I

The Swedish Academy of Letters described the fiction of Naguib Mahfouz, the 1989 recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature, as “rich in nuance, now clearsightedly realistic, now evocatively ambiguous.” To this fairly informed characterization, the Egyptian novelist (according to the New York Times) reacted in his typically ambiguous, tongue-in-cheek fashion. “Clarity,” he said, “is valuable, but ambiguity sometimes has its value too.”

The fact is that the variety of Mahfouz's literary enterprise extends beyond both the realistic and the “evocatively ambiguous”. His rich literary production, consisting (so far) of some 35 novels and 12 volumes of short stories, attests to an unmistakable talent, but also to a singular aptitude for trying different literary modes and adapting them to his own language and culture. During fifty years of continuous experimentation in different fictional styles he has led the way in the development of a number of major novelistic traditions hitherto little known in Arabic literature. In the 1940s he worked within the conventions of pre-modern realism, producing such novels as Midaq Alley and The Beginning and the End,¹ carefully detailed elaborations of the life of the downtrodden masses in contemporary Cairo. This phase culminated in his momentous Cairene Trilogy, portraying the life and fortunes of a Cairo family in the inter-war period.²

In subsequent years, Mahfouz tried his hand at a variety of other fictional forms. In 1959 he produced a long allegorical novel entitled The Children of Our Alley (Children of Gebelawi in the English translation). In this novel, the three monotheistic prophets, Moses, Jesus and Muhammad, are represented by simple men who reside in one of the alleys of modern Cairo, as is the scientist, presented here as the prophet of our day. These personages lead a succession of revolutions aimed at establishing a more equitable political and social order, but the essence of their teachings is discarded soon after their deaths, and the reign of the strong-arm men over the alley seems to be invincible. Several other allegorical novels (as well as short stories in the allegorical mode) have been published by Mahfouz in recent years, including The Epic of Harafish (1977), The Nights of a Thousand Nights (1982) and The Journey of Ibn Fattuma (1983).³

Other fictional modes that Mahfouz was instrumental in injecting into modern Arabic literature are the “stream of consciousness” and the style of the absurd. The former type was inaugurated by his novel The Thief and the Dogs (1961), and the latter by a collection of short stories Under the Bus Shelter, published almost immediately after the 1967 war. These and other literary styles became popular among writers throughout the Arab world in the wake of Mahfouz's initial experiments. However, Mahfouz never deserted the realities of daily life, and, for that matter, never turned his back on realism. Many of his recent works can be seen as examples of a “neo-realism” conspicuously distinct from the realism of his early novels in its laconic avoidance of detailed descriptions of settings and protracted psychological elaborations of individual characters. Rather, a kind of “collective psychology” seems to be attempted in these novels, including A Minute to Midnight, of which we shall have more to say. These works seem to tally with what Mahfouz has been saying repeatedly of late. In several public pronouncements he has intimated that in the age of TV and the video-tape, authors are no longer able to indulge in writing profuse works. Furthermore, he says, the changing rhythm of life in Egypt and elsewhere in the world demands new style of writing that is in keeping with the tempo of modern life.

Faced with such dazzling quantity and variety one is tempted to ask: what, then, is the essence of Naguib Mahfouz's art? To adequately answer such a question one would have to elaborate the specifics of his fictional discourse in relation to the discourse/s of other novelistic traditions, local and international. Such an ambitious undertaking would demand space far beyond the scope of this article. A somewhat easier undertaking would be to dwell upon some of his major thematic foci, by way of illustrating the philosophy underlying his vast fictional universe. In what follows I shall discuss two such foci. The first relates to Mahfouz's personal vision of Egypt, the second—to his sense of “human condition”.

II

Egypt and its people are paramount in the work of Naguib Mahfouz, in all its stages and modalities. Thematically, each of his novels is a renewed attempt not only to depict Egyptian society and individuals, but also to understand the fate of present-day Egypt against the background of its long, eventful history. The Egyptians of today, their lives, dreams and frustrations, are in the foreground of most of his works. However, a kind of historical memory is always present in their psychological make-up, if not in their actual ruminations. This history of course includes fourteen centuries of Islam (Mahfouz was born into a Muslim family), but also three or four millennia of Pharaonic and Christian history.

