By Lubna Abdel-Aziz Parting is never sweet, unless it is short-lived! With death, there is no morrow! It is the final strike, snatching the beloved to the great unknown, leaving the sordidness to those left behind. We stand alone in solitude and darkness, with bitter sorrow and profound grief. While Death rushes out, Mercy rushes in, mingling smiles and tears, as the window of memories opens wide. The parting of our inimitable writer Anis , leaves a dark, empty hole in our existence, for who else could bring so much light and laughter to such a cruel, sinister and vulgar world. He was a severe and merciless judge of vulgarity. He had the art of exposing vulgarity every day, and the ardent desire to spread simplicity, beauty and harmony, everywhere. Memories of his legacy will continue to enrich our lives; his wit and humour will keep us smiling, despite the tears. As we reach out for fond memories, I go back years and years to days of childhood. That is when I met the future philosopher of Egyptian journalism. He had accompanied a friend who came to visit my father. I was a precocious 11-year-old, an eager reader, a keen listener. His eagle-eyes twinkled as he noticed a pile of books. He picked one up, and was surprised to be unfamiliar with the title or the author. The book was "Treasure Island", the author, Robert Louis Stevenson. He wanted to know more. He listened attentively to my recitation of one of the poems in Stevenson's masterpiece: " A Child's Garden of Verse". His smile lit up his already sparkling eyes. In a gentle voice he advised me to keep reading and reciting poetry. In later years, he advised me to act, to write, to keep working, to keep living. I always heeded his advice, for none other practiced the art of living as well as he. On our next meeting, gave me a lecture on Robert Louis Stevenson; told me of his famous novel: "The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde", a fact I was unfamiliar with. He even described Stevenson's looks, his long hair, his pointed ears, his moustache. He spoke in an animated tone, as if he was describing a close friend. Such was the sum and substance of Anis . He had a hunger and thirst for knowledge, all knowledge. What he did not know today, he knew well the next day. The years kept us close then, and whenever we met, which was often, we would find a quiet corner to discuss our recent findings in the world of literature, culture, the arts, travels, gourmet dishes, life in general. A philosophy major, his logic was effortless, as his talent was abundant. He could scold in such cordial tones, you would mistake it for praise. He traveled the globe, brought it back to his reader, in the palm of his hand. With him we toured exotic lands, tasted bizarre foods, heard different languages, met glamorous personalities and enjoyed extraordinary adventures , in faraway places with faraway people. Long before the internet, Anis had already made the world more accessible. For over six decades, his pen never stopped writing. He wrote in every capacity and in every major daily, weekly, monthly publication. He made it all seem so facile. The simplicity, the humour, the ease and grace of style and content seemed effortless, but no writing is easy. It was his special talent that only made it seem so, for he addressed all men and everyman. The power of his writing was in its brevity. He was often called a cynic, which he was not. Do not let his rage against women fool you. He loved women; his mother, his wife, his daughters, friends and associates, and they loved him back. Everyone sought the company of this irresistible charmer. His pleasant looks, twinkling eyes and quick wit made him a favourite in all circles. He rubbed shoulders with the powerful, the rich and the famous, yet he remained simple and truthful. In fact he mocked the trappings of the high and the mighty. You may not readily describe him as a modest, kindly man, only because he made every effort to conceal it. Life was not a bowl of cherries as he often said. It was riddled with complexities and conflicts. He too had his demons, but he chased them away with his voracious reading and endless writing. He crammed himself eagerly with every bit of knowledge that came his way, but like a sieve, he held nothing. He let it all stream out to appease his earnest readers. Teaching was not his aim, but it ended up being his legacy. The satirist in him revealed a shade of hopelessness, but I was always struck by the eternal optimist who exhibited a velvet view of the future, regardless of the dim darkness of the present. He will remain a beacon of light in the classroom of life, not only in the world of letters, of wit, of humour, but in the pursuit of knowledge, all knowledge, even if the source was a child of 11. We promised to meet and have a laugh over old times, old friends and new ideas, but Death was faster. He may be gone, but the memories linger, sharp and clear. The only mist is the flow of unstoppable tears, for parting is the greatest sorrow! I am going to seek a great Perhaps. -- François Rabelais (1495-1533)
