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 12

The Novel and Sex

There is no great novel that is free from sex and excitement, while poorly written novels are almost centered around eroticism and excitement. Is this a mere coincidence?

It is hard to believe that the matter is no more than a coincidence. Sex has always been regarded as a strong means for arousing stimulation and satisfying curiosity (and regenerating it anew at the same time). It is even more surprising that tales and legends about sex permeate novels published in societies not suffering from sexual deprivation. Nevertheless, such novels do quite well compared to the effect similar narrative fiction has on societies (within the most conservative countries) that abide sexual repression.

In fact, there is a difference worthy of consideration (being honest and fair in analysis)  when tackling the role of sex in the promotion of a novel. In liberal societies in different parts of the world, especially the West, sex renders a good novel more attractive. In sexually repressed societies, sex is, on the other hand, almost a major source of attraction for novels including the ones lacking originality. Since most, if not all, of the repressed societies are less advanced in literature and generally in every possible aspect of life, it is possible to find out why sex alone can contribute to the (massive) spread of weak or even aesthetically mediocre novels. However, the role sex plays (in Western societies) in terms of giving an artistically well-woven novel added value deserves being investigated with deep reflection.

In the West, before getting into the most controversial phases of the subject matter, it must first be recognized that sex, when skillfully injected into a good novel, can be a valid reason justifying the greater demand for the piece of work in question. The demand for such a novel may be attributed to curiosity about sex per se or, otherwise, to the incorporation of the captivating phenomenon that is a “basic instinct” in the life of human beings.

In Western social contexts, once again—where social freedom and perspectives of creativity are so broad for any sort of novels to flourish—the matter adds dimensions of excitement when dealing with forbidden sexual relations according to the traditions of those societies, basically incest and adultery. (This is adultery not only within the institution of marriage, but also among any two parties in a relationship that allows for sexual intercourse according to the social conventions of those communities.) Nevertheless, given the generally well-known rigor in assessing any (literary) piece of work in the West, the inclusion of sex—even with the most extreme and peculiar stimuli—is still associated with artistic skill, if the author aspires to success and renown.

The only case in which the West waives its customary sternness (when it comes to work in general and in regard to the standards of judging literary/artistic works specifically) rises when the literary/artistic piece is in conflict with the traditions of a conservative society, and created by a writer who belongs to that society. Thus, artistically modest eroticism can help promote a literary piece of work—aesthetically feeble in itself—that discusses the issues of religion or women on the basis of an overt approach of rivalry and hostility.

Accordingly, sex is much more effective compared to the other (human) instincts that do not, necessarily, guarantee success for a poorly written novel; nor does it bring more glitter for a novel already doing well on the path of seduction. In this context, I am not intending to juxtapose sex and food/drink in accordance with the famous Islamic rule about fasting as an act of “abstaining from foods, drinks, and intimate intercourse from dawn to sunset.” I would rather compare sex to the instincts of fear, revenge, curiosity, possessiveness, and many more that are supposed to contend with the appetites for sex and food exclusively stated in the above mentioned definition about fasting.

There are novels, whether great or modest, that revolve around sexual excitement. Sex, however, has always been present to intersperse another central (independent) theme in narrative fiction. This may be another instinct, such as revenge or belligerence, or a complex set of instincts. Nevertheless, it is not precisely the instinct tackled in the narrative that draws attention, but rather the idea and the process of events. The most decisive and appealing point of the instinct in the novel—both in its center and on its brilliant surroundings—is achieved only when sex is involved.

Thus, sex within the novelistic experience seems to deserve being singled out not only as a “basic instinct,” but basically as the absolute “essential instinct” in narrative fiction. Here we can make an analogy between novel and poetry (being comparatively chaste). Verse transcends instincts in its permanent search for new/distant horizons of spirituality. Sex scarcely showed up from between the verses of the “apostate poets,” whereas it has broken into novels across their wide-open gates, crowning the heads of novelists with fame and glory.