The first three novels that Mahfouz published in his youth were set in Pharaonic Egypt, and in recent years he has produced two more Pharaonic novels. These, however, do not view the remote past in a romantic vein like that of H. Rider Haggard's Pharaonic novels, nor do they attempt to reconstruct history for didactic ends. Mahfouz's Pharaohs and their subjects are a part of his country's living history. The author often uses the past to reflect present-day issues, at times blending past with present. “A Mummy Awakening,” a short story written in his early youth, is characteristic of this interplay. Its action takes place in upper Egypt, in the present. On the grounds of a manor owned by a feudal lord of Turkish extraction, a Pharaonic grave has been uncovered. The Egyptian-Turkish Pasha pays a visit to the excavation site, accompanied by some European friends, when suddenly a wrathful Pharaonic mummy emerges out of its coffin, chiding the Pasha for exploiting and starving the simple Egyptian fellahin (peasants), the true descendants of Pharaonic Egypt. The Pasha, struck by horror, instantly falls dead.

Though lacking much of the artistic sophistication that characterizes his more mature works, this story foreshadows some of the major thematic ingredients of Mahfouz's later fiction: the total indentification with the predicament of the Egyptian masses, and the evocation of Egyptian history as an integral part of the present. His most recent Pharaonic novel, Living in Truth (1985), depicts Akhnaton, the nonconformist Pharaoh, as a prophet of peace and universal brotherhood. Akhnaton's monotheistic revolution is seen as an attempt to do away with divisions within his nation and to lead it to peace and creativity. This novel, written shortly after the enactment of the peace treaty between Egypt and Israel, once again turns to ancient history to reflect or comment on the contemporary scene.

The great bulk of Mahfouz's fiction, however, is firmly located in the realities of present-day Egypt. To be sure, Mahfouz's Egypt does not cover the immense Egyptian countryside or the world of the fellahin (whom several Egyptian authors in past decades have seen as the true incarnation of the spirit of Egypt). Nor are his stories situated in any of the many urban centers dotting the Delta or the Nile valley. Cairo is the arena of nearly all his stories, and his chief protagonists are present day Cairenes. Even when the plot of a novel is located outside Cairo (for instance in Alexandria, in Miramar, 1967), the major characters hail from the capital.

Mahfouz's Cairo is inhabited by multitudes of men and women of different social and educational strata. A great many of his major works, however, deal with members of the middle class (typically, underpaid civil servants). The social and political problems afflicting the masses of this overpopulated city are naturally in the forefront of these works, and the protagonists' psychology is patiently delineated (especially in the earlier works) in close conjunction with the socio-political realities. Another sector of the society that Mahfouz is fond of portraying consists of the simple inhabitants of the Cairene back alleys, and the strong-arm men who dominate them. But Mahfouz's realism has an additional dimension. Very often the events of everyday life carry a significance beyond their face value, reflecting much wider and more fundamental issues in the life and fate of the Egyptian nation. The delineations of traditional social institutions might at times strike the reader as plain, indeed naturalistic portrayals, but the cumulative effect of these descriptions cannot fail to convey a symbolic significance. The futuwwat (strong-arm men) are a case in point. Their presence in so many of Mahfouz's works not only conveys the hardships of the life of the poverty-stricken alley-dwellers, but also seems to stand for the ruthless rulers who have dominated the life of Egypt since Pharaonic times. This is evident not only in the allegorical novel The Children of Gebelawi, but also in scores of shorter works.

Another prominent social institution is the family. It is the hub and heart of the Egyptian experience throughout the ages, and its disintegration in the modern city is often portrayed in great detail. But the fate of the family is not solely a social matter. The family often stands for Egypt as a whole, and its tribulations are those of the entire nation rather than of one of its sectors. Nowhere are these two levels of representation so vividly interwoven as in a 1982 short novel entitled Al-Baqi min al-Zaman Sa’a, which I render here as A Minute to Midnight.⁴ This is a compressed family-based saga, and like the Trilogy it encompasses three generations of a Cairene family, its time-span being five decades, ending in 1979 with President Sadat's visit to Jerusalem. Although its length is barely a tenth of that of the Trilogy, it nevertheless acquaints us with a variety of characters, including ten members of one family, that of Mrs. Saniyya al-Mahdi.

