Naguib Mahfouz: Khan Al-Khalili

He now decided to try free thinking instead and immediately made his colleagues aware of the contempt he felt for exams and degrees. He managed to convince himself that the reason for his failure in the exam had nothing to do with any failings or inadequacy on his part, but was simply due to the fact that he had not had enough time to prepare for it. With that in mind he abandoned his studies so he could discover the most natural outlet for his unquestioned (and martyred) genius. Thus he had managed to waste a year and acquire a sizeable quantity of law books for his library. Now he decided to concentrate on science, but could not make up his mind between more theoretical research areas and practical discoveries; which of the two should he choose? It was the latter area that he turned his back on, the pretext being that the country was completely devoid of factories and laboratories, which is where experiments were conducted and creative inspiration flourished. Instead he pinned his hopes on theoretical science. His dearest wish was one day to discover a theory that would transform the horizons of modern science; as a result he would find himself elevated to the eternal heights of fame and glory alongside Newton and Einstein. Once again ambition caught hold, and he started buying as many texts on physics and chemistry as he could lay his hands on. He read them all avidly, but after a solid year of study he found himself exactly where he had started, not having advanced a single step toward his ultimate goal. He now convinced himself that real involvement in scientific research demanded preparatory studies of the kind that he had never had.

At this point he panicked again, as was often the case. He gave up theoretical science as a field of study; such was his desperation, he managed to convince himself that theoretical research was no different from more applied investigations in its need for laboratories and research institutes. The intellectual atmosphere in Egypt in general was not yet ready for science. This time he felt no need to justify his failure to anyone. By now he had learned to keep his goals hidden from everyone, but even so that did not stop him telling his colleagues and friends that he was devoting all his spare time to knowledge and learning. The untrammelled domain of knowledge, something that far outclassed school-based learning and government-issued diplomas, and in-depth reading that would turn its practitioner into a scholar of enormous profundity.

Another year was squandered while his library acquired yet another category of scientific works. After a while he paused in his endeavors. “Precisely what is it,” he wondered in an exhausted quandary, “that my particular talents are cut out for?” It was obvious enough that he himself did not know the answer as yet; if he had, he could have saved himself some time — it would have been much better if he had — rather than wasting his energies to no effect.

What really interested him? By now he was finished with both law and science, but they were the be-all and end-all of everything. Even so, there was something else that was just as worthwhile and wonderful. How he adored the works of the poet Shawqi and the essayist al-Manfaluti; what bewitching eloquence in their writing! Could his real calling be literature? What a great mode of art it was, one that did not require a degree to practice it nor school learning either. Reading, that was all that was involved; reading poets like Shawqi, Hafiz Ibrahim, and Mutran, just as he had done before. His library soon welcomed some new additions in the form of poetry and prose anthologies that he devoured with such enthusiasm that it aggravated him. During his literary excursions he came across Ibn Khaldun’s quote: “We have heard from our revered shaykhs in literary salons that there are four major sourceworks when it comes to literature studies. They are: The Complete Work by al-Mubarrad, The Scribe’s Manual by Ibn Qutayba, The Book of Eloquence and Clear Expression by al-Jahiz, and The Book of Anecdotes by al-Qali from Baghdad. All other sources apart from these four are derivative.” He let out a sigh of satisfaction; it was as if he had stumbled on a treasure and had acquired the four pillars of literature. With that he read them all with his characteristic zeal and speed. When he had finished, he asked himself — with a good deal of relish — whether he had now become a literature scholar. Grabbing a pen he decided to test his resolve by writing something. The piece he wrote was called “On the Banks of the Nile,” and into it he poured his artistry and inspiration. When it was finished, he sent it by mail to a journal and started picturing the admiration and amazement with which readers would greet it once it had been published. This would be the first stage on the path of glory and fame. For him that would be enough, since the only reward he was looking for was literary recognition. The journal was duly published, and he thumbed through it looking for his article, but it was not there. He began to lose heart, and his high hopes took an awkward tumble. But he did not give up hope and told himself he had to wait another week. Weeks went by, and still the article did not appear. Here he was, someone who had read the four principal pillars of Arabic literature from which all other sources are considered to be derived. According to Ibn Khaldun that made him a literature scholar — Ibn Khaldun, no less! So how could it be that his article had not been published? Was it because the author was unknown, or he had not gone through an intermediary? Was it possible they couldn’t understand his argument? For a short while he thought he might go to the journal in person and find out what had happened, but he soon decided he could not; his innate diffidence was always there as a roadblock.

He now decided to put the shock of the first rejection behind him and wrote a second article about justice. He had no more luck with it than he did with the first one. He wrote a third piece entitled “Poverty’s Crime Against Talent,” but it fared no better than its two predecessors. When that happened, he set about writing with all the dogged stubbornness of someone who sees it as his final hope, all his previous efforts having been destroyed on the frozen rocks of cruel neglect. He rewrote most of them and sent them out to a number of different journals. However, none of them showed any mercy toward his tortured aspirations or seemed ready to rescue him from the pit of despondency. The last article he wrote was on “The Triviality of Literature,” and it too sank without a trace. Shattered in spirit and deeply hurt, he abandoned any further attempts. Bad luck — his enemy of old — had conspired against him yet again, and malicious intent had done the rest. Not for a second did he doubt the value of what he had written about literature. Indeed, he believed it was better than anything al-Manfaluti himself had written, not to mention the effusions of any number of contemporary writers. It was all a question of malice and evil intent. All his dreams had come to nothing. How utterly constricting and unfair life was! Discarding his pen, he now allowed his anger, sorrow, and recalcitrance free rein and finally gave up all aspirations for prestige and authority. His heart was full of anger and resentment, against the world in general and people, especially men with social renown and power. How could you define prestige, he asked himself, particularly its Egyptian form? He answered his own question with a single phrase: favorable circumstances. He was devoted to the memory of Saad Zaghlul, but even so he noted that it was Saad’s father-in-law who had paved the way for his successful career; but for that, he would never have become the figure we know.

“Behind every high-level position in Egypt,” he would often say, “there’s always a tale to be told. If you want to get ahead in this society of ours, then make sure you use deceit, hypocrisy, and impertinence; and don’t forget a fair dose of stupidity and ignorance to go with it!”