Naguib Mahfouz: 1911-2006

In September 2000, Theo Dombrowski handed me a book with a yellow and black cover and told me, “trust me, you’ll like this.” That book was Midaq Alley, and not only was Theo right, it was my first of many experiences with Naguib Mahfouz’s writing in the past six years.

Naguib Mahfouz passed away yesterday at the age of 94. Most people I know didn’t even hear of his death, and those that had were unfazed. I don’t blame them: despite his popularity after winning the Nobel Prize and establishing himself as the Arab world’s most prominent contemporary writer, Mahfouz was hardly a household name like Dan Brown or Margaret Atwood here in North America. A shame that he wasn’t, because in the past six years I have had the opportunity to experience a raw, human look at Egyptian life through Mahfouz’s novels and short stories, which has not only been entertaining, but uplifting.

Perhaps the reason I enjoy Naguib Mahfouz’s literary works so much is because they are florid in the linguistic sense but simple and accessible when it comes to plot. He not only chronicles the ordinary stories of the ordinary man extremely well, but he makes this ordinary, everyday life feel stimulating and often provocative. I am sad that my Arabic skills are so minimal that I did not have the opportunity to read his works in their original language, but even in translation his flair for the description of the mundane is evident.

Naguib Mahfouz has quickly risen to the ranks of my favorite authors, and he will truly be missed by his family, friends, and the crowds of readers that have connected with him and his stories. Mahfouz explored the afterlife in his most recent work, The Seventh Heaven, so here’s to hoping that the afterlife treats him with the dignity and prestige that he so rightly deserves.