Philip Gourevitch - book author
Gourevitch was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, to painter Jacqueline Gourevitch and philosophy professor Victor Gourevitch, a translator of Jean Jacques Rousseau. He and his brother Marc, a physician, spent most of their childhood in Middletown, Connecticut, where their father taught at Wesleyan University from 1967 to 1995. Gourevitch graduated from Choate Rosemary Hall in Wallingford, Connecticut.
Gourevitch knew that he wanted to be a writer by the time he went to college. He attended Cornell University. He took a break for three years in order to concentrate fully on writing. He eventually graduated in 1986. In 1992 he received a Masters of Fine Arts in fiction from the Writing Program at Columbia University. Gourevitch went on to publish some short fiction in literary magazines, before turning to non-fiction.
Philip Gourevitch is the author of books: We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families, Standard Operating Procedure, Cold Case, Yazarın Odası, Yazarın Odası 2, The Paris Review: Issue 191, The Paris Review Interviews, III, You Hide That You Hate Me and I Hide That I Know: Living with It in Rwanda, Queremos informarle de que mañana seremos asesinados con nuestras familias: Historias de Ruanda, Paris Review Interviews
The Ballad of Abu Ghraib reveals the stories of the American soldiers who took and appeared in the iconic photographs of the Iraq war-the haunting digital snapshots from Abu Ghraib prison that shocked the world-and simultaneously illuminates and alters forever our understanding of those images and the events they depict. Drawing on more than two hundred hours of Errol Morris's startlingly frank and intimate interviews with Americans who served at Abu Ghraib and with some of their Iraqi prisoners, as well as on his own research, Philip Gourevitch has written a relentlessly surprising account of Iraq's occupation from the inside out-rendering vivid portraits of guards and prisoners ensnared in an appalling breakdown of command authority and moral order.
What did we think we saw in the infamous photographs, and what were we, in fact, looking at? What did the people in the photographs think they were doing, and why did they take them? What was "standard operating procedure" and what was "being creative" when it came to making prisoners uncomfortable? Who was giving orders, and who was following them? Where does the line lie between humiliation and torture, and why and how does that matter? Was the true Abu Ghraib "scandal" a result of an expose or a cover-up?
In exploring these questions, Gourevitch and Morris have crafted a nonfiction morality play that stands to endure as essential reading long after the current war in Iraq passes from the headlines. By taking us deep into the voices and characters of the men and women who lived the horror of Abu Ghraib, the authors force us, whatever our politics, to reexamine the pat explanations in which we have been offered-or sought-refuge, and to see afresh this watershed episode. Instead of a "few bad apples," we are confronted with disturbingly ordinary young American men and women who have been dropped into something out of Dante's Inferno.
The Ballad of Abu Ghraib is a book that makes you think and makes you see-an essential contribution from two of our finest nonfiction artists working at the peak of their powers.
Yıllar sonra aynı sayfalarda kendim de röportaj yaptıktan sonra bu konuşmaları yeniden okumak bana gençliğimin umutlarını ve endişelerimi hatırlattı. Otuz yıl sonra bu konuşmaları, onların beni yanlış bir yola sürüklemediğini bilerek, aynı heyecanla okuyor ve edebiyatın vereceği zevkleri ve huzursuzluğu içimde aynı güçle hissediyorum.
Since The Paris Review was founded in 1953, it has given us invaluable conversations with the greatest writers of our age, vivid self-portraits that are themselves works of finely crafted literature. From Salman Rushdie's daring rhetorical question "why shouldn't literature provoke?" to Joyce Carol Oates's thrilling comments about her own prolific output, The Paris Review has elicited revelatory and revealing thoughts from our most accomplished novelists, poets, and playwrights. How did Geroges Simenon manage to write about six books a year, what was it like for Jan Morris to write as both a man and a woman, what influences moved Ralph Ellison to write Invisible Man? In the pages of The Paris Review, writers give more than simple answers, they offer uncommon candor, depth, and wit in interviews that have become the gold standard of the literary Q&A. With an introduction by Margaret Atwood, this volume brings together another rich, varied crop of literary voices, including Martin Amis, Norman Mailer, Raymond Carver, John Cheever, Harold Pinter, and more. "A colossal literary event," as Gary Shteyngart put it, The Paris Review Interviews, III, is an indespensible teasure of wisdom from the world's literary masters.
His earth-shattering 1998 book, We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families, opened our eyes to Rwanda’s genocide: In one hundred days nearly a million people were murdered by their fellow citizens, and the world refused to stop it. Now, on the twentieth anniversary of the slaughter, Philip Gourevitch returns to Rwanda.
A fiercely beautiful literary reckoning, You Hide That You Hate Me and I Hide That I Know explores with great insight and intimacy a society in which killers and survivors live again as neighbors, grappling with the burdens of memory and forgetting.
You Hide That You Hate Me and I Hide That I Know plunges into the lives of a vast cast of characters: from perpetrators and victims in tiny peasant communities to street kids, businessmen, artists, judges, the national cycling team to the country’s revolutionary leaders and their opponents. As Gourevitch weighs their accounts of Rwanda’s unexpected successes and its enduring weaknesses, he also revisits the wars of the genocide’s aftermath that continue in Congo. And he takes critical stock of how Western conventional wisdom—with its self-exculpations and its tendency to view African politics through the reductive lenses of humanitarian pity or punitive human rights absolutism—clashes with the defiant ethic of self-determination that has guided Rwanda’s reconstruction. Does the West know what is best for a traumatized and impoverished postcolonial state, seeking to create itself as if from scratch? Is it reasonable to judge such a state strictly by our own imperfectly achieved ideals? Gourevitch’s investigation of Rwanda’s unprecedented experiment in national reconstruction continually invites us to think again.
Combining travelogue and investigative reportage, personal narratives and political debates, Gourevitch’s stories of life after genocide are at once as essential and as ultimate as classical myths. “You hide that you hate me and I hide that I know” is a stark Rwandan adage that describes the formula by which barbarism becomes civilization, and it is now a book about the challenges of forging a sane and habitable history after near annihilation.