Saniyya, an educated and resourceful woman, is a descendant of a Coptic family that converted to Islam a few generations earlier. In the late 1920s she is married to Hamid Burhan, a civil servant who is an ardent supporter of the popular Wafd Party. For her dowry, Saniyya receives a fairly spacious house in the outskirts of Cairo, where she gives birth to two daughters, Kawsar and Mounira, and a son, Muhammad. After many years of happy marriage, however, Burhan suddenly deserts his wife and family to marry a second wife of European parentage. Saniyya, left alone to attend to her children, witnesses a succession of further disasters. Her son Muhammad joins the Muslim Brothers, and during Nasser's rule loses an eye and a leg in the notorious torture cellars of the police. Her youngest daughter, Mounira, the glittering prize of the family, elects to marry the frivolous Suleyman, several years her junior. Under Nasser Suleyman can do well because his brother is a prominent Nasserist. Before long, however, he too deserts his wife, and goes to live with a singer. Kawsar, the eldest daughter, plain and devout, marries a wealthy old widower who dies some years later, leaving her with their infant son, Rashad. The latter grows up to become an army officer, but loses both legs in the 1973 war.

Nor do the sons and daughters of Muhammad and Mounira lead happy lives. They grow up in the period of anxiety and cynicism that follow Nasser's defeat in 1967. Some of the members of the third generation are politically apathetic, preferring to attend to their own affairs (one of Mounira's sons emigrates to Germany). Most of these young men and women are in severe financial straits, and owing to the acute inflation and housing crisis, find it extremely difficult to get married and settle in apartments of their own. Finally they appeal to their grandmother, Saniyya, suggesting that she sell her old house (which has become a valuable piece of property) to ease their predicament. The kind old woman angrily turns them down, refusing to desert her beloved home.

The story of Saniyya's family is linked throughout with the political events taking place in Egypt. Moreover, it is marked by the succession of wars in which Egypt has been involved during the last forty years. The Second World War and its impact on the Egyptian social and political scene are palpably present in the novel's first chapters. The Arab–Israeli wars of 1948, 1956, 1967 and 1973 punctuate the rest of the plot, touching every aspect of the protagonists' lives. However, when news comes of Sadat's historic visit to Jerusalem, the family is split in its attitude toward the momentous event. Among the ardent supporters of peace with Israel we find Saniyya herself, her daughter Kawsar and, significantly, Rashad, the war hero. On the rejectionist side are Muhammad, the Muslim fundamentalist, his sister Mounira, the diehard Nasserist, and, finally, Siham, Ahmad's young daughter, who has communist leanings. They consider peace with the “Zionist enemy” a great tragedy. Other members of the third generation are more or less indifferent. In the last scene of the novel, which takes place after the Camp David accords are signed, the members of the family arrive at the old house for their weekly gathering. Saniyya, observing her posterity, reflects as follows:

… They are all skinny, they have all aged prematurely … None of them has ever really experienced a single moment of pure joy. Nor have their children, Shafiq, Kawsar, Amin, Ali, all! The only one who has found respite is Rashad, but at what great cost? And the house—is it going to be renovated? And when will the muddy backyard be turned into a lush garden? In her mind that piece of land is paradise, but in reality it is full of ditches, surrounded by heaps of sludge. When is it going to be tilled? And when will the seedlings arrive? When will the rain stop, and the workmen resume their work?

(p. 188)

It is possible to discern in these lines, as well as in other sections of the novel, some unmistakably allegoric undertones. Admittedly, the novel as a whole is not an allegory. Indeed, it is a “realistic” work, depicting “ordinary” people and plausible action. But this does not preclude the possibility that some of these characters, events and situations have an added connotation that renders them reminiscent of a wider reality. Saniyya's house is not just an old house in Cairo, but seems to represent Egypt itself. The urgent need for it to be renovated and for its derelict garden to be re-cultivated can be interpreted accordingly, reminding us of Mahfouz's passionate advocacy, in recent public debates, of “reconstruction and civilization”. Certain other elements in the language of the passage quoted above have a symbolic significance of their own. Rain (along with thunder and lightning) seems to stand for war,⁵ which may explain the passion of Saniyya's invocation. Saniyya herself is a case in point. She stands for all that is genuine, humane, and tragic in “the old house”, and her problems and dreams are identical with those of her country. It will be remembered that her forefathers were Copts who converted to Islam, which is also true of Egypt itself.

