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Naguib Mahfouz Interview |
Naguib Mahfouz credits Hafiz Najib—thief,
jailbird, renowned cop
baiter, and
author of twenty-two detective novels—with being his
earliest literary
influence. The ten-year-old Mahfouz read Najib’s
Johnson’s Son on the recommendation
of an elementary school
classmate, and the
experience, Mahfouz avows, changed his life.
Mahfouz’s
subsequent influences have been many and various.
In high school Mahfouz became
preoccupied with Taha Husayn,
whose
revolutionary critical work Fil-shi’r
al-Jahili provoked
a
hysterical reaction
from conservative Asharite circles when it was
published in 1926. In college Mahfouz
read Salama Musa, who as
the editor
of the magazine al-Majalla
al-Jadida later
published
Mahfouz’s first
novel, and from whom Mahfouz says he learned
“to believe in science, socialism, and
tolerance.”
In the years following the Second World War, Mahfouz
retreated
from his
socialist ideals to a deep pessimism. He spent much of
his time
engaged in gloomy discussions of life and the purposelessness
of
literature with fellow writers Adil Kamil and Ahmad Zaki
Makhluf, on the
lawn area by
dubbed “the
ominous circle.” In the fifties he experimented with
THE ART OF FICTION NO. 129
NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
2
NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
Sufi mysticism, seeking in it answers to the metaphysical
questions
not
addressed by science. These days Mahfouz appears to
have settled
on a
philosophy that combines scientific socialism with a concern
for the
spiritual—a combination anticipated by the definition
of fiction
he advanced in 1945: Fiction is art for the industrial age.
It represents a synthesis of man’s passion for fact and his
age-old
love affair
with the imagination.
Born in
seventeen and has
since written more than thirty novels. Until he
retired from the
civil service at sixty, he wrote at night, in his spare
time—unable,
despite his critical successes, to depend on writing
for a
living. His first published work, Abath
al-Aqdar,
appeared in
1939, the first in a series of three
historical tales set in the time of
the
pharaohs. Mahfouz originally intended to expand this
series
into a
thirty- or forty-novel history of
Walter Scott, but he abandoned the project to work on his
contemporary
appeared in 1945.
Although much acclaimed in other parts of the Arab world,
Mahfouz did not
acquire a significant reputation in
publication of The Cairo Trilogy in 1957. This three-thousandpage
epic portrays
life in middle-class
wars, and was
immediately hailed as the novel of its generation.
Mahfouz became
known abroad in the late sixties, when a number
of his
works were translated into English, French, Russian, and
German. In 1988 Mahfouz achieved worldwide recognition when
he won the
Nobel Prize for Literature.
Now eighty, Mahfouz lives in the
with his wife
and two daughters. He avoids public exposure, especially
inquiries into his
private life, which might become, as he puts
it, “a
silly topic in journals and radio programs.” The series of
meetings that
made up this interview were held on a succession of
Thursdays, each time at precisely eleven o’clock. The interviewer
sat on a
chair to Mahfouz’s left, next to his good ear.
THE
Mahfouz in
person is somewhat reserved, but always candid
and direct.
He laughs frequently and wears an old-fashioned dark
blue suit,
which he buttons to the top. He smokes, and he likes his
coffee bitter.
—Charlotte El Shabrawy, 1992
INTERVIEWER
When did you start writing?
NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
In 1929. All my stories were rejected. Salama Musa—the editor
of Majalla—used to say to me: You have potential, but you’re
not there
yet. September 1939 I remember well because it was the
beginning of World
War II, Hitler’s attack on
“Abath al-Aqdar,”
was published, a sort of surprise gift from the
Majalla publishers. It was an immensely
important event in my
life.
INTERVIEWER
Did writing and publication then follow easily?
MAHFOUZ
No . . . though after that first publication a friend of mine, a
writer, came to
me and told me about his brother who owned a
printing press.
He formed a publication committee with some colleagues
who had had
a little success. We began publishing in 1943
with some
regularity. We published a story of mine every year.
