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 13

In the Presence of Sir Marquez Himself

The role of exceptional artists—of any category of art—is vital to the spread and immortality of that art, having been ushered in, of course, by glorious pioneers, though not necessarily being the best among their successors who will emerge, later on, as practitioners of the same (creative) expertise. Thus is the familiar (though not necessarily determined) relationship between pioneering and excellence, which by virtue of the nature of things grants preference to some artists among the new generation so they attain prominence by taking advantage of the building blocks (and not necessarily the foundation) that the predecessors already established in the groundwork of artistic creativity. This shouldn’t constitute an absolute standard governing the assessment of proficiency of a successor compared to a predecessor or vice versa, given that the matter about artistic leadership is, generally, less likely to engender much controversy.

The role of great artists in consolidating and promoting their art is so significant for two reasons. The first is the effect of stardom on people in principle; the masses would learn by heart many an extract from the autobiography of a writer despite the fact that most of them did not read any of the pieces of work by the writer in question. The second reason lies in the magic of proficiency/mastery on those (as in my case) who would engage in perceiving exquisite craftsmanship, even if they might be obviously antagonistic to that category of art.

In light of the above, it would not be strange for one, like me, to be captivated by the charm of novelistic creativity reading any of the works by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, bearing in mind my repeatedly proclaimed indignation at the “fashion of the time” on more than one ground. My stand is mainly centered on my view that great works (literary, artistic, or otherwise creative—even in the purely practical aspects of human genius) can never be subject to a seemingly superficial notion such as “fashion,” though my interaction with the said “new trend” reveals the fact that it has got a more concrete role and effect in life than we might think being armed with our overconfident scrutiny.

The other noteworthy reason for my caution vis-à-vis the novel is probably derived from my original background as a poet—and later as an essayist/writer who would rather fly away out of the cage of storytelling. If ever fiction is strongly inevitable, it can be approached through essay writing. It is worthy of being the most “fashionable,” among all genres, throughout every possible literary period.

Despite all that has been said so far, the glamour of the novel remains valid for me through exceptional novelists such as Tayeb Salih and Garcia Marquez. I have repeatedly praised Salih for being considered worthy of the remarkable reputation and glory he achieved. And Marquez already reached the highest possible prestige and acclaim that no novelist has been granted so far—a huge and worthy gain indeed.

Along with mastery/proficiency broadly agreed on, many reasons congregated for the completion of the Colombian writer’s unique myth. At the forefront of these reasons is that the novelist belongs to a South American country not among the most advanced or famous on the continent, despite his long stay in Mexico (investigating the geographical boundaries of the continent), the most affluent and famous city northward. Marquez had the chance to befriend prominent revolutionary leaders like Fidel Castro and, later on, less rebellious political personalities or modernity advocates such as Bill Clinton. Before I conclude with charisma and presentability in terms of character and name as a strange reason to consolidate the myth, I would like to refer to the intrinsic and less controversial reasons manifested in Spanish, a language notorious for such a uniquely viable creativity owing to its particularity compared to English, French, Italian, and German (prestigiously known for their competence and predominance in this respect). Spanish has incomparably spread in the West and the East alike—Arabic being among the “defeated” languages. The mother tongue in which the work is written has a great magical/authoritative effect not only after the piece of work is translated to many other languages, but also before the translation takes place. First, it helps the writer draw inspiration (consciously and unconsciously) from a whole linguistic tradition in letter and spirit while writing. Second, language (Spanish in this context), especially if it is prominently popular, can attract double the readers, critics, and obsessive devotees on the grounds that the race to the (literary) podium is exclusively between exceptionally good works.

Marquez himself would grant me the opportunity to escape the temptation of the novel before I shall claim my evasion from the said sedition/seduction thanks to my almost (if I may say) innate predilection for other forms of creativity other than (short or long) narrative fiction. The compass of my devotion would rather diverge to the essay form along with the wide horizons of critical articles/reviews. Besides, my annoyance (disgust?) at the fervent spread of the novel might seem like an artificial reason that fuses tenacious pretense with true spontaneity. This apparent contradiction does not question the sincerity of my ardent will of emancipation from captivity of the novel, nor would it reinforce its entitlement to take over all forms of creative writing.

Marquez is giving me that chance because he is a professionally gifted essayist in principle; journalism was not merely a transient in his writing career, but rather a pivotal obsession before and during his unique fame. On the other hand (and for the same reason), my stand in regard to narrative fiction (in particular, the novel) may look unjustified on the basis that a great novelist can also be a distinguished essayist, though Marquez’s essays are not as great as his fiction when both are viewed as the epitome of exceptional creativity. Therefore, it would be safer for me to cling to the assertion that my (mortal) enmity toward the “new trend” (the novel) is primarily a cry against the entrenched “fever” among writers and readers alike.