An interview with the novelist and translator Mohammed Ayat Hanna

There exists a novelist who, while writing his debut novel, harbors a fear of venturing into narrative innovation and embracing the risks and adventures inherent in constructing a fictional text. Consequently, he opts to write in a manner akin to others, conforming to established norms. On the other hand, there is another novelist who displays greater audacity and a higher willingness to accept potential setbacks stemming from readers’ or critics’ reactions. When Mohammed Ayat Hanna, the writer, penned his debut novel, titled The Red Garden, he chose the path of risk and adventure, crafting his narrative in an experimental manner. As a result, diverse responses emerged in reaction to his work. Despite Hanna’s extensive contributions to the Arab library through numerous translations and books in the fields of philosophy and libraries, the focus of this dialogue (on the Mana platform) revolved around the broader concept of artistic experimentation and the intricacies of The Red Garden novel.

1. Your viewpoint suggests that within art, “the proliferation of experimentation during a particular era signifies the culmination of an artistic form, with its classics firmly established. At this stage, attempting to challenge them by incorporating their established style becomes futile.” However, when you began writing your first novel, you seemed to contradict this view by starting from a place of experimentation. Could you elaborate on how your own narrative practice reconciles your belief about experimentation in art with your first novel’s experimental origins?

Instead of seeing contradiction, I view my experimentation and the broader prevalence of experimentation within an era as two sides of the same coin. My statement about experimentation wasn’t meant to imply it’s solely an individual choice; it is an indicator of a particular artistic period. This connection becomes more evident in art forms beyond literature. Music offers a clearer example: Jazz wasn’t just a reflection of social and cultural upheaval or a marginal voice. It was also a sign that “classical” music had reached its peak, with composers like Mahler, Bartok, and Prokofiev recognizing the impossibility of replicating the grand classics. These figures stand as the final torchbearers of classical music.  Jazz, in its own evolution, will undergo a similar transformation, though it had emerged as a dissenting voice against the rules of classical music, establishing its own classics while giving rise to experimental currents within its framework, like “improvisation within what is essentially improvisation” exemplified by the great jazz Manouche figures, including the French musician Django Reinhardt.

In writing, the dynamics of experimentation may differ somewhat, since experimentation often does not signify a movement aimed at liberating oneself from crises or closed-mindedness but only a transformation in form. For instance, we often categorize fiction as “experimental” or “non-experimental” based purely on its structure, like a novelist deviating from the conventional form, violating the traditional chapter divisions, or manipulating narrative time.

When I set out to write the novel, my intention was not to create an experimental work, although that is ultimately what transpired. I didn’t set out to impose a different form; it evolved organically during the writing process. I don’t believe I could have approached this work in any other way. My aim was not to present a cohesive unity that the reader could readily grasp, nor to present a fragmented multiplicity that he could reconstruct into unity. Instead, I aimed for the reader to be swept up in a journey of uncertainty, dissonance, and shifting perspectives, continuously adopting different perspectives, and maintaining a nuanced state of awareness. Ultimately, it remains an experiential journey, but it is not an exercise in crafting a more polished or mature novel.

2. Are you specifically referring to the Arabic novel when you mention that fiction is often categorized as “experimental” or “non-experimental” based solely on its structure? In the case of Naguib Mahfouz’s experimentation with the novel Wedding Song (Afrāḥ Al-Qubba) and Edward Al-Kharrat’s novelistic experimentation, as well as experiments conducted by other novelists, were all of these endeavors primarily focused on the level of form?

I am referring to the discourse generated around literary works, rather than the works themselves. While the works of authors like Naguib Mahfouz, Al-Ghitani, Al-Kharrat, and even some of Munif’s works, contain experimental elements, it’s often the reading and critical discourse that pigeonholes them as “experimental” or “non-experimental” based solely on form. This is where the danger lies: broad categorizations like “Mahfouz, the realist” or “Al-Kharrat, the experimentalist” ignore the nuanced individuality of each work. Mahfouz, for instance, is not the same author who wrote Wedding Song (Afrāḥ Al-Qubba) as he is the one who penned Adrift on the Nile (Thartharah fawqa al-Nīl) or The Beggar (Al-Shaḥḥāḏ) – each one is a distinct and singular experience. Even using a staged approach – historical, realistic, philosophical – fails to capture the unique character of each piece. It is my belief that Mahfouz himself recognized that each of his works was a unique and diverse experience, and thus, the form of expression held as much significance as the content.