INTERVIEWER
But you never depended on your writing for a living?
4
NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
MAHFOUZ
No. I was always a government employee. On the contrary, I
spent on literature—on books and paper.
I didn’t make any money
from my
writing until much later. I published about eighty stories
for nothing.
Even my first novels I published for nothing, all to
help the
committee.
INTERVIEWER
When did you begin to make money from your writing?
MAHFOUZ
When my short stories were translated into English, French,
and German.
“Zabalawi” in particular was extremely successful
and made me
more money than any other story.
The first novel of mine to be translated was Midaq Alley. The
translation was
first published by a Lebanese named Khayyat. Neither
I nor the
translator made any money because Khayyat cheated
us.
Heinemann published it again around 1970. After that it
was
translated into French, and other translations of my work
soon
followed.
INTERVIEWER
Could you tell us about the notorious Kharafish
group? Who
belongs to it,
and how was it formed?
MAHFOUZ
We first became acquainted in 1943: Mustafa Mahmud,
Ahmad Baha al-Din, Salah Jahin, Muhammad Afifi. We would
hold
discussions on art and on current political issues. Kharafish
means
“hoodlum”—those types found on the fringes of demonstrations
and who
start looting at the first opportunity, they are the
kharafish. Ahmed Mazhar [one of
the name. At
first we used to meet at Muhammad Afifi’s house.
Sometimes we would go to a place called
Now we go to the film director Tewfiq Saleh’s place because
THE
he has a
balcony on the tenth floor, facing the
or five of
us left.
INTERVIEWER
Do you have much contact with the younger generation of
Egyptian writers?
MAHFOUZ
Every Friday evening I attend a session at the Casino Kasr el-
Nil, to which new writers are invited. Many come: poets, writers,
literary types .
. . Since I stopped working for the government in
1971 I have had more time for friends.
INTERVIEWER
What role did the political situation prior to 1952 play in your
life?
MAHFOUZ
I was about seven when the 1919 revolution took place. I
became more and
more affected by it and more and more enthusiastic
about the
cause. Everyone I knew was for the Wafd Party and
freedom from
colonization. Later I became much more involved in
political life as
an outspoken follower of Zaghlul Pasha Saad. I still
consider that
involvement one of the most important things I have
done in my
life. But I’ve never worked in politics, never been a
member of an
official committee or a political party. Although I
was a Wafdist, I never wanted to be known as a party member; as
a writer I
wanted the total freedom that a party member can never
have.
INTERVIEWER
And 1952?
MAHFOUZ
I was happy with that revolution. But unfortunately it did not
6
NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
bring about
democracy.
INTERVIEWER
Do you think progress has been made toward democracy and
freedom since
the time of Nasser and Sadat?
MAHFOUZ
Oh yes, there’s no doubt about that. In
feared the
walls. Everyone was afraid. We would sit in the cafés,
too afraid
to talk. We would stay at home, too afraid to talk. I was
afraid to talk
to my children about anything that happened before
the
revolution—I was worried they would go to school and say
something that
would be misinterpreted. Sadat made us feel more
secure. Hosni Mubarak? His constitution
is not democratic, but he
is
democratic. We can voice our opinions now. The press is free.
We can sit in our homes and speak loudly as though we were in
INTERVIEWER
Do you think the Egyptian people are ready for full democracy?
Do they really understand how it works?
MAHFOUZ
In
to eat.
Only some of the educated really understand how democracy
works. No one
with a family has a free moment even to discuss
it.
INTERVIEWER
Have you had much trouble with censorship? Have you had to
rewrite any of
your manuscripts?
MAHFOUZ
Not recently, but during World War II Al-Qawra al-Jadida
and
Radibus were censored. I was called a
leftist. Censors called
THE
Radibus inflamatory because in it the people kill a king, and our
king was
still alive. I explained to them that it was simply a historical
tale, but
they claimed that it was false history, that the king
in question
had not been killed by the people but had died under
“mysterious circumstances.”
INTERVIEWER
Didn’t the censors also object to The Children of Gabelawi?
