It was Yusuf Idris's birthday two weeks ago, on 19 May. This year, that anniversary marks a quarter of a century since the death of the famous Egyptian short-story writer. He died in August 1991, after a short struggle against an illness that had taken him to London, to seek a remedy in a hospital there. Nothing is more telling of the magnitude of deterioration in Arabic literary life, and cultural life in general, than the indifference we have come to show even to our most illustrious literary figures. There have been many, but Yusuf Idris towers above most. He had a major influence on the development of the Arabic short story, in particular, but he also left his unique and innovative mark in theatre and the novel. Idris, who began writing in 1950, opened totally new horizons for the Arabic short story. Anyone who compares his works with those of, for example, Mahmoud Taymour, immediately notices the qualitative leap. It was Taymour, initially together with his brother Mohamed, who died at an early age, who laid solid foundations upon which the Arabic short story would evolve. In fact, were it not for the short stories of Taymour, Idris may well never have been able to create what may well be the greatest and most prolific output that the Arab short story has ever known. Idris's genius in the art of short-story writing is surpassed only by Naguib Mahfouz's genius in the art of the novel. Mahfouz's achievements in the Arabic novel are unrivalled. The artistic merit of his short stories is beyond question, but it was as a novelist that Mahfouz would display his unique flare. In fact, one might say that if Mahfouz had confined himself to short-story writing, he would not have acquired his huge literary stature. It was the brilliance of his novels that elevated him to international renown, such masterpieces as his famous Cairo Trilogy becoming classics in world literature. The same could be said of Idris, but in reverse. It was his ingenuity as a short-story writer that elevated him to the ranks of international celebrities in this literary genre, whereas he was much less well known as a novelist. In fact, his novelistic output is rarely mentioned today, like he, himself, regretfully. Apart from Al-Haram (The Sin), which is one of the most important novels of the 1960s, does anyone these days even mention — let alone read — Al-Sayyida Vienna (Lady Vienna), Al-Baydaa (The White), Rijal wa Thiran (Men and Bulls) or New York? His short-story collections, on the other hand, are landmarks in the history of Arab literature. We could not possibly compile a history of Arabic literature without allocating a large space for such anthologies as Arkhas Layali (The Cheapest Nights), Hadithat Sharaf (An Incident of Honour), Bayt min Lahm (A House of Flesh), Akher Al-Dunya (The End of the World), Qa Al-Madina (Dregs of the City) and Lughat Al-Ay-Ay (The Language of Ouch!). The similarities between Yusuf Idris and Naguib Mahfouz often brought the two writers into juxtaposition. While I am certain that the idea of such a rivalry never occurred to Mahfouz, there were always people around to harp on the comparison in ways that triggered Idris's quick-tempered character. A flagrant example occurred when Mahfouz won the Nobel Prize. Idris had been nominated more than once for this prestigious award. However, that was before the Nobel Committee ever felt it necessary to award an Arab writer. That would change in 1988 when some suggested that it was time to grant the award to someone from this part of the world. Now, I know the cast-iron secrecy of that committee's deliberations. It is absolutely impossible to penetrate. No one has ever been able to learn the identity of a Nobel winner in advance. In fact, more often than not, the winner has come as a complete surprise to everyone. In all events, when Idris, along with the rest of the world, was surprised by the choice of Mahfouz for the 1988 Nobel Prize in Literature, Idris naturally suspected that the Nobel Committee had had a change of heart and that this change was politically motivated because he had opposed the Camp David Accords with Israel. He was said by some newspapers to harbour a suspicion of this sort, and there were quite a few Arab media outlets at the time that felt they could make great political capital out of this. So they leapt on what was probably a fleeting remark, built a mountain out of a molehill, and turned the occasion of the first Arab to win a Nobel Prize into a heated controversy involving the two writers. Neither of them was party to the debate, of course. I happened to be in Mahfouz's office at the time when he got a call from Idris, who said, “I never said a word of all that stuff that's going around.” To which Mahfouz replied, “And I never heard it.” For the two great writers, who were also friends, the matter ended there. Not that this would stop many quarters of the press from regurgitating the subject ad nauseam. Idris began his foray into the theatre in a relatively conventional mode with his plays, Jumhuriyat Farahat (Farahat's Republic) and Malak Al-Qotn (The Cotton King). But he would soon bring his innovative spirit to this domain as well and break new ground for Egyptian theatre in form and substance. His seminal work, Al-Farafir, an attempt to forge a new template for Arab theatre, would become the subject of extensive critical analysis. In addition to being a prolific writer, Idris was the type of intellectual who is actively involved in political life and engaged in the most important issues of his society, nation and the Arab world. He would nominate himself twice for the position of head of the Press Syndicate, against Yusuf Al-Sobai in 1978 and against Salah Galal in 1981. Before this, in 1961, he went to Algeria to join the fighters struggling for national independence there. He was wounded and he received the Algerian Order of Merit. He was thus one of that rare breed of writer-fighters, the chief exponent of which was Ernest Hemingway who travelled to Spain to fight against the fascists in the civil war there. Idris was also an ardent supporter of the Palestinian cause. In addition, he was one of the first intellects to caution of the danger of political Islam. In the Writers Museum, located in the premises of the Egyptian Writers Union, we have a handwritten article on this subject by Idris that was decades ahead of its time. Yusuf Idris was that special kind of writer whom we miss now more than ever. Yet his birthday passed a couple of weeks ago as though it were any ordinary day of the week. Apart from a few articles that can be counted on one hand, no one thought to give him a mention. August will be with us soon, marking a quarter of a century since he died. Will that pass in a manner similar to the anniversary of his birth, or will this great artist receive the commemoration that is due to him?