Saniyya's special status throughout the novel, coupled with her admirable personality, which is never crushed in spite of all the tragedies that beset her, contrasts sharply with the character of the second generation, and, more emphatically, with that of the third. She is therefore the object of the reader's empathy. Her dissatisfaction with the Nasserite regime, and the enthusiasm with which she welcomes the prospects of peace with Israel are, moreover, identical with the attitudes of the “implied narrator”. The wars have had a disastrous effect on the family, and it is time to heal its wounds and to reconstruct “the old house”.

III

Cairo and the Cairene family, then, frequently stand for the Egyptian collective character, although the individual protagonists do not lack particular countenances and idiosyncrasies. In Mahfouz's stories we also find themes and situations that extend beyond local issues. Though somewhat deceptive on first reading because of their local color and their typically Cairene situations and characters, closer examination shows many of them turn out to be universal in their themes, treating the eternal enigmas of our life, especially those besetting the modern experience. Although none of Mahfouz's works can be described as “religious”, there is in many of them an ongoing search for a value that transcends sensual experience. One such work is “Za’balawy”, a short story written around 1960 and included in Mahfouz's book Dunya Allah (God's World, 1963).⁶

The story in “Za’balawy” is simple. The narrator tells us that he was afflicted by a malady for which no one could find a remedy, and was overwhelmed by despair. The action begins when he remembers a saintly man (waliy) called Za’balawy, about whom he had heard in his childhood, from his father. Hoping that this waliy will be able to cure him, he sets out to look for him. In his search (which proves to be most exhausting) he calls on several elderly people, among them a Muslim court lawyer, a local shaykh, a bookseller, a calligrapher (khattat), and a composer (mulahhin). These people are either impressed or startled by his resolution to meet Za’balawy, but none can give him a clue to help him to find the man: Za’balawy is an extremely unpredictable person whose whereabouts are unknown and who can appear at any moment or be out of sight for long periods. We also learn—through their reactions—that Za’balawy is presumably capable of treating the narrator's malady and that he would cure him free of charge provided that he felt the patient loved him. Finally the narrator comes upon a close acquaintance of Za’balawy who is a heavy-drinking, old-fashioned landowner. When the narrator approaches him in the tavern, the man refuses to discuss anything with him unless he joins him for a drink. Being unaccustomed to alcohol, the narrator soon becomes tipsy, falls asleep, and dreams of heavenly bliss. On waking up he learns, to his astonishment, that Za’balawy had been sitting next to him for quite a while, and had even been sprinkling water on him to sober him, but that he has, only a moment ago, gone away. The frustrated man tries to catch him before he goes too far, but fails. Nevertheless, he is now sure that Za’balawy is still alive and is more resolved than ever to meet him.

The allusions in this story are not altogether obscure. The language often closely approximates that of Sufi mystical literature. Occasionally when the characters speak of Za’balawy, there is an aura of mystery and fear which might almost bespeak their attitude to the Almighty. The father, for instance, when asked by his son (the narrator) about who Za’balawi was, gives the boy a hesitant look as if doubting his ability to understand the answer and then says: “May his blessing be on you! … He is the bearer of men's sorrows and troubles. Had it not been for him I would have died of grief.”

Furthermore we hear from the local shaykh that Za’balawy dwelt in the derelict Birgawi building “when that building was fit for dwelling.” At present “he has no abode [maskan], which is the trouble.” The same man nevertheless asserts that Za’balawy is alive, not dead. He is a baffling man, he tells the narrator, “but,” he adds, “thank God that he is still alive.”

The calligrapher exclaims, “what a mystery that man is … but saints are beyond reproach.” He also reflects that Za’balawy's face “is blessed with a beauty that cannot be forgotten,” then exclaims “but where is he, anyhow?” He, too, asserts that he is “alive.” He, as well as the composer, gets his inspiration when Za’balawy is present, and the latter declares that “Za’balawy is the ecstasy of music incarnate. His voice when speaking is very beautiful. No sooner do you hear him than you wish to sing yourself, and the joy of creation is stirred within you.”

There are certain frequently used words in the story which have a strong Sufi flavour, such as hubb (‘love’), ‘adhab, (‘suffering’), liqa’ (‘encounter’).