MAHFOUZ
They did. Even though I was at the time in charge of all artistic
censorship, the
head of literary censorship advised me not to
publish the book
in
Azhar—the main
seat of Islam in
but not
allowed into
The book still can’t be bought here. People smuggle it in.
INTERVIEWER
What did you intend with Children
of Gabelawi? Did you
intend it to be
provocative?
MAHFOUZ
I wanted the book to show that science has a place in society,
just as a new
religion does, and that science does not necessarily
conflict with
religious values. I wanted it to persuade readers that
if we
reject science, we reject the common man. Unfortunately, it
has been
misinterpreted by those who don’t know how to read a
story.
Although the book is about ghettos and those who run them,
it was
interpreted as being about the prophets themselves. Because
of this
interpretation, the story was, naturally, considered shocking,
supposedly showing
the prophets walking barefoot, acting
cruelly . . .
But of course it’s an allegory. It’s not as though allegories
are unknown
in our tradition. In the story of “Kalila and
Dimnah,” for
example, a lion represents the Sultan. But no one
claims that the
author turned the Sultan into an animal! Something
8
NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
is meant by the story . . . an allegory is
not meant to be taken literally.
There is a great lack of comprehension on the part of some
readers.
INTERVIEWER
What do you think about the Salman
Rushdie case? Do you
think a writer
should have absolute freedom?
MAHFOUZ
I’ll tell you exactly what I think: Every society has its
traditions,
laws, and
religious beliefs, which it tries to preserve. From
time to time
individuals appear who demand changes. I believe
that society
has the right to defend itself, just as the individual has
the right to
attack that with which he disagrees. If a writer comes
to the
conclusion that his society’s laws or beliefs are no longer
valid or even
harmful, it is his duty to speak up. But he must be
ready to pay
the price for his outspokenness. If he is not ready to
pay that
price, he can choose to remain silent. History is full of
people who went
to prison or were burned at the stake for proclaiming
their ideas.
Society has always defended itself. Nowadays
it does so
with its police and its courts. I defend both the freedom
of
expression and society’s right to counter it. I must pay the price
for
differing. It is the natural way of things.
INTERVIEWER
Did you read The Satanic
Verses?
MAHFOUZ
I didn’t. By the time it appeared, I could no longer read very
well—my
eyesight has deteriorated a lot recently. But the American
cultural attaché
in
chapter. I found
the insults in it unacceptable. Rushdie insults even
the women of
the Prophet! Now, I can argue with ideas, but what
should I do
with insults? Insults are the business of the court. At the
same time, I
consider Khomeini’s position equally dangerous. He
A manuscript page by Naguib Mahfouz from an article
for the
10
NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
does not have
the right to pass judgment—that is not the Islamic
way. According
to Islamic principles, when a man is accused of
heresy he is
given the choice between repentance and punishment.
Rushdie was not given that choice. I have always defended
Rushdie’s right to
write and say what he wants in terms of ideas.
But he does not have the right to insult anything, especially a
prophet or
anything considered holy. Don’t you agree?
INTERVIEWER
I see your point . . . Does the Koran discuss insults or
blasphemy?
MAHFOUZ
Of course. The
Koran and the laws of all civilized nations legislate
against the
vilification of religions.
INTERVIEWER
Were you religious as a child? Did you go to the mosque with
your father
every Friday?
MAHFOUZ
I was especially religious when I was young. But my father
put no
pressure on me to go to Friday prayers, even though he
went every
week. Later on I began to feel strongly that religion
should be open;
a closed-minded religion is a curse. Excessive
concern with
religion seems to me a last resort for people who
have been
exhausted by life. I consider religion very important
but also
potentially dangerous. If you want to move people,
you look for
a point of sensitivity, and in
people as much
as religion. What makes the peasant work?
Religion. Because
of this, religion should be interpreted in an
open manner.
It should speak of love and humanity. Religion
is related
to progress and civilization, not just emotions.
Unfortunately today’s interpretations of religion are often
backward and
contradict the needs of civilization.
