In a series of forty-five short essays that constitute his book translated into English under the title “Damn the Novel: When a Privileged Genre Prevails Over All Forms of Creative Writing,” Sudanese-born poet and essayist Amr Muneer Dahab denounces the privilege granted to the novel, the literary genre that is treated by publishers—and viewed by the public—as superior to all others and is virtually guaranteed marketability and profitability, to the detriment of others.

In this series of posts, the prolific author shares excerpts from the book.

This week: Chapter 11

Thank God I Got Out!

I proclaimed, somewhere in this book, an armistice with the novel being one of the literary arts I am not much fond of. I have often resorted to peace when there is a good reason for a ceasefire, like when inadvertently finding a creatively elaborate novel or when noticing the success of a young novelist shedding light on a social/cultural wasteland.

The accidental truce, as mentioned above, helps me take a breath for a while to read a good novel under the shade of peace, pausing my vicious campaign against narrative fiction basically in the sense that it is regarded as a prevailing “fashion.” As it might be deduced, my struggle against the novel is a one-sided war, and perhaps, to be precise, a conflict between one party (me) and a group of parties (the novel along with its writers, critics, readers, and publishers), with no idea about the existence of the war I have waged. I am afraid, in this context, I have become like the well-known knight who fought windmills in the belief that they were the source of all evil in this world. Although I am deploying this analogy only ironically, such a view is plausible provided my crisis with the novel is perceived as a battle against the novelistic genre per se and not as an opposition to the dominance of a particular literary category over almost every possible space of literary creativity. It’s the same way a haircut or robe prevails over the world of fashion as a privileged trend worthy of the interest of eager teenagers (girls and boys alike).

During the moments of peace under the shade of the new trend, I sometimes come to fall in love with a novel; but, thank God, I quickly recover from the grip of that admiration as soon as I sense it is paving the path of seduction under my feet so that it can drive me to where the other “opponents” have been enslaved by the same ecstasy of that art to the extent that they can behold the beauty of any of the existing literary creative forms.

The amazing words of the novel are similar to the “abracadabra” (as in the English version of the term “magic”). The fall into the trap of a wonderful novel is similar to slipping into the snare of a cunning magician whose tricks smartly deceive, leaving the viewer/beholder with nothing to resort to but applause and admiration. In fact, this is an attribute of magnificent literature (art in general), and poetry is perhaps more eligible than the novel to receive such an honor. However, the time of the reign of verse over literary charm has declined after a long period. Once upon a time (I’m speaking of Arabic literature specifically), the “abracadabra” used to be verses of poetry uttered by a poet (a magical architect of words) already confident that his listeners would be taken by his uniquely captivating magic/charm.

The magic of the novel is, accordingly, not due to special artistic merits or purely divine gifts engendering its exclusive ability to seduce, but because of the (literary) privilege it has been granted so it can spread its wings across the wide open air at the expense of the other (marginalized) arts. This deliberate process of coronation was held by those who saw in the crowned genre a literary trend worthy not only of supremacy, but also, and specifically, of the eligibility to be the only contestant in the race. Supporters of such a monarchy are readers and novelists who keep glorifying the novel (the Dictator)—along with the consequences it brings about—crying “Long live the king!”

The magic of the novel—as a close friend has sympathetically responded to my malaise in reaction to the proclaimed “Novel’s Era”—is the surrender of the public to the charm of “Once upon a time,” with its fascinating power to attract the ears of listeners (even those with scarce sensitivity) and drive them up till the end of the tale (which mustn’t lack ingenuity) in order to ultimately satisfy their curiosity. This achievement is out of reach simply because new inquisitiveness will arise anew from between the seeds of a new narrative whose predecessors proved that people’s ears (and hearts) are so keen on that art of (story)telling being the most capable among literary forms to tickle the instinctive sense already existing in every descendent of Adam and Eve. The almost unique authority in question is manifested not only in satisfying curiosity but also in stimulating appetite with every new tale, even when it is merely the offspring of pure fantasy.