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 4, A Cease-fire

Dealing with a unique novel like Season of Migration to the North or an exceptional short story writer like the Nubian (Egyptian) Haggag Hassan Oddoul,  I find myself obliged to cease my feelings of enmity toward narrative fiction (that is, the novel) as a sign of my goodwill. I might say that my aversion to the literary genres in question is a spontaneous act free of any kind of deliberate malice.

Experts in the different branches of psychology and social conduct, as well as preachers from every part of the globe, warn us against expressing our judgments based on prior impressions (and/or stereotypes) whose delight is irresistible most of the time. However, I think there is no harm in having prior impressions provided they are not meant to be a form of criticism in regard to people and their creative output.

However, my position toward the novel is much more than a mere prior impression. It comes from a journey that started at poetry as my first love. Later on, the journey expanded to include other (written and not written) forms of creativity, but with a bias toward the essay, even at the expense of poetry. Nevertheless, my literary taste can veer toward novels and short stories as long as they are creatively well constructed. Here lies the difference between devotees of a category of creative writing and those who have already taken a stand in regard to a literary genre. The first group of readers is open to all possibilities of various levels of creativity responding to their (literary) appetite. The second group keeps awaiting only good and perhaps exceptional pieces of work.

In this context, there seems to be no difference between the attitude of those who like only delicious food and the position of those who like exclusively “attractive” pieces of art. One who says he likes oranges only if they are medium-sized, colorful, and juicy is automatically setting conditions for his love. The opposite, of course, is when someone loves something, let’s say oranges, without imposing a list of conditions.

Because it is difficult to resist the stench of stardom, the novel (the star of this time in regard to the number of fans) does not cease seducing even its most dedicated opponents until it unmercifully defeats them. These opponents may sometimes conceal their defeat, but they cannot resist following the echoes of a prevailing literary genre.

The Longing of the Dervish is a novel by the Sudanese novelist Hammour Ziada  that has made me, once more, seek some shade (and peace) under the tree of a novel I haven’t read yet. All I have read are some pieces of news concerning the novel winning a prestigious prize and being on the shortlist of an important Arab award. My stay in the novel’s shade has been reinforced at the sight of the fifth edition of the book in question occupying a space in every possible bookshop with the resounding notation on the cover: THIS NOVEL IS ON THE SHORTLIST OF THE BOOKER PRIZE. As an adversary of the new trend of awards (especially novel prizes), I should have gotten furious, but I unexpectedly wanted more peace and shade.

Furthermore, it seems that The Longing of the Dervish has attracted me thanks to its ability to create a (novelistic) phenomenon: I haven’t had the chance to behold its charm simply because I haven’t read it so far. The attraction to the said phenomenon consists, first of all, in the potency of a sort of creative writing (I don’t like much) to captivate the concern of a large part of the public, especially in a context in which reading has become such a rare routine. Second, it is amazing that the novel (reinforced by the magical influence of the prize itself) is able to highlight the dark/marginalized corners of the Arab culture so as to make them breathe a fresh new air—an almost impossible mission.

My truce in this sense is not merely a reconsideration of my prior impressions vis-à-vis the novel, but primarily a matter of deserved gratitude toward a literary genre that hasn’t managed to gain my attention. The said authority of the novelistic phenomenon might magically manifest its influence in spite of our stubborn intention to escape the shores of seduction.