THE
INTERVIEWER
What about women who cover their heads, or even their faces
and hands?
Is this an example of religion contradicting the needs
of
civilization?
MAHFOUZ
Head covering has become a style, a fashion. It has no more
meaning than
that for most. But I do fear religious fanaticism . . .
a
pernicious development, totally opposed to mankind.
INTERVIEWER
Do you pray these days?
MAHFOUZ
Sometimes. But age
prevents me at present. Between you and
me, I
consider religion an essential human behavior. Still, it’s clearly
more
important to treat one’s fellow man well than to be always
praying and
fasting and touching one’s head to a prayer mat. God
did not
intend religion to be an exercise club.
INTERVIEWER
Have you been to
MAHFOUZ
No.
INTERVIEWER
Do you want to go?
MAHFOUZ
No. I hate crowds.
INTERVIEWER
How old were you when you married?
12
NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
MAHFOUZ
Thirty-seven or thirty-eight.
INTERVIEWER
Why so late?
MAHFOUZ
I was busy with my job and with writing. I was a government
employee in the
morning and a writer in the evening. My
day was
completely filled. I was afraid of marriage . . . especially
when I saw
how busy my brothers and sisters were with
social events
because of it. This one went to visit people, that
one invited
people. I had the impression that married life would
take up all
my time. I saw myself drowning in visits and parties.
No freedom.
INTERVIEWER
Even now, don’t you refuse to attend dinners and receptions?
MAHFOUZ
I never attend such events. I never even visit my friends. I meet
them at the
Casino Kasr el-Nil or at one or two other coffee
houses.
INTERVIEWER
Is that why you didn’t go to
Prize? Too many
visits, dinners, parties . . .?
MAHFOUZ
No, not exactly. As much as I would have loved to travel when
I was young, nowadays I no longer have
the desire. Even a twoweek
trip would
disrupt my lifestyle.
INTERVIEWER
You must have been asked many times about your reaction to
THE
receiving the
Nobel. Did you have any inkling beforehand that you
would win?
MAHFOUZ
None at all. My wife
thought I deserved it, but I had always
suspected the
Nobel was a Western prize; I thought they would
never select
an Eastern writer. There was a rumor, though, that two
Arab writers had been nominated: Yusef Idris and Adonis.
INTERVIEWER
Did you know you were being considered?
MAHFOUZ
No. I was at Al-Ahram that morning. Had
I stayed half an
hour longer I
would have found out immediately. But I went home
and had
lunch instead. The news came across the tickers at Al-
Ahram and they
called my house. My wife woke me up to tell me,
but I thought
she was joking and wanted to go back to sleep. Then
she told me
Al-Ahram was on the phone. I picked up to hear
someone
saying,
Congratulations! It was Mr. Basha. Now Mr. Basha
sometimes plays
jokes on me, so I didn’t take him seriously. I went
into the
living room in my pajamas and was just sitting down
when the
doorbell rang. Someone came in whom I assumed was a
journalist, but he
turned out to be the Swedish ambassador! So I
excused myself
to change . . . and that’s how it happened.
INTERVIEWER
Turning once more to your writing: do you work according to
a regular
schedule?
MAHFOUZ
I have always been compelled to. From eight till two I was at
work. From
four until seven I wrote. Then from seven until ten I read.
This was my schedule every day except Friday. I have never had
time
to do as I
please. But I stopped writing about three years ago.
14
NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
INTERVIEWER
How do you come up with the characters and ideas for your
stories?
MAHFOUZ
Let me put it this way. When you spend time with your friends,
what do you
talk about? Those things which made an impression
on you that
day, that week . . . I write stories the same way. Events
at home, in
school, at work, in the street, these are the bases for a
story. Some
experiences leave such a deep impression that instead
of talking
about them at the club I work them into a novel.
Take, for instance, the case of a criminal who killed three people
here
recently. Beginning with that basic story, I would go on to
make a number
of decisions as to how to write it. I would choose,
for example,
whether to write the story from the point of view of
the husband,
the wife, the servant, or the criminal. Maybe my sympathies
lie with the
criminal. These are the sorts of choices that
make stories
differ from one another.
