Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine

What I loved most about "An Unnecessary Woman" is how it made me rethink the idea of what it means to be "necessary" or to have a meaningful life. Aaliya’s story isn’t about grand achievements or finding some big purpose—it’s about the smaller, quieter acts that shape a life. The simple act of translating books that no one will read may seem futile on the surface, but for Aaliya, it’s a deeply personal form of creation and connection. It made me think about the ways we all create meaning in our lives, often in ways that are invisible to others.

The protagonist, Aaliya Saleh, is unlike any character I’ve encountered before. She’s 72 years old, lives alone, has no children, and spends her days translating books into Arabic—just for herself. No one reads these translations, and she has no intention of ever publishing them. She describes herself as “unnecessary,” feeling disconnected from society, her family, and even her own city. And yet, despite this self-imposed isolation, Aaliya is fiercely intellectual, full of sharp wit, and deeply introspective.

What struck me most about this book is how much it resonates with anyone who’s ever felt like an outsider. Aaliya’s sense of irrelevance in a society that values youth, motherhood, and conventional success is something I think many people can relate to, even if they don’t fit her exact circumstances. There’s this poignant moment where she talks about how women of a certain age become invisible. It’s a powerful reminder of how society often sidelines those who don’t fit neatly into the roles we expect people to play.

At its heart, this novel is a celebration of the quiet, interior lives of people like Aaliya. Even though she seems "unnecessary" to the world around her, she is deeply alive in her mind, full of passion for the books she reads and translates. The novel is filled with references to literature, philosophy, and art, and you can feel the joy Aaliya takes in these works. It made me think about how much meaning we can find in art, even if no one else recognizes it.

One of the things that makes Aaliya such a compelling character is her honesty. She’s not trying to be likable, and that’s what makes her so real. She’s grumpy, stubborn, and fiercely independent, but she’s also vulnerable in ways that sneak up on you. She reflects on her strained relationships with her family, the loneliness of living in a city scarred by war, and the way time has shaped her life. Yet, even amid the sadness, there’s humor—sometimes dry, sometimes dark—and that balance makes her voice so relatable.

Speaking of Beirut, Alameddine does a fantastic job of making the city feel like another character in the book. The way he describes it, you can almost feel the weight of its history—the beauty and the devastation side by side. Aaliya’s memories of Lebanon’s civil war are woven into the narrative, giving the story a sense of place and history that feels palpable. The city, like Aaliya, is scarred but still standing.

This book isn’t for everyone—it’s more about ideas and reflections than plot, and it’s definitely on the slower side. But if you enjoy novels that make you think, that goes deep into the inner world of a complex character, and that celebrate the love of literature, then this is absolutely worth picking up.