A Man of Letters

By Taha Huseein

Taha Hussein (1889-1973), blind from early childhood, rose from humble beginnings to pursue a distinguished career in Egyptian public life (he was at one time Minister of Education). But he was most influential through his voluminous, varied, and controversial writings.
He became known by the unofficial title 'Dean of Arabic Letters,' and the distinguished Egyptian critic Louis Awad described him as "the greatest single intellectual and cultural influence on the literature of his period."
Based on the true story of a friend of the author, this novel-unfolding between Cairo and Paris and through vivid personal correspondence-draws a picture of a powerful friendship and of a young man's dilemma: the man of letters of the title finds himself split between-and in love with-two cultures essentially incompatible, East and West. In his desperate struggle to reconcile them his soul is estranged and he is thrown-or escapes-deeper into the backstreet abyss of First World War Paris. In the end it is perhaps the very impracticality of his own morality that destroys him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The American University in Cairo Press
• Release date: Jan 1, 1994
• ISBN: 9781617974724

Book preview

1

They claim that the most prominent characteristic of a man of letters is his keenness to create a bond between himself and the people. He feels nothing which he does not divulge and experiences no emotion which he does not advertise. If he reads a book, goes for a walk, or converses with people, and these actions arouse some impression in his soul, stir some sentiment in his heart, or provoke some thought in his mind, he will find neither peace nor tranquillity till he has recorded this impression, sentiment, or thought in a notebook or on a piece of paper.

The reason for this is that he suffers from that ailment called literature. For he does not feel for himself but feels on behalf of the people. He does not experience emotions for himself but experiences them on behalf of the people. He does not think for himself but thinks on behalf of the people. In other words, he does not live for himself but lives for the people. When he considers all this, he absolutely deludes and completely misleads himself. He claims that he is merely an unselfish person who does not desire to delight in the blessing of sentiment, sensation, and thought alone: he wishes to share the fruits of his discrimination, his fertile and rich nature, with the people. He is humble and unassuming. He is also wretched, miserable, and sad. He longs to disclose to the people the wretchedness, misery, and sorrow he suffers. Perhaps they will grieve for him or feel compassion or pity for him. On the other hand, he may perceive no generosity within himself nor suffer any wretchedness. He may credit himself with some good traits and may be slightly or intensely fond of himself. He is, then, recording what he feels, senses, and thinks so that he may preserve them from loss and refer to them from time to time, whenever it occurs to him to review his past life. For he is often faced with occasions which cause him to review his past life. Memory is ephemeral and weak. So why should he not record these reflections, emotions, and opinions which compose his private, individual history so that he may fall back on them whenever the gravity or lightness of life invite him to do so? Many are the times when the gravity and lightness of life invite a man to review his past life and the events he has experienced.

The man of letters deludes himself with such rationalizations and thus accounts for himself. But the truth of the matter is that he writes because he is a man of letters. He can only survive if he writes. He writes because he needs to write, just as he eats, drinks, and smokes because he needs to eat, drink, and smoke. When he writes, he scarcely thinks of what it would be beneficial for him to write, what the paper must not be allowed to learn or the pen should not draw, just as when he eats, drinks, or smokes he scarcely thinks of what variety of food, drink, or tobacco is suitable to his health, nature, and temperament. Rather it is a compulsion which obliges him to move, so he moves, which urges him to work, so he works. As for the consequences of this movement and the outcomes of this work, they are things to ponder someday when there is sufficient time to do so and when it is requisite, unavoidable, and inescapable.