INTERVIEWER
When you begin writing, do you allow the words to flow or
do you
prepare notes first? Do you start with a specific theme in
mind?
MAHFOUZ
My short stories come straight from the heart. For other
works I do
research first. Before beginning The
example, I did
extensive research. I compiled a file on each character.
If I hadn’t done that I would have gotten lost and forgotten
something.
Sometimes a theme arises naturally out of the events in
a story,
and sometimes I will have one in mind before I begin. If I
know
beforehand that I want to portray a human being’s ability to
surmount whatever
evil may befall him, I will create a hero capable
of
demonstrating that idea. But I also begin stories by writing
THE
about a
character’s behavior at length, allowing the theme to
emerge later
on.
INTERVIEWER
How much do you revise and rewrite before you consider a
story
finished?
MAHFOUZ
I make frequent revisions, I cross out a lot, I write all over the
pages, even on
the backs. Often my revisions are major. After I
revise, I
rewrite the story and send it to the publisher. Then I tear
up all the
old reworkings and throw them away.
INTERVIEWER
You never keep any of your notes? Many writers keep every
word they
have written! Don’t you think it’s interesting to study a
writer’s process
by examining his revisions?
MAHFOUZ
It may well be, but it is simply not part of my culture to
preserve
notes. I have
never heard of a writer preserving his early
drafts. I have
to discard my revisions—otherwise my house would
overflow with
useless paper! Besides, I have terrible handwriting.
INTERVIEWER
Neither the short story nor the novel is part of the Arab literary
heritage. How do
you explain your success with these forms?
MAHFOUZ
We Arab writers did borrow the modern concept of the short
story and the
novel from the West, but by now they have been
internalized in our
own literature. Many translations came our
way during
the forties and fifties; we took their style to be simply
the way
stories were written. We used the Western style to express
our own
themes and stories. But don’t forget that our heritage
16
NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
includes such
works as Ayyam al-Arab, which contains many stories
—among them “Antar” and “Qays and Leila”—and of course
The Thousand and One Nights.
INTERVIEWER
Do you identify with any of your characters?
MAHFOUZ
Kamal from the
trilogy represents my own generation—our
ideas, our
choices, our dilemmas and psychological crises—and so
his
character is in that sense autobiographical. But he is universal
at the same
time. I also feel close to Abdul Gawad, the father .
. .
open to life
in all its aspects, he loves his friends and he never wittingly
hurts anyone.
The two together represent both halves of my
personality. Abdel Gawad is very gregarious,
loves art and music;
Kamal is
inhibited and shy, serious and idealistic.
INTERVIEWER
Let’s talk about a specific example of your writing: The Thief
and the Dogs. How did you begin?
MAHFOUZ
The story was inspired by a thief who terrorized
while. His
name was Mahmoud Suleiman. When he got out of
prison he tried
to kill his wife and his lawyer. They managed to
escape
unharmed, but he was killed in the process.
INTERVIEWER
Had his wife betrayed him, as in the novel?
MAHFOUZ
No . . . I created the story from his character. At the time I was
suffering from a
persistent and peculiar sense that I was being pursued,
and also the
conviction that under the political order of the
time our
lives had no meaning. So when I wrote the criminal’s
THE
story, I wrote
my own story along with it. A simple crime tale
became a
philosophical meditation on the times! I subjected the
main
character, Sayyid Mahran,
to all my confusion, my perplexities.
I put him through the experience of looking for answers in the
sheikh, in the
“fallen woman,” in the idealist who has betrayed his
ideas for
money and fame. The writer, you see, is not simply a journalist.
He interweaves a story with his own doubts, questions, and
values. That is
art.
INTERVIEWER
What about the role of religion in the story? Is faith in God the
path to true
happiness, as the sheikh suggests? Is Sufism the answer
the criminal
is looking for?
