Truth and the Interfering Genies

          Common to peoples across time and geography, the characters of Naguib Mahfouz’s Arabian Nights and Days have not been “deprived . . . of the hope of attaining” truth (228). I, too, have not been deprived of this hope. Through various Sunday school classes and sermons, I have been taught--intentionally or not--that the “truth” exists in an unadulterated form in the spiritual realm. And as humans, we may glimpse this truth in relationship with the higher-ups. The spiritual creatures in Arabian Nights and Days are not so straightforward.

While in some cases, the spiritual realm offers truth in its purest form, other interferences from spiritual creatures in the story capture characters in mazes of lies. After his first interaction with the genie Qumqam, Sanaan al-Gamali is thrust into dizzying doubts: “[H]e was sure of nothing” (14). Evil consumes him, leaving only a “confused mind that chewed over memories as though they were delusions” (21). Truth has been lost. But when Gamasa al-Bulti is driven by the murderous task of the genie, he claims to see the truth clearer than before. Moments before the killing, Gamasa claims that “the truth is being spoken for the first time” (46). After two different incarnations, Gamasa, now referring to himself as Abdullah of the Land, continues to speak the truth, insisting that the dissevered head is his: “There’s no doubt about it” (75).

When truth is spoken, the cunning genies are overpowered.  The genie Zarmabaha disguises herself as Anees al-Galees to trick powerful men into giving gifts and looking like fools (137). But the astuteness of the “madman,” formerly Gamasa, exposes the genie’s trickery, unimpressed with the extravagant ploy, saying, “I see nothing but walls between which the breaths of the ancient plague rebound” (143). This frank accusation dissolves the scam: “With extraordinary speed there was nothing left of her but disparate parts, which themselves were transformed into smoke that simply disappeared and left no trace” (143).

Though the spirits of Arabian Nights and Days do not share the aim of finding or relaying truth, truth remains an objective for nearsighted humans. And when it is attained, even if temporarily, it trumps the interfering genies and drives humans with an other-worldly strength. 

Isolation and Connection in the Family

Kyung-Sook Shin’s novel Please Look After Mom deals with the isolation of the individual even in the sometimes-intimate context of the immediate family. The disappearance of the family’s mother exacerbates these feelings of isolation--and the family members are flooded by memories of past experiences of isolation. The story begins by addressing the eldest daughter in the family, Chi-hon. Reflecting upon their past interactions, Chi-hon regrets the disconnected, shallow conversations that comprised her phone calls with her mother: “Your words had to do with whether she ate, whether she was healthy, how Father was, that she should be careful not to catch cold, that you were sending money” (35). Chi-hon’s older brother, Hyong-chol, is detached from his siblings in his role as the eldest son: “The eldest brother has to be dignified. He has to be the role model. If the eldest brother goes the wrong way, his siblings will go that way, too” (113). In his responsibility, Hyong-chol is alone. And the youngest daughter of the family often feels separate from her own siblings and parents by the consuming task of raising three children. She justifies her absence in the search for her mother: “What? You want me to take care of it? Me? What do you think I can do with three kids?” (184). The father of these adult children has known a lifetime of aloneness: “isolation” would drive him to “wander the country” for months on end and his marriage was spent “without talking” to his wife (130, 176). Park So-nyo, the family’s mother, is physically separated from her family throughout the entire novel, and was not a stranger to solitude before her disappearance. She takes her daughter on a walk down the path to her deceased mother’s house, although she usually walks alone because “there’s nobody who would come with [her]” (47). Each member of the family, though sharing countless experiences, seems to operate--or at least believe himself or herself to be operating-- autonomously.

But the disappearance of their mother and wife painfully pushes them to recognize the deep feeling and connection that binds the family together. Regardless of hurts dealt in all directions, the loss of an integral part of the family system uncovers tremendous care and acknowledgement of the necessity of family. There is a beautiful circularity in Park So-nyo’s final appreciation of her mother as her own children realize their aching love for her: “She takes the blue plastic sandals off my feet and pulls my feet into her lap. Mom doesn’t smile. She doesn’t cry. Did Mom know? That I, too, needed her my entire life?” (228). The family is unavoidable and hurtful, but essential and life-giving. 

The Concerns of Literature?

Literature, I thought, tends to focus on periods of change--or times when there is potential for change. Writing often follows stories of transformation and evolution--in worldview, physical development, the development of a setting or place, spiritual thought, relationships, etc. Or, perhaps, the work presents a situation in which there is a possibility for change, but the lack of transformation or stagnancy speaks just as loudly.

I thought of all the works I had read that told dynamic stories of development. For example, J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey tracks two young people's spiritual maturation in light of family tragedy, hypocrisy, and the shallow concerns of their peers. The Pastures of Heaven, by John Steinbeck, chronicles the physical development of a rural California town--along with the inhabitants who keep the town alive. In George Herbert’s poem “Love (III),” the speaker begins by resisting God’s grace, but the poem finishes with the speaker humbly accepting God’s feast. Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre tells the story of a maturing young woman, her education, her employment, and the development of her relationship with Mr. Rochester. In all of this literature, the writer presents some kind of transformation--whether major or minor, whether internal or external--and the readers may identify with characters, situations, or places and find instruction for their own lives. In this way, my experience with literature has been educational and enlightening in my own circumstances, relationships, and outlooks. However, I realized that though this idea may describe a majority of my interaction with literature, it is not a complete depiction.

Upon further consideration, I thought of works that did not seem driven by a purpose of recording development. There seems to be no agenda, no deep “education” intended, driving some literary works besides the act of capturing life. The words are a practice in perspective and imagery. For example, when I remember one of Denis Johnson’s short stories in Jesus’ Son, I do not think of a call for reformation against substance abuse. Instead, the stories honestly capture fragments of a young man’s life. And the same concept applies to “Winter Trees” by William Carlos Williams: the poet presents an image--a striking image--without an explicit pedagogical intention. Perhaps these differing experiences with literature--that is, experiences in which I do not easily find application in my own situation or relationships--simply attest to my own failure at interpretation and understanding. (This is not to say that reading literature in which a personal application may be more difficult to identify is a waste of time.) Still, literature in its many forms may simply be an effort to collect pieces of life as we encounter it--feelings, images, thoughts, ideas--and share it with those who wish to participate.