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 15

Novelists Believed Their Own Woven Lie(s)!

The most serious moral crime Arab poets are said to have committed is that they “say things they don’t actually do,” even though this form of falsehood was not intended for pledge breaching, but for the overestimation of the self and the ally, or even for undermining the value of the opponent. It was only after the coming of Islam that those earlier practices were claimed as ethical offenses. And indeed, those unexercised words were (and we will soon see that they are still) the secret behind the charm and glamour of poetry. However, the agreement of Arabs on the deceptive seduction of poetry, especially after this was endorsed in light of the new morals that Islam had ushered in, did not completely save people from the sedition of verse, but they were saved from it to the extent that they shifted away to practicing and learning the new religion. Meanwhile, the ember of poetry was still lit up deep in their souls, awaiting the chance to have it soaring again under any practical pretext. When that happened with the rise of a new form of the Islamic state during the Umayyad Era, the start was not accompanied with the forfeiting of the moral values that the flourishing Islam had laid down. It was initiated by ignoring rigid obedience while submitting to the condemnation of falsehood, on condition that this submission be overt, bypassing objections to considering poetry as an “inevitable evil.” Thus, holders of the ember of principles had no other option but to admit that “poetry is a beautiful evil.”

Even strict literal supporters of religious principles admit that “poetic evil” (the term they prefer)  incorporates numerous instances of beauty. Nowadays many preachers cite verses from the finest poetry (always in connection with the claim that the more lies it tells, the more beauty it brings about); then afterward they come to proclaim their reservations—either because the quoted poetry contains “sins” (as interpreted by the strict religious view) or because of the poet himself (viewed as having an unsavory reputation with regard to the literal interpretation of the Islamic doctrines in terms of speech in general—not specifically poetry).

Arab poets used to tell lies and people liked their lies while being conscious that they were lies. I do not quite believe that any of the ancient Arab poets fell victim believed their own lies in any of their poems. The ones who were the most likely to believe such lies were the praised, either individuals or tribes. The matter here seems as if it is reversed in some way, in that the poet did not invent the lie, but he explicitly expressed the feelings of his praised party, individuals and communities, through only deploying his creative potency to respond to that desire beautifully and clearly. . . . The praised party was to blame for any untruthfulness, not the poet; he was merely the genius medium whereby that dulcet lying could be woven so dexterously.

That was the case with the Arabic lyrical poetry, whereas poetry of the preceding and following nations who were familiar with theatrical poetry is another poetic variation that should be considered from a perspective of creative writing, mainly relying on imagination. This can rightly lead us to raise the question whose response is the title of this essay: “Have novelists believed their lie?” This question seems to be a result of belief in a consensus that lying in novels is so flagrant that it does not need any justification. Poetic lies constitute a sort of inevitable instance of creative exaggeration meant to emphasize and beautify the intended meaning.

Novelists probably lie to the extent that they can hardly escape the dominance of their fabricated world, only to embrace another lie through which they can invent another different world. In this, they are similar to actors who play a character in one story before moving to distinct roles in other stories. The big difference in this context is that the novelist incarnates the whole story and not only one character. Having this in mind, novelists can be regarded as the masters of lying not only among creative writers, but among all the practitioners of all types of arts. In fact, their job description is basically built not only on lying but on their ingenuity in depicting a lie as if it were really a truth.

In the Arabic version of Why We Write, the American writer of detective novels David Baldacci recounts his childhood: “I was imagining worlds all the time, small worlds where I lose myself inside. I recounted my stories to many of those who wanted to hear them and to those who did not want to.” He went on: “I wrote the best of my novels when I was a lawyer. Do you know who wins in the court? It is the client who is represented by a lawyer who tells better stories than the other lawyer. When you are litigating, you cannot change the facts, you can just reorder them to make the story support the case of your client, valuing certain matters and undermining others, making sure that the facts you want people to believe are the most convincing, and you dispose of those facts that can potentially be harmful to your case either through justifying or hiding them. This is how stories are told.”

As a child, Baldacci lied explicitly and spontaneously wove stories out of lies. He later came back as a lawyer to say that winning litigation is not related to inventing facts but rather to reordering them. But this doesn’t take into account that reordering facts is likely an invented definition (devious/elusive) of lying. Besides, hiding parts of some facts is the same as outright lying.

The most important issue we are concerned with in relation to lying at this point is not what is taking place in David Baldacci’s courtrooms but in his detective novels, especially after he left lawyering to dedicate his entire focus to lying without any constraint—to inventing facts instead of “nobly” hiding behind reordering them or keeping some of them in secret.

Pragmatism comes at the top of the job descriptions for lawyers. The purpose is, in short, saving the client, even if guilty. It is pragmatism graced by the force of law. Far away from Baldacci and his profession, which he left after it had inspired him to write many of his creative pieces, we notice that novelists usually do not need to make their start from any profession that may help them invent their stories begotten from the womb of a lie. Instead, it arises from a “crude” soul who sees, in the power to create falsehood (literary lies), a mission worthy of submission and ovation, especially when it potentially results in discovering a talent that may blossom legendary achievement(s) deserving public praise.

However, the lies of novelists did not turn on them as magic may sometimes turn on the magicians. Such a flip-flop was eagerly anticipated by a provoked person (like me?) to take over the legendary success of the novel nowadays. But what happened in reality was the opposite. People’s immersion in devouring “tasty” lies gave the novelists more enthusiasm and more determination to persist on their path, tempted by the idea that people’s perception of literary arts won’t proceed healthily unless the novel is in the lead.