Opportunities Missed but Knowledge Gained

Between not feeling well and trying to coordinate studies and errands I have missed five full days of blogging. However, it gave me time for gathering a little more information on someone I have been reading about and, subsequently, wanting to write about, as well.

Earlier this month a man named Naguib Mahfouz died at the age of 94. Although the magazines that I saw these articles in typically profile several prominant persons for a variety of reasons, the obituaries for this man I had not heard of before he passed away really caught my eye; he was a prolific and reknowned writer. I think it is the connection made by my love of writing and his obvious love of writing, made abundantly clear by the authors of his eulogies, that truly peaked my interest and curiosity. I do not usually wade through obituaries, but I made a definite exception in this case.

It is not that I knew who he was prior to his death or that I had read and truly loved the works he penned, but the tribute, the undisguised admiration bordering on veneration, of the people writing about this man and his life drew me in and made me want to know more about his life and his work. In short Mahfouz was a literary phenomenon, one of an ever decreasing number of exceptional people and writers this world has been blessed to have; he was a classic, a treasure, a king among a dying breed of artists.

What came through most strongly, however, was the respect Mahfouz inspired in those familiar with his works, the admiration almost equivelant to love these same writers managed to convey. It is clear that the name Mahfouz should roll off the tongue in a list with other venerated writers such as Ernest Hemingway, T. S. Elliot, Plath, Lewis, Tolkien, Naguib Mahfouz, yet that does not seem to quite fit. It seems that Mahfouz did not aspire to that sort of fame. He wrote about his land of Egypt and his love for her. He wrote of the people and places, sights and sounds, of his life. It was in his record of these people and this land that his success is measured and not in whose name his follows or precedes. He wrote for love; he wrote because he saw things no one else could describe in quite the same way; he wrote what he carried in his heart and mind; he shared himself and his world with all of us.

I know I will not ever be equal to the ideals of such a writer as Mahfouz, yet I know I will try, hoping to have earned, by the time of my own demise (hopefully at least at the age of 94), a little of the same type of love and admiration that have made me aware of this talented man's life and art. I cannot think of any better or loftier goal for this writer than to manage, somehow, a pale imitation of the contributions of another writer and an honest man; Naguib Mahfouz.