If all this is true, and most probably it is true, then my friend, of whom I wish to speak to you, must be a man of letters. For I know of no one among the people I have met and spoken to who was as consumed with this ailment of literature, whose heart, mind, and soul were as besieged by it as were my friend’s. He felt nothing, sensed nothing, read nothing, witnessed nothing, and heard nothing without thinking of the worded picture or, to use a more accurate phrase, the literary picture where he could depict that which he experienced, sensed, read, witnessed, or heard. He experienced severe hardship in keeping these thoughts of his to himself. Often, when he saw something which angered or pleased him, he would say to his friends, How suitable this is to draw a pleasing literary expression of joy or anger! He would spend his day walking and working and talking till the day was over and night had arrived. When he would be rid of his relatives and of the people and was left to himself. Then he would hasten to his pen and paper and would write and write and write until he grew exhausted from writing and his hand scrawled words he could neither recognize nor understand and till the letters would dance before his dazzled eyes and he would grow dizzy. Then the pen would fall from his hand, and he would be obliged to go to his bed to rest. His sleeping hours were no calmer than his waking hours, for he wrote while sleeping just as he wrote while awake. His dreams in sleep were nothing but chapters and articles, speeches and lectures. He would embellish this one and embroider that one just as he did when he was in possession of all his conscious faculties. Often he would delight and please his friends by recounting strange, meritorious excerpts from these chapters and articles dictated to him by his dreams.

Often, too, he would read to them pieces of prose and verses of poetry recorded by his hand when he was alone and dictated to him by his consciousness when he had saturated all of his eyes, ears, sensibilities, heart, and mind with his surroundings and with such sentiments as he had imbibed from people and from life.

When his friends listened to the notions of his dreams and the compositions of his wakefulness, they strenuously bade him to advertise and publish them. He would smile, then scoff, then refuse and persist in his refusal. He felt that his writings had not yet attained a level worthy of presentation to the printing press. For he revered the printing press and held it in great regard, enveloping it with a strange sanctity. He would say that written impressions submitted to the printing press were most similar to the sacrifices and oblations which pagans used to offer their gods and which true believers now offer their God in the form of prayer and invocation. It was necessary, therefore, that the sacrifice be carefully selected and the oblation be well chosen, that the prayer be an element of the soul and that the invocation be an expression of both the heart and the mind.

Our friend felt that there did not exist among his writings a sacrifice worthy of being selected or an oblation sufficiently outstanding to be elected. He felt that he had not yet succeeded in transposing a piece of himself onto paper or in drawing a picture of his heart and mind thereon. The distance between him and the printing press remained vast, and the curtains and screens forbidding it were still lowered.

He would therefore write for himself and not for the printing press. If he were to become overwhelmed by his self and its dictates, he would reveal some of his writings to his friends. He would thus satisfy that overpowering hunger suffered by us all to share such feelings or emotions as we experience. In truth, my friend did this only when reluctantly obliged to do so, finding no alternative than to adduce, or when his friends asked him what he had recently written. His modesty prevented him from disrobing his heart and mind as it prevented him from disrobing his naked body before the people. But his friends had no desire to see his naked body. They had, on the other hand, a strong desire to observe his naked soul as it truly was. For it was beautiful and captivating. Sometimes it awed them. Always it induced love and friendship.

He was ugly of countenance, unattractive. Eyes would turn away, averse to resting on him. He was more short than tall. Notwithstanding his short height, he was broad and had huge limbs which he carried as though he had been assembled in haste. Parts of his body were stout where they should have been slender and slender where they should have been stout. His face was fat and sullen, causing those who looked at him to imagine that his cheeks were badly swollen. But he had a very fine, very flat nose, connected to a fine, thin brow which was virtually concealed by his heavy, curly, coal-black hair.

He was not old. In fact, he was not past thirty. But old age was drawn on his face and figure and escaped no one. Despite his short height, his back was bowed when he stood, bent when he sat. Perhaps his addiction to writing and reading and his extravagance in bending down to the book or the paper were the cause of this deformity of his posture. Rarely did he keep his head still, facing forward. It was always turning to the right or to the left. Rarely did his small eyes lie still between their narrow eyelids. Rather, they fluttered constantly, barely resting on an object when they would leave it to rise to the sky or turn to that which lay on either side of it.

His voice was neither sweet nor agreeable. It was coarse and grating. Nevertheless it was not completely devoid of sweet accents, which ran through it when he read something moving or exciting. He had a coarse, frightening laugh, audible from a distance. In fact, all that came forth in his voice was coarse, frightening, and audible from a distance. There was no other way for him to speak. This caused him much embarrassment when he was in Paris. It often caused people in general and his friends in particular to grow weary of him and to avoid him when they encountered him in a coffeeshop, in a club, or in the theater.

