’s point of view.

In truth, the small details connected to the village were among the things that remained most in my mind after reading: “the bread oven, the old gatherings, the sound of the radio, the evening conversations of the people, and even the shape of the houses themselves.” All of them are simple details, but the writer knew how to place them within the narration without exaggeration or display, and this is what made them feel more believable.

“The city” in the novel felt somewhat cold. Not because of the streets or buildings alone, but because the relationships within it seem less warm. People are there, yes, but each person is occupied with themselves, or at least that is how Raouf feels. Even when he is among others, something still feels missing, something like the silent distance that is never spoken directly.

As for “America” in the novel, perhaps it appears in a more uneven way than the other settings. There are some good passages, such as when the writer compares Raouf’s old life in his homeland with the new world there. In some daily details, the portrayal felt close and convincing, and you sense that it comes from direct experience or observation.

On the other hand, there are moments when the narration seems to slow down and the language becomes more direct than necessary. At times, the characters seem to explain the novel’s ideas rather than live them within the scene. Here, perhaps the writer sees this style as necessary in order to clarify the idea.

The most beautiful thing in the novel, or perhaps the thing that lingers most in the mind, is those small details: a passing moment, a simple memory, a short phone call, a cup of coffee, or a man sitting alone on the balcony recalling something from the past.

Like the scene of “the rocking chair” at the beginning of the novel, a simple chair and a man sitting on it, moving gently. Yet this simple scene remained in my mind more than many other scenes. Perhaps because the movement in it never stops, while Raouf’s life on the inside seems completely still.

The coffee scene after the death of “Samira” was very simple on the surface: a man preparing his coffee alone and remembering his wife. There are no grand words or obvious emotion in it, yet it was unexpectedly moving. Perhaps because the writer did not try to pressure the reader or exaggerate the description, but instead allowed the scene to pass quietly while its impact remained powerful.

Samira herself, although absent after her death, continues to remain present in one way or another. Her presence comes from the emptiness she left behind and from the way Raouf changed after her. Everything after her departure became incomplete, not in an obvious way, but in a way that is felt more than spoken.

Ahmed Taail’s text relies heavily on memory, or on the repeated return to the past. Events do not remain fixed in their own time as they are, but instead return and reappear within the characters’ thoughts, as though time does not move only forward but circles back as well. Sometimes you feel that everything moves in a circle, almost the same stories but from different angles.

This gives the novel a quality that feels close to life itself. There is a clear sense of longing, but also an awareness of what is happening, as though the characters think while remembering, not merely remember. Perhaps this balance is not always fully achieved, but it remains present in many scenes.

After the final page, the reader does not emerge only from a story, but from an almost complete life.

 The characters remain in the mind, especially “Raouf” and “Samira.” Not because their relationship is drawn in an idealized way, but because it is an ordinary relationship, one that contains love, exhaustion, and a long stretch of time shared between them before ending in a quiet and painful way at the same time.

Overall, The Female of the Four Seasons reflects the details of everyday life in a way that feels very close, making us sense how quickly time passes and how things do not suddenly change, but slowly shift little by little until we notice too late what has happened. That is why it feels like one of those novels that touches reality with honesty and lingers in the memory.