MAHFOUZ
The sheikh rejects life as we know it. The criminal, on the
other hand, is
trying to solve his immediate problems. They are in
two
different worlds. I love Sufism as I love beautiful poetry, but it
is not the
answer. Sufism is like a mirage in the desert. It says to
you, come
and sit, relax and enjoy yourself for a while. I reject any
path that
rejects life, but I can’t help loving Sufism because it
sounds so
beautiful . . . It gives relief in the midst of battle . . .
INTERVIEWER
I have several Egyptian friends who consult Sufi sheikhs regularly
looking for
solutions . . .
MAHFOUZ
I wish them well. The real solution to their problems is in the
National Bank.
INTERVIEWER
What of Nur, the woman in the story? And
women such as
Nefisa in The Beginning and the End and Zohra in
These characters, although “fallen,” are clearly good-hearted, and
18 NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
appear to
embody the only hope for the future.
MAHFOUZ
That is correct, although I intended Nefisa
also to demonstrate
the
consequences of dishonorable conduct in a typical Egyptian
family.
INTERVIEWER
Do you condone that type of punishment?
MAHFOUZ
I, with most Egyptians, feel that punishment on that level is
too severe.
On the other hand an Egyptian man who does not
respond the way Nefisa’s brother did cannot continue to live in this
society. Whether
or not he wants to, he is obliged to kill the dishonored
girl. He
cannot escape it. And it will be a long time before
this
tradition changes, although its force has lessened somewhat
recently,
especially in the cities.
INTERVIEWER
Abdul Gawad in the trilogy personifies
the typical Egyptian
male of the
time. Is his type still common today?
MAHFOUZ
Oh yes. Particularly in upper Egypt, in
the countryside . . .
though an Abdul
Gawad today would probably be less extreme.
Isn’t there a shade of him in every man?
INTERVIEWER
Every Egyptian man, or every
man?
MAHFOUZ
I can’t speak for other countries, but it is certainly true of
Egyptian men.
THE
INTERVIEWER
Things seem to be changing, though, wouldn’t you say?
MAHFOUZ
Things are beginning to change. The position of the woman in
the
household has become much stronger, mainly due to education,
although there
are other factors.
INTERVIEWER
Who do you think should have the upper hand in the household?
Who should make the decisions?
MAHFOUZ
A marriage is like a company with equal partners. No one
rules. If
there is a disagreement, the more intelligent of the two
should
override. But each family is different. Often the power
depends on
money; whoever makes the most money has the most
strength. There
are no fixed rules.
INTERVIEWER
In very conservative, traditional societies such as
women often
have great power over men?
MAHFOUZ
Certainly, and recent history proves it. Men with considerable
political or
military power will fall into the hands of strong women
who
influence their decisions. These women rule from behind the
curtain, from
behind the veil.
INTERVIEWER
Why are the majority of your heroines
women from the lower
strata of
society? Do you intend them to symbolize anything larger?
20
NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
MAHFOUZ
No. By writing about lower-class women I simply intended to
show that
during the period in which these novels are set women
had no
rights. If a woman couldn’t find a good husband or divorce
a bad one,
she had no hope. Sometimes her only recourse was,
unfortunately,
illicit behavior. Until very recently, women have
been a
deprived lot with very few rights . . . even basic rights such
as freedom
of choice in marriage, divorce, and education. Now
that women
are being educated, this situation is changing, because
a women
who is educated has a weapon. Some critics see
symbolized by Hamida in Midaq
Alley, but I never intended anything
of the
sort.
INTERVIEWER
What do you think of such critics, who interpret your work in
terms of
symbols?
MAHFOUZ
When I first heard that Hamida
symbolized
by surprise,
even a little shocked. I suspected that the critics had
simply decided
to turn everything and everyone into symbols. But
then I began
to see resemblances between aspects of Hamida’s
behavior and
aspects of the political situation. And by the time I
had finished
reading the article, I realized that the critic was
right—that
while I was writing about Hamida I was also
subconsciously
writing about
always come
from the subconscious. Although I may not
intend a story
to convey a certain meaning that a reader sees in it,
that meaning
may nevertheless be a legitimate part of the story. A
writer writes
both consciously and subconsciously.