3. Do you see any differences in terms of experimentation between the practice of writing novels on a global scale and within the Arab world?

There exists a principled and fundamental distinction in the status of the novel within the Arab world and on a global scale. However, I must express my reservations about this classification, as it tends to create a dichotomy between novels written in Arabic and those written in all other cultures and languages. I believe, however, that the disparity in quality is unmistakable, which partly stems from the contrasting understandings of experimentation between Arab and non-Arab cultures. Naturally, we cannot make absolute judgments, as there are numerous commendable novelistic experiences within the Arab context. Yet, the crucial question remains: to what extent have international novel trends influenced Arab novel writing? For instance, Hemingway’s impact on Camus is undeniable, but how much influence did Camus, having been translated repeatedly into Arabic, exert on the development of Arabic novel writing?

From its very inception, the novel has inherently possessed an experimental nature. Cervantes, with sly cunning, sets the stage for this in Quixote’s introduction, framing his work as “inferior and trivial” compared to the weightier, “erudite” writing. His intention was to offer something distinct from the weighty, established, and conventional writing of the time—to embark on an experiment. Similarly, despite their divergent styles, Melville, Joyce, and Kafka all ventured into various forms of literary experimentation, albeit without an exclusive focus on form. In contrast, when it comes to Arabic literature, it could be argued that experimental success has been more prevalent in short stories than novels. At least, this is my belief, particularly concerning the Moroccan literary experience.

4. When translating novels, the translator’s writing style can become a blend of the styles found in the texts he has translated. In your case, while working on your first novel experience, The Red Garden, how did you successfully navigate the influence of the novels you had previously translated and what was your experience like when writing in your own unique style?

Your insight is highly pertinent, particularly when considering my perspective, which regards translation through three distinct lenses. Firstly, there is the intellectual viewpoint, which aligns with the author’s own ideas and necessitates conveying them faithfully, without alteration or distortion. Secondly, there is the linguistic viewpoint, belonging to the translator, who possesses the expertise to select the most appropriate words to convey the intended meaning. Lastly, and most crucially, there is the stylistic viewpoint, which does not belong exclusively to the author or the translator, but rather to the text itself. Each text possesses its own unique style, and it falls upon the translator to convey that style effectively, with the expectation that the translated work will evoke the same impact in the target language as it did in the original language. This perspective reveals a fascinating paradox: while authors dedicate their careers to forging a distinct style, translators strive to dissolve theirs, allowing the texts to shine through unadulterated. This, as you rightly pointed out, may entail the risk of the translated texts overshadowing the translator, resulting in a blending of styles. However, I consider this danger to be minimal, as it dissipates and diminishes through the sheer diversity and abundance of translations. The most perilous situation arises when a translator becomes closely associated with a particular author, predominantly focusing their translation efforts on that author’s works. In such cases, there is a possibility of inadvertently succumbing to stylistic mimicry.

As I revisit my novel, I observe that its diversity lies not in many styles but in many voices. Even if stylistic variations emerge, they arise from within the text itself, not from external influences – from the styles of the authors I translated.  Instead, they are shaped by the transformations and changes that occur within the text with each iteration. Each voice in the novel demands a distinct style, and every syllable carries its own unique rhythm. However, the judgment on the relevance of the text for readership falls into the hands of readers and critics. I can only assert that as an author engaged in the act of reading, one cannot help but draw inspiration from the works of others, as we inevitably draw from the well of other writers’ influences.

5. In observing the responses to your novel, The Red Garden, I noticed that certain readers were perplexed by the narrative’s intertwining of reality, imagination, and dreams. A few even mentioned discontinuing their reading due to the narrative’s perceived difficulty. Others, however, became adept navigators, unlocking the text’s secrets and savoring its unique approach. This leads me to the question: To what extent does the novelist understand and anticipate these varied reactions from readers regarding the complexities of the narrative?

A novelist does not set out to achieve consensus through writing. In fact, creative writing often defies consensus. Even the most impassioned authors advocating for a cause don’t seek consensus; their aim lies in igniting awareness. The text simply sprouted like a rhizome, a wandering widow plant with roots sprouting anew across the earth. Some readers may get lost in this tangled garden, yearning for the familiar tree-like narrative, a trunk anchoring everything. Others may embrace the diasporic nature of the text, willingly resettling themselves with each new root. Do I favor the second type of reader over the first? No, I appreciate and value all readers’ opinions, including those who were unable to complete the novel. It is not uncommon for readers to leave many novels unfinished, but this in no way diminishes their worth.