In spite of all this he was the person I most loved, most honored, and most preferred. He was the person most amenable to my soul, occupying the deepest recesses of my heart. He would visit me and I would abandon everything for him and spend hours with him. When he left me, I would feel I had spent only a few short moments with him. Whenever I grew weary of studying and needed some diversion or relaxation, I always chose, above all other forms of entertainment and relaxation offered by Cairo or by Paris, to visit my friend, to speak with and listen to him.

2

I made his acquaintance in Cairo, before his departure for Paris where I later caught up with him. I came to know him by chance and I vehemently disliked him when I first met him. We were in the old Egyptian University, now Cairo University. It was the first week following the inauguration. I was attending lectures there and was very enthusiastic, brimming with curiosity, determined not to miss a single word. I would therefore always sit close to the professor. One evening, I was listening thus to a professor when I heard a whispering voice from behind me. Although whispered, it resounded in my ears, practically drowning out the professor’s voice. I attempted to shut it out. Failing to do so, I finally grew annoyed with this voice, as did my two companions on either side of me.

We turned to the source and asked him to be silent. He had hardly stopped when he resumed talking. We repeated our request but he paid us no heed. Finally we complained to the professor, who obliged him to be still. When the lecture was over and we left the lecture hall, we found this speaker waiting for us and addressing us coarsely. When we objected that we were entitled to listen to the professor and that he had no right to distract us from doing so, he broke out into a frightful guffaw and said in a voice so loud we had no doubt it had reached the professor, "What do you want to hear? But you have your excuse! You come from al-Azhar!* Everything seems significant to you and everything seems a novelty to you!"

After this incident we endeavored to avoid him in the lecture hall, sitting as far away from him as possible. We avoided him but he did not avoid us. It was as though our turbans enticed him and tempted him to annoy us. He would assault us as we left the lectures, tugging at my gibba or my quftan** and asking me, Did you like the lecture? If I were to answer yes, he would ask, What did you like about it, and did you understand it fully? He would also advise me, Spare yourself from this over-zealousness for these lectures. Don’t throw yourself upon them so fervently. They are less fertile than you take them for. Better for you to read than to listen.

When I had grown impatient with his haggling I asked him, Is this what you think? Why do you attend the university, then? Why do you disturb us with your loud voice and incessant talk? He laughed and said, The university is a novelty which I am interested in observing. I am bored with the coffeeshop. Even if the university was frequented only by such persons as yourself and those friends of yours whose minds are for the first time being introduced to the modern sciences, and who devour what they hear with a fervor and reverence born of deep ignorance, this would be reason enough for me to attend its lectures.

Then one day he asked me, Where do you live? I answered, I live in such-and-such a district. He said, With whom do you live? I said, With a group of relatives and friends who are all studying either at al-Azhar or in civil schools. He said, Your home is far away and your surroundings are unpleasant. I do not like the company of students. Yet I would enjoy sitting and conversing with you at length. In fact, I would very much like to read some books with you. We must therefore get together and do so regularly and frequently. Let us meet at my place. I promise to take you home to your relatives and friends before the night advances, sparing you any undue difficulty or strain.

He spoke in that broad, coarse voice of his, with the tone of a determined person, one who was confident that his will would be done. I started to decline, resorting to one of my many excuses: I was not allowed stay out late or to visit anyone prior to obtaining my brother’s permission. I had to attend a lecture on usul [principles of law] at dawn. It was inevitable that I prepare for this and other lectures at al- Azhar and to make up for the time I wasted at the university each evening, an activity of which my brother in Cairo and my family in the countryside disapproved.

I started to decline, but he gave me no time to do so or to utter a single syllable. He stopped a carriage, thrust me into it, ordered my young helper to sit beside the driver, sat himself beside me, and directed the driver in that broad, coarse voice of his, To the Citadel. I lived at the farthest end of Gammaliya. When I started to estimate the distance between his and my home, and before I could speak, he placed his hand on my shoulder and said Did I not say I would take you home?

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*   Famous religious university in Cairo, founded in the tenth century A.D.

** A gibba is a long robe worn by sheikhs; a quftan is a long coat worn over agibba.

3

The carriage carried us through various neighborhoods with contrasting atmospheres. I sensed this in the people’s voices and sounds of their movements, in the intensity of agitation surrounding us. I sensed it