INTERVIEWER
What is the subject closest to your heart? The subject you most
love to write
about?
THE
MAHFOUZ
Freedom. Freedom
from colonization, freedom from the
absolute rule of
a king, and basic human freedom in the context of
society and the
family. These types of freedom follow from one to
the other.
In the trilogy, for example, after the revolution brought
about
political freedom, Abdul Gawad’s family demanded more
freedom from him.
INTERVIEWER
What is the most difficult situation you have had to face in
your life?
MAHFOUZ
Most certainly it was the decision to dedicate myself to writing,
thereby
accepting the lowest standard of living for myself and
my family.
It was especially difficult since the prospect of money
was dangled
before me . . . Around 1947 I was given the chance to
work as a
scriptwriter with the best in the field. I began working
with Salah Abu Seif, but I gave it up.
I refused to continue. I didn’t
work with him
again until after the war when everything
became
expensive. Before that, I wouldn’t think of it. And my family
accepted these
sacrifices.
INTERVIEWER
Many prominent writers, especially in the West, are known for
their decadent
private lives—their excessive drinking, drug use,
unusual sexual
habits, suicidal tendencies . . . but you appear to be
perfect!
MAHFOUZ
Well . . .
INTERVIEWER
Perhaps that is your greatest flaw?
MAHFOUZ
It is certainly a defect. But you are judging me in my dotage.
In my younger days I did all those things—I drank, I pursued the
gentler sex, and
so forth.
INTERVIEWER
Are you optimistic about the future of the
in view of
the Gulf War and continued violence?
MAHFOUZ
At my age it is unseemly to be pessimistic. When you are
young you can
declare that there is no hope for mankind, but
when you are
older, you learn to avoid encouraging people to hate
the world.
INTERVIEWER
But what about a conception of the hero? Heroes don’t seem
to exist in
your stories, nor indeed in the stories of any contemporary
Egyptian writer.
MAHFOUZ
It’s true that there are no heroes in most of my stories—only
characters. Why?
Because I look at our society with a critical eye
and find
nothing extraordinary in the people I see. The generation
before mine,
influenced by the 1919 uprisings, saw heroic behavior
—the worker able to overcome unusual obstacles, that kind of
hero. Other
writers—Tawfiq al-Hakim, Muhammed
Husayn
Haykal, Ibrahim Abd al-Quadir al-Mazini—write about
heroic
types. But on
the whole, our generation is very apathetic and a
hero is a
rare thing; you can’t put a hero in a novel unless it is a
work of
fantasy.
INTERVIEWER
How would you describe a hero?
22 NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
MAHFOUZ
There are many heroes in ancient Arabic literature, all of them
horsemen,
knights. But a hero today would for me be one who
adheres to a
certain set of principles and stands by them in the face
of
opposition. He fights corruption, is not an opportunist, and has
a strong
moral foundation.
INTERVIEWER
Do you consider yourself a hero?
MAHFOUZ
Me?
INTERVIEWER
Aren’t you a model, for your children and your public, of one
who stands
by his principles in the face of adversity?
MAHFOUZ
Yes, certainly. But I don’t think of myself as a hero.
INTERVIEWER
How, then, would you describe yourself?
MAHFOUZ
Someone who loves literature. Someone who believes in and is
sincere about
his work. Someone who loves his work more than
money or fame.
Of course, if money and fame come, they are welcome!
But they have never been my goal. Why? Because I love
writing more
than anything else. It may be unhealthy, but I feel
that without
literature my life would have no meaning. I might
have good
friends, travel, luxuries, but without literature my life
would be
miserable. It’s a strange thing, but not really, because
most writers
are the same way. This is not to say I have done nothing
but write in
my life. I am married, I have children. Then, since
1935, I have had a sensitivity in my
eyes that prevents me from
THE
reading or
writing during the summer, so this has imposed a balance
on my
life—a balance sent down by God! Each year I must
live for
three months as a man who is not a writer. Those three
months I meet
my friends and stay out until morning.
And I haven’t lived?
§
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