6. Will your next novel continue to explore experimental paths in its writing?

I am currently working on a new novel that is taking a different direction, one that might appear less experimental to readers familiar with my past work. It’s a family story, a dynastic chronicle, and as you know, these often favor a linear approach that avoids radical innovation. But the truth is, I’m still navigating the twists and turns of this narrative myself. I’m writing intermittently, letting the story unfold at its own pace. We shall all have to wait and see where the path leads.

7. There is in the novel a blend of traditional themes in some chapters and a shift towards a philosophical dimension in others. Did this interplay between different narrative elements create any imbalance in the overall progression of the novel’s storyline?

Imagine gathering a random sample of ten individuals in a single location and asking them to express a single topic using their unique means and capabilities. Now, consider comparing the diverse results obtained. Let’s consider scaling this up to a larger level, such as the world. The world is not a homogeneous entity; it is a complex amalgamation of various levels and dimensions. If we recognize that the self is not a singular entity but rather a tapestry of interconnected components, it becomes evident that different topics are experienced and understood at different levels. Consequently, it is natural for topics to blend and intertwine, and it is even more logical for each topic to be approached and addressed in distinct ways and levels.

8. In the case of an academic who is also a learned individual writing a novel, we often observe a diminished reliance on pure narrative ability to construct a compelling and dramatic storyline. Instead, the text tends to emphasize the cultural and informational aspects, sometimes at the expense of the narrative events. Did you personally experience a similar engagement in your novel as some academic novelists do?

I’d be lying if I claimed otherwise, but this sense wasn’t my own doing; it sprouted from the readers’ response. If I were to rewrite the novel, I would indeed reevaluate certain cognitive aspects. However, I use the word “if” not as a mere wish or a matter of possibility. The Red Garden, for me, is a sealed and settled chapter.

9. Prior to the publication of the novel, was the case of the goalkeeper who becomes depressed following the death of his young daughter and subsequently takes his own life a topic of personal concern for you, or did your interest in it primarily arise because it served the narrative of your fictional text?

It is gratifying that you have come to identify the core character in the novel. Originally, the novel was intended to revolve solely around the goalkeeper, who was inspired by the real-life figure of Robert Enke, the Hannover goalkeeper. After his tragic passing, I wrote a first draft imagining him meeting his daughter in the afterlife. But the narrative evolved, incorporating more characters, and ultimately posing a central question: Which is more terrifying, life or death? This, after all, is the question that traditional metaphysics has been historically built upon, and the one that continues to haunt humanity throughout its existence. The fear of death drives us to leave our mark, even in the most basic way – through procreation. It appears that the greatest fear lies not in the fear of death, but rather in the fear of life itself. Is life truly deserving of bringing children into it? This is why the goalkeeper’s reunion with his daughter is contingent upon his traversing a whole world, witnessing the tragedies that befall children worldwide as a form of purification. Eventually, they find themselves in the secret garden, the domain of Ahmed Bouzfour, the Moroccan storyteller who has lived, and continues to live, a devout life – God prolongs his life. He writes about children but harbors a fear of bringing them into this world. The character of Elarabi Benamr, who resides in Ahmed Bouzfour’s apartment in the future, exemplifies the continuation of a lineage—the lineage of the hesitant, those who fear that life within their lineage will persist in the same manner.

10. The reader of a novel like The Red Garden may appreciate it yet find that the characters do not leave a lasting impression in his memory. This is because such a narrative style can overshadow the prominence of individual fictional characters, whose fame and resonance rely on their memorable qualities. For instance, do you believe that the character might gradually fade from the reader’s recollection?

That is indeed my hope. I have no desire for Elarabi Benamr, or any character in the novel for that matter, to be immortalized or remembered indefinitely. He lived his life in obscurity, neither ascending nor descending the ladder of recognition. He remains unknown to all. There is no greater reward for me than for his memory to fade away in the minds of readers as well. I aspire for him to evoke something within readers, to make them feel and emulate his essence, and then dissolve within them, eventually fading from memory.

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