Marking the Nobel Prize for Literature, awarded this month to British novelist Doris Lessing -- the oldest ever to receive it to date -- Nahed Nassr quizzes out the local literati about the position of Arabic literature in the world today
Doris Lessing (b. 1919, best known for The Grass is Singing -- 1950, and The Golden Notebook -- 1962) is virtually unknown in the Arab world. People have heard her name, they have seldom read her work. In contrast to Orhan Pamuk's widely debated Nobel last year, the award of "that epicist of the female experience, who with scepticism, fire and visionary power has subjected a divided civilisation to scrutiny" -- as the Swedish Academy described Lessing -- has generated little reaction in literary circles. Rather, it reignited questions about the place of Arabic literature in the world today, whether any Arab other than the late Naguib Mahfouz, who received the prize in 1988, would be granted the honour, and to what extent the worldwide commercial success of Alaa El-Aswany's The Yaqoubian Building can be seen as a gauge for the future.
For the younger short story writer Afaf El-Sayed -- a representative of the female fiction faction of the so called Generation of the Nineties -- a decision of the Swedish Academy should not in and of itself arouse suspicion. That Lessing is lesser known is due simply to the fact that she has not been translated into Arabic -- a function, in turn, of popular taste: "The most famous books are not necessarily the best." And nowhere is this truer, says El-Sayed, than in the translation of Arabic literature into languages that would place its crop on the "international" bookshelf. In this context many of our best writers, she adds, are systematically marginalised. This is partly to do with corruption and nepotism, partly to do with the chaotic nature of translation initiatives, with "anyone doing anything and takeaway writers who present tabloid writing as fiction" -- an allusion to Aswani? -- getting the lion's share. (She has the same opinion of Arab literary competitions, which echo Arab democratic process, she says.) Yet, for El-Sayed, inter-Arab exchange can be even more important than a fairer-minded approach to translation: of 150 Libyan authors gathered at a recent event in Tripoli, she had heard of only two; and "the same happened in Morocco". But most important of all is the influence of the reader, who remains missing in action for the vast majority of Arab writers: "As writers we need not read each other's work, what we need badly is a readership." This is as much the work of the press and the media as anyone else's, she argues, and critics have to learn to be objective and honest about what they say. Still, it is hard to concentrate on culture when there are economic, social and political needs: "I personally will not take LE70 out of the family budget to buy a single book -- I would need to have a much higher income to do that..."
Rather than popular taste, the older and relatively well translated novelist Ibrahim Abdel-Meguid blames the absence of Lessing's work in Arabic on "the wave phenomenon", whereby translation into Arabic takes place in waves: "In the 1950s there was the Russian literature wave, while 30 years ago it was mainly Latin American, but also Japanese and African literature. European literature was far more likely to be translated much earlier." Arabic literature in translation is hardly representative, he concedes, but a book has "its own reality" and once it exists in another language it deserves to be read in that language: "You cannot deny a book's right to exist in English, say, simply because you don't like that book." Westerners who do the translations and, more importantly, publish them, take a significant part of the blame: "They see only what they're looking for, and they promote what makes them feel okay." This sadly fuels stereotypes, whether of The Thousand and One Nights or, since 9/11, of "terrorists and dictators". Abdel-Meguid thinks Yaqoubian is "a good novel" but "not the only one of value to have been translated". That it should be a best-seller in English, though, "we can only be grateful for".
Novelist Fathi Imababi is rather more abrasive: Lessing's award reflects a bias towards a particular -- European style of novel: "It is the style impact." Here too critics suffering from 'odet el-khawaga (the foreign-man complex), he argues, have dictated the predominance of a particular, European-like style, forgoing heritage and "killing the experimental spirit". Since 1995, Imbabi insists, no serious effort has been made to evaluate "dozens of novelists who have come onto the scene" and especially not their cultural roots. The same complex informs many an author, however -- a principle obstacle in the way of "changing the world" in the sense of opening up new perspectives, which is the function of literature. People who only find it in them to derive their work from Western models, and people who work harder at carving out a space within the establishment than at what they do, will never become "international": the example of Latin America is luminary because "it begins with the Author". Like Abdel-Meguid and El-Sayed, Imbabi feels translation is haphazard and in this sense aimless: European cultural centres seek out what they like best -- namely plot and fantasy (Imbabi mentions The Da Vinci Code by way of example) -- and local authors and critics strive, often without success, to meet these needs. Arabic literature in translation does not convey the multiplicity and richness of Egypt, nor does it do justice to true Egyptian culture, which is misleadingly stereotyped and has suffered terribly as a result. Prizes are inevitably subject to political considerations, Imbabi insists, and they hold authors back.
Novelist Sahar El-Mougy has issues with translations not only from but into Arabic -- "and this is why we don't know Doris Lessing". But decisions of the Swedish Academy, she argues, have always been informed by a political agenda: authors are judged not only by their own achievements but by where their countries are on the international-relations map. "After 9/11," for example, "it will be very unlikely for an Arab writer to get the Nobel Prize." At the local level, official bodies responsible for translation have proved by and large ineffective: "The National Translation Project has produced not a single book since it was founded by General Book Organisation." Initiatives by European cultural institutions and the American University in Cairo, on the other hand, have no clear selection criteria, making them problematic, and the same holds true for Arab literary prizes, which increasingly afford translation into European languages as well as financial rewards. Aswani's success is no indication of anything beyond the fact that the way in which "he manages to flaunt our flaws" has turned out to be in demand in the West.
Younger novelist Yasser Abdel-Hafez -- also a cultural journalist -- says the Nobel Prize is not a sufficient incentive for him to read an author. He has read nothing by Lessing, he says, so he is in no position to speak. "But overestimate the value of a prize." Milan Kundera, Mahmoud Darwish and Adonis -- all internationally recognised writers of stature who have proved widely influential -- never received the prize. The Arab world boasts brilliant novels and poets, Abdel-Hafez believes, but they have the support of neither their own establishments -- private as well as official, nor the world powers that be. Local publishers are but "book sellers who lack the ability to truly support an author", Abdel-Hafez contends: "There is no proper advertising, no launches, no distribution outlets. The publisher's relationship with the author ends the moment the manuscript is exchanged." Authors are left with all the rest to do as well as writing -- an incredibly inefficient way to go. Other problems include lack of a readership -- not 100 thousand out of 70 million -- as well as censorship, lack of marketing strategy, lack of mechanisms for developing taste. Nobel has been a matter of national pride "like the Pyramids and the Nile", he says, nothing to do with authors or literature. Arab prizes afford nothing other than a reasonable amount of money that helps the writer work rather than struggle to feed his family, without the Western prize perks of publication contracts, more critical attention and more sales. while author's themselves have failed to sustain a political voice. "In Egypt you can win the State Merit Award and still no one will hear of you." Aswani is a brilliant and worthy novelist, Abdel-Hafez says, but he has fuelled the same dynamic whereby "three or four uninventive Saudi novels with week plots" have been very widely translated. "The West is spying on us," says Abdel-Hafez, "not reading us."
For his part Aswani lives up to the role of the star, mentioning that Chicago -- his second novel, already translated into 18 languages -- has been on the best-selling lists in France and England. Contrary to all hitherto expressed explanations for his success, he believes it is the ability of the work "to express human values" that counts. The West need not read a 500-page novel to find out about us, he says. They read because it absorbs them. Aswani quotes Marquez: a good theme doesn't make a good novel; but a good novel must present good themes even if it tells nothing more than a simple love story. "Universal" -- as opposed to international literature should "reflect the author's local realities in such a way that it builds a vision". An author has to think of characters as human beings. Yet even Aswani concedes that, while Arab literature is "among the greatest in the world", only a small part of it has reached non-Arabs. This partly due to Egyptian "political diseases" contaminating the cultural establishment: lack of publishing, distribution and marketing networks; lack of any possible equivalent to book sellers in Europe, who do much to ensure that books they have enjoyed as readers will be read. Aswani also takes issue with lack of respect for intellectual rights, but he is somewhat kinder to Arab literary awards, some of which he says are respectable and give cause for pride.
For the younger short story writer Afaf El-Sayed -- a representative of the female fiction faction of the so called Generation of the Nineties -- a decision of the Swedish Academy should not in and of itself arouse suspicion. That Lessing is lesser known is due simply to the fact that she has not been translated into Arabic -- a function, in turn, of popular taste: "The most famous books are not necessarily the best." And nowhere is this truer, says El-Sayed, than in the translation of Arabic literature into languages that would place its crop on the "international" bookshelf. In this context many of our best writers, she adds, are systematically marginalised. This is partly to do with corruption and nepotism, partly to do with the chaotic nature of translation initiatives, with "anyone doing anything and takeaway writers who present tabloid writing as fiction" -- an allusion to Aswani? -- getting the lion's share. (She has the same opinion of Arab literary competitions, which echo Arab democratic process, she says.) Yet, for El-Sayed, inter-Arab exchange can be even more important than a fairer-minded approach to translation: of 150 Libyan authors gathered at a recent event in Tripoli, she had heard of only two; and "the same happened in Morocco". But most important of all is the influence of the reader, who remains missing in action for the vast majority of Arab writers: "As writers we need not read each other's work, what we need badly is a readership." This is as much the work of the press and the media as anyone else's, she argues, and critics have to learn to be objective and honest about what they say. Still, it is hard to concentrate on culture when there are economic, social and political needs: "I personally will not take LE70 out of the family budget to buy a single book -- I would need to have a much higher income to do that..."
Rather than popular taste, the older and relatively well translated novelist Ibrahim Abdel-Meguid blames the absence of Lessing's work in Arabic on "the wave phenomenon", whereby translation into Arabic takes place in waves: "In the 1950s there was the Russian literature wave, while 30 years ago it was mainly Latin American, but also Japanese and African literature. European literature was far more likely to be translated much earlier." Arabic literature in translation is hardly representative, he concedes, but a book has "its own reality" and once it exists in another language it deserves to be read in that language: "You cannot deny a book's right to exist in English, say, simply because you don't like that book." Westerners who do the translations and, more importantly, publish them, take a significant part of the blame: "They see only what they're looking for, and they promote what makes them feel okay." This sadly fuels stereotypes, whether of The Thousand and One Nights or, since 9/11, of "terrorists and dictators". Abdel-Meguid thinks Yaqoubian is "a good novel" but "not the only one of value to have been translated". That it should be a best-seller in English, though, "we can only be grateful for".
Novelist Fathi Imababi is rather more abrasive: Lessing's award reflects a bias towards a particular -- European style of novel: "It is the style impact." Here too critics suffering from 'odet el-khawaga (the foreign-man complex), he argues, have dictated the predominance of a particular, European-like style, forgoing heritage and "killing the experimental spirit". Since 1995, Imbabi insists, no serious effort has been made to evaluate "dozens of novelists who have come onto the scene" and especially not their cultural roots. The same complex informs many an author, however -- a principle obstacle in the way of "changing the world" in the sense of opening up new perspectives, which is the function of literature. People who only find it in them to derive their work from Western models, and people who work harder at carving out a space within the establishment than at what they do, will never become "international": the example of Latin America is luminary because "it begins with the Author". Like Abdel-Meguid and El-Sayed, Imbabi feels translation is haphazard and in this sense aimless: European cultural centres seek out what they like best -- namely plot and fantasy (Imbabi mentions The Da Vinci Code by way of example) -- and local authors and critics strive, often without success, to meet these needs. Arabic literature in translation does not convey the multiplicity and richness of Egypt, nor does it do justice to true Egyptian culture, which is misleadingly stereotyped and has suffered terribly as a result. Prizes are inevitably subject to political considerations, Imbabi insists, and they hold authors back.
Novelist Sahar El-Mougy has issues with translations not only from but into Arabic -- "and this is why we don't know Doris Lessing". But decisions of the Swedish Academy, she argues, have always been informed by a political agenda: authors are judged not only by their own achievements but by where their countries are on the international-relations map. "After 9/11," for example, "it will be very unlikely for an Arab writer to get the Nobel Prize." At the local level, official bodies responsible for translation have proved by and large ineffective: "The National Translation Project has produced not a single book since it was founded by General Book Organisation." Initiatives by European cultural institutions and the American University in Cairo, on the other hand, have no clear selection criteria, making them problematic, and the same holds true for Arab literary prizes, which increasingly afford translation into European languages as well as financial rewards. Aswani's success is no indication of anything beyond the fact that the way in which "he manages to flaunt our flaws" has turned out to be in demand in the West.
Younger novelist Yasser Abdel-Hafez -- also a cultural journalist -- says the Nobel Prize is not a sufficient incentive for him to read an author. He has read nothing by Lessing, he says, so he is in no position to speak. "But overestimate the value of a prize." Milan Kundera, Mahmoud Darwish and Adonis -- all internationally recognised writers of stature who have proved widely influential -- never received the prize. The Arab world boasts brilliant novels and poets, Abdel-Hafez believes, but they have the support of neither their own establishments -- private as well as official, nor the world powers that be. Local publishers are but "book sellers who lack the ability to truly support an author", Abdel-Hafez contends: "There is no proper advertising, no launches, no distribution outlets. The publisher's relationship with the author ends the moment the manuscript is exchanged." Authors are left with all the rest to do as well as writing -- an incredibly inefficient way to go. Other problems include lack of a readership -- not 100 thousand out of 70 million -- as well as censorship, lack of marketing strategy, lack of mechanisms for developing taste. Nobel has been a matter of national pride "like the Pyramids and the Nile", he says, nothing to do with authors or literature. Arab prizes afford nothing other than a reasonable amount of money that helps the writer work rather than struggle to feed his family, without the Western prize perks of publication contracts, more critical attention and more sales. while author's themselves have failed to sustain a political voice. "In Egypt you can win the State Merit Award and still no one will hear of you." Aswani is a brilliant and worthy novelist, Abdel-Hafez says, but he has fuelled the same dynamic whereby "three or four uninventive Saudi novels with week plots" have been very widely translated. "The West is spying on us," says Abdel-Hafez, "not reading us."
For his part Aswani lives up to the role of the star, mentioning that Chicago -- his second novel, already translated into 18 languages -- has been on the best-selling lists in France and England. Contrary to all hitherto expressed explanations for his success, he believes it is the ability of the work "to express human values" that counts. The West need not read a 500-page novel to find out about us, he says. They read because it absorbs them. Aswani quotes Marquez: a good theme doesn't make a good novel; but a good novel must present good themes even if it tells nothing more than a simple love story. "Universal" -- as opposed to international literature should "reflect the author's local realities in such a way that it builds a vision". An author has to think of characters as human beings. Yet even Aswani concedes that, while Arab literature is "among the greatest in the world", only a small part of it has reached non-Arabs. This partly due to Egyptian "political diseases" contaminating the cultural establishment: lack of publishing, distribution and marketing networks; lack of any possible equivalent to book sellers in Europe, who do much to ensure that books they have enjoyed as readers will be read. Aswani also takes issue with lack of respect for intellectual rights, but he is somewhat kinder to Arab literary awards, some of which he says are respectable and give cause for pride.
