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 6

Anyone Can Write a Novel

“The common direction along the pathway of literature leads generally from poetry to prose and not the other way around; we rarely—I say ‘rarely’ though I would rather say we never—find any writer who started his literary life as a storyteller or as an essayist and then, later on when his (poetic) talent suddenly flourished, at an old age, convert to poetry. Al-Nabigha Al-Dhubiani,  whose poetic genius showed up comparatively at the autumn of his life, himself did not dare to write short stories in the manner Chekhov did before shifting to verse that deserved the honor of being hung on the walls of the Kaaba as a Mu’allaqa.  Instead, he started as a poet who might have postponed the announcement of his poetic zeal in public. . . .”

In one of my books, O Writers, Be Humble (from which the above paragraph is extracted), though it was not my intention to deal with Al-Dhubiani as a poetic phenomenon, I think it is worth referring to what I pointed out there in this context. If Al-Dhubiani had decided to write prose, he would have fell short of attracting a number of dedicated critics and devotees alike. On the contrary, he could not escape the authority of verse, which was more influential, from the seductive power of prose. The temptations of a potential reverse migration to the opposite shore of creativity were too weak to make him, along with his fellow poets, desert a creative craftsmanship able to bring money and fame in exchange for a poor art that would bring none of the sought privileges.

The power of poetry sustained for more than a thousand years in the lives of Arabs until the sedition of the novel took over contemporary Arabic literature, encouraging a large number of Arab writers to launch their presumably promising and prosperous novelistic projects. Furthermore, some of them already opted, without any prior notice, for a migration from poetry, or other literary genres, to the bosom of the new trend: the novel.

To continue from O Writers, Be Humble: “The direction along the pathway of literature (that almost every writer tries writing poetry at the beginning of his writing experience) is the strongest evidence that poetry holds a temptation over every writer. I believe even those who were not known for their attempts to compose verse used to conceal their pages, maybe wisely, when they realized that they were not born to write according to rhythm and rhyme, but rather to use words consistent with their semantic limits.” However, as we saw in the previous paragraph, the situation has turned upside down, and signs of radical change have multiplied so fast, that we come to see young beginners, or those who have converted to the new trend only lately, with minor talent, insist on publishing their work or even persistently submitting their novels to be considered for prestigious literary awards.

It should not be understood that what I said above is another way to condemn those writers, being young or elderly, whose novels deserve esteem and awards for their work per se. Instead, I suggest that novel writing is distinct from composing poetry, in the sense that poetry, as a poet put it, “is as hard as a long journey.” On the contrary, it seems that the mission of a novelist is not so tough that even a starter can realize miraculous achievement to be honored by the most prominent prizes on the first or second attempt. Similarly, an old man can, all of  a sudden, discover his novelistic (exceptional!) gift worthy of glory, prominent awards, and honorable titles.

Let’s proceed with the same poetic insight attributed to Al-Hutay’ah,  who wisely pointed out that poetry is a journey “if taken by the ignorant/his steps will end up in the abyss.” Whoever defies poetry and its sound masters believing he is so superior as to deserve a higher position among the existing poets will ultimately fall to the worst destination. The word “abyss” in the verse above includes every possible instance of humiliation and decay.

On the contrary, the Arabic novel has been very merciful, in terms of the expenses of the journey and the consequences of failure, to those who dared experiencing narrative fiction. Weak novels, as long as they are spiced with excitement, can easily be welcomed by publishers and sit on the shelves of libraries, in spite of their modest aesthetic value. Bad poetry, on the other hand, is automatically condemned by everyone to the extent that no publisher would look at it (Arab publishers are already unwilling to publish even those collections of poems considered original), let alone accusing it of belonging to something else—but not to poetry.

Considering Al-Hutay’ah’s radical stand in regard to the art of verse along with the enthusiastic conduct of the advocates of a trend abounding with prestigious awards, I think that any evaluation/assessment of literary genres should not be obsessed with measuring the length of the mission along the pathway of writing or the potential hardships and disastrous consequences of an uncalculated journey. What really matters is the ongoing impression of a work when the temporary fever of the trend dies out. In this respect, for centuries poetry has had a magically concrete effect on Arabs, while the Arabic novelistic experience still has a very long way to traverse before history should prove the possibility of such an achievement.