Allah, the name of God, is frequently introduced into the story. For instance, when the narrator visits the calligrapher he finds him working on a decorative plaque in the middle of which is inscribed the word “Allah” in silver lettering. Again the name of God come into the text almost inadvertently coupled with that of Za’balawy. Allah is here referred to in everyday expostulations and exclamations.

The question, however, still remains unanswered: what is it that obsesses the narrator with the search for Za’balawy? in other words, what is the nature of his malady, for which no cure can be found?

Let us recapitulate. When the narrator sets out to look for Za’balawy, he soon finds out that many of his old friends have dropped him and well nigh forgotten his existence. They have, in the meantime, indulged themselves in all that a materialistic civilization has to offer (symbolized by the telephone, the cigar, and especially the European coat worn over the Gallabiyya). Some of them remember with nostalgia the olden days when Za’balawy used to frequent them. Some go so far as to ridicule the saint by calling him a quack. They advise the narrator to consult doctors about his illness to which his reaction is the thought “as if I had not done so already.” The local shaykh is now so modern a person that he can draw a map of the area. What is still more significant is that he uses the expression “why not resort to reason [aql]?” As opposed to these people who have become rational in the sense that they are dependent on “reason”, and are poles apart from Za’balawy, we have the two representatives of the arts—the calligrapher and the musician. Both are still dependent, to a large extent, on Za’balawy for inspiration and encouragement. The word ilham, used by the composer, means both ‘inspiration’ and ‘revelation’ and is, of course, diametrically opposed to ‘aql. Another man who is friendly with Za’balawy is Hajj Wanas, the alcoholic. While drinking, his face acquires the colour of red wine. Again one recalls the frequent use of the word khamr (“wine”) in Sufi poetry to symbolize ecstatic union with the creator. Hajj Wanas refuses to have any business with the narrator unless he drinks with him. When he does drink, the narrator dreams of heavenly harmony, and it is just at this moment that Za’balawy makes his appearance. He disappears again as soon as the narrator sobers up.

The hero's malady is, then, that of a restless inquiring soul, posing questions for which science (referred to as medicine) can offer no answer. It is at this critical moment of doubt that one is reminded of Him who gave the older generation solace and peace of mind. But our narrator finds out that his old acquaintances (representing the established religion) have lost contact with Him under the impact of what we normally call “civilization”. Only the artist, in the act of creation, and the ascetic when detached from mundane reality, can communicate with Him who can heal all pain.

The theme then is a highly sophisticated one. It is universal in reference. The local Muslim background and terminology are no more than a disguise hiding a problem common to so many intellectuals in different environments and different historical periods. There is, moreover, a special flavour of our present century, which, along with great scientific and technological achievements, has brought a certain disillusionment with science, or, at least, an acute awareness of its limitations. The conviction that science is capable of solving all human problems and of answering all the big questions has long ceased being fashionable. We are no longer astonished when we hear of a scientist who finds refuge from doubt in religion or mysticism.

The remarkable thing about the author's craft in “Za’balawy” is the fine equilibrium that is maintained between the two layers of the story. The external layer is by no means subdued or blurred by the inner one. In fact the story can be fully accepted as credible. Everything is plausible, being extracted from the depths of Egyptian life. To seek remedies for serious ailments from saintly men is certainly a common practice in the East (one would say, even today). The different people whom the narrator meets on his way, though not described in detail, are nevertheless true to life. The alcoholic Hajj Wanas is, again, so familiar that we cannot but admire so convincing a vignette. The saintly man who is sought by the police as a quack is also a real event. We can even accept the fact that Za’balawy frequents a wine shop (he himself does not drink!) and befriends Hajj Wanas: he has now become an outcast and thus is more likely to be found in the company of people of “suspect” morals.

The author is at pains to introduce many local names, scenes, and people as a counterweight to those utterances which have spiritual overtones. Any remark or phrase which might be too blatantly mystical is brought smartly to earth by an interjected reference to actuality. Thus when the calligrapher says of Za’balawy, “He is alive, without any doubt. His taste is unsurpassed. It is thanks to him that I painted my best works”—he appears to be giving a precise and factual analysis of a situation. The actuality of his remarks is enhanced by the remark that Za’balawy's taste is unsurpassed, a remark without which the speech might have been describing the ineffable. It just misses—and deliberately—being a mystical apothegm.

Now consider the following situation which occurs in the tavern:

Wanas answered with concern: “The odd thing about him is that money means nothing to him. But he will cure you if you should come across him.”

