Mahmoud Darwish’s “Journal of an Ordinary Grief” Archipelago Books, 2010 Every artist, particularly if they happen to be a good one, is in a sense posthumous Every artist, particularly if they happen to be a good one, is in a sense posthumous; and as soon as their tongue is safely lifeless, every tribe lays claim to what part of their work suits their particular purposes; “he or she” they say, “belonged to all of us.” The more I read of Darwish, who was quite possibly the modern apotheosis of the Arabic language, the more I consider how appalled he might have been of the public spectacle engendered by his death: the indecisions as to where he would be buried, the cortège of politicians filing past his coffin, the plans for a memorial, the days of mourning; who wouldn't be mortified? To most of those who knew him, Darwish was humble, shy— but alert to the duplicity of responses he inspired in his readers: