An amorphous presence
A writer comes full circle, or so thinks Charles R. Larsen
It is a wonder that Egypt's master novelist, Naguib Mahfouzthe firstArab writer to win the Nobel Prize for literaturesurvived the attackon his life by an Islamic fanatic in 1994. More wondrous, indeed,that he kept writing, though often dictating his work to others.During the final four years of his life before he died in 2006, herelied totally on the dictation processespecially for his dreams,which were first published in Arabic in the magazine "Nisf al-dunya,"and now finally in English as "Dreams of Departure," in a superbtranslation by Raymond Stock (who is also Mahfouz's biographer). Not surprisingly, the second volume of his dreams reveals a feistyrebel, unflinching in regard to questions of state authority,censorship, and inhumanity. Thus, regarding politics, Mahfouz's dreamstouch on issues of social instability, dissent, revolution andincarceration, as well as a certain fear of the state as an amorphouspresence rather than a visible reality. In one of the most powerfulsequences, he and a group of his friends are arrested, thrown intodetention for half a year without trial, and then suddenly released.The brief vignette concludes, "To this day, whenever I recall thetorment of prison, I wonder why it was that we'd ever been seized."In other dreams, people disappear without a trace, suggesting that thefear of his own incarceration was genuine, not simply a fantasy. An old man by the time these dreams were first published, Mahfouzwas, nevertheless, constantly thinking of young women, the early lovesof his life, sexuality. The subjects are ubiquitous enough that onone occasion he states, "I have resolved myself to forget bothlovemaking and fighting." Yet he muses, also, about the questions ofaging, mortality, the passage of timein short, his impending demise.Not surprisingly, journeys and the body's decline are also topics ofhis concern.The most memorable sequences in the volume, however, read as if theyare outlines for short stories (or novels) that Mahfouz was never ableto write. To that extent, they reveal an artist with all of hisremarkable creativity still present. In one of the more bizarresequences, Mahfouz dreams of preparing a table with delicious food.Then the doorbell rings and when the writer opens the door, there ishis girlfriend, who falls onto the couch. Her body immediately goes limp, prompting Mahfouz to slap her inorder to wake her up. When his efforts are unsuccessful, he concludesthat she is dead. Aware of scandal, he carries her body into thekitchen and throws her from the window into the stairwell. Nextmorning there is talk in the apartment building about a woman who wastaken to the hospital. The landlord adds, "The doctor told me,'There's a lot of hope we can save her, and the prosecutor is waitingfor the right time to speak to her.' " It is a grisly story, layered with the fear of scandal, andmorerevealingly--with guilt. What would a Freudian psychoanalyst orscholar speculate about the ninety-year-old writer? What is thereader to conclude? What can be said about Mahfouz himselfwho in oneof his final published dreams, identifies still another lovely youngwoman, but this time holding him as the two of them examine many ofthe writer's own books for sale by a street bookseller? No problemwith what I have described so far. What writer wouldn't want to sharehis work with his beloved? But then he picks up one of the volumes, only to discover that thepages are blank. The same happens with others, nothing inside thevolumes at all. The dream concludes, "I stole a glance at mygirlfriend who was gazing at me in mourning." Does she still love awriter of blank books? Like all great writers and despite his fame, Naguib Mahfouz fearedthat his work would be forgotten. Or, let's say that at least hisdreams express such a fear. Hopefully, the rest of the time, herealized that reality and dreams are not identical. Yet dreams arealways aspects of reality. Charles R. Larson is Professor of Literature at American University in Washington, DC.
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