“Without a fee?”

“Yes, his cure is free the moment he feels that you love him.” When the shrimp hawker came back empty-handed, I had somewhat sobered up and left the tavern slightly unsteady on my feet. At every street corner I called out “Za’balawy!”, hoping against hope that he would hear me. The street boys turned contemptuous eyes on me, and I had to escape into the first taxi that came my way.

The sudden appearance of the shrimp man (which directly follows the mention of ‘love’) and the other mundane references (the children, the taxi) are clearly designed to muffle what is an exceedingly mystical discourse.

Another example of this technique is the conversation with the composer, which is overloaded with “spiritual” references (among other things the musician rehearses an unmistakably Sufi verse, to be sure, from a poem by Ibn al-Farid, the great mystical poet of medieval Egypt.) The narrator complains of his suffering and the composer answers, “This pain is a part of the treatment.” These words undoubtedly form a climax of the mystical discourse. But a humourous scene is introduced right away and we are instantly brought back to the realistic story:

He picked up his plectrum and began to strum lightly on the strings of his ‘ud playing sweet music. I watched him with a distracted air and then said as if I were talking to myself:

“So my visit was pointless!”

He smiled, caressing the side of his ‘ud with his cheek, and went on to say, “God forgive you for saying that. How can you say such a thing about a visit that has acquainted me with you and you with me?!”

I felt ashamed and said in apology, “Please don't hold it against me—the soreness of disappointment made me forget my manners”.

In saying, “So my visit was pointless,” the narrator contradicts his earlier and firmly announced claim that he was an admirer of the composer's music; hence the humorous effect. (This is, by the way, a typically Mahfouzian situation, one which occurs frequently in his realistic novels, and it is fascinating to observe how neatly this type of situation is assimilated into the symbolic context.) In fact the humorous exchange is quickly followed by another esoteric saying, for the composer replies:

“You mustn't give in to disappointment. This remarkable man leads one who seeks him quite a dance. In the good old days, it was so much easier; he used to stay in one place which we knew but today everything has changed.”

It is then of the essence of Mahfouz's technique that many scenes, names, and utterances occur which have not direct symbolic reference. In writing a double-layered story he is—unlike many modern novelists—adamant in maintaining the realistic texture of his story as such. Admittedly, other stories, particularly those written in the late 1960s and collected in Under the Bus Shelter (1969), abandon the illusion of reality, and the rules of common logic cease to motivate their action. But these are no longer double-layered stories, belonging as they do to the expressionist or absurd modes of fiction.

IV

In discussing Mahfouz's art, it would be wrong to view it (as many European and American newspapers did in October 1988 in connection with his receiving the Nobel Prize) as a “description” of life of modern Cairo or, for that matter, to portray the novelist as a latter-day Dickens or a poor man's Balzac. Mahfouz is undoubtedly a twentieth century artist, and it is to be regretted that his rich and sophisticated literary output is little known outside the Arab world. Most of the translations of his works into foreign languages (particularly English) are far from reflecting the density and vitality of his fictional discourse. One would earnestly hope that the Nobel Prize will prompt publishers and translators to come out with better and fuller rendering of his main works, thus enabling readers in different cultural environments to acquire a better sense of this very Egyptian, very humane author.

Notes

1. Both these novels have been translated into English.

2. The Trilogy, consisting of Bayn al-Qasrayn (1956). Qasr al-Shawq (1956) and al-Sukkariyya (1957) is as yet not available in English translation. The only full translation known to me is the Hebrew one by Israeli novelist Sami Michael, published in three volumes in Tel Aviv under the title Bayit be-Qahir (“A House in Cairo”).

3. All these and subsequent titles, unless otherwise indicated, are my translations of the Arabic titles of Mahfouz's works.

4. A literal translation would be “only an hour is left”.

5. This is evident in yet another novel of Mahfouz's, Love Under the Rain, the events of which take place during the “war of attrition” around the year 1971. Rain as symbol of war, and specifically of air-raids, is also to be found in European and other literatures (e.g. Edith Sitwell's poem “Still Falls the Rain”, written during World War II).

6. An excellent English translation of “Za’balawy” can be found in Denys Johnson-Davies' anthology Modern Arabic Short Stories, London 1967, pp. 137-147.