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review “I
write to entertain myself”
Zia Mohyeddin column
review This is Not the End of the
Book Author: Umberto Eco,
Jean-Claude Carriere Publisher: Northwestern
University Press; 2012 Pages: 352 Price: Rs1,000 Seldom do you chance to
read a book that contains its own anti-thesis. This is exactly what this one
does. It is rather early into my reading of What discouraged Strauss
was exactly why I picked it; a book of conversation promised to be an easy
read. Umberto Eco was the other reason and, of course, the subject — the
end of the book — that we are constantly confronted with. The conversation
spread over more than 300 pages is a joyous read and contains sparks of
brilliance on every page even if there is no narrative to connect them. The central question first:
“Have we reached a point which spells the end of the book?” The answer is
spread out in the entire book, with diverse examples and arguments, but is
essentially the same each time. This is not the end of the book because a
book is something perfect created by man and, like all other things perfect
— the wheel or the spoon or the alphabet — it can’t be perfected any
further nor can it be reinvented. There is a debate about the
finite aspect of the physicality of the book in its paper form and the two
gentlemen argue that it could change form. But book as a repository of
culture and knowledge will survive, and it may so in the paper form. As
Tonnac writes in the Preface “There is no need to suppose that the
electronic book will replace the printed version. Has film killed painting?
Television cinema?” The discussion is not just
confined to the book. Somebody rightly suggested it is “the next best thing
to sitting in Umberto Eco’s living room after dinner; a dream collection of
lucid and fascinating discussions”. Writer, playwright and screenwriter
Carriere and literary critic, and fiction writer Eco are engaged in a
conversation in a way that at times you are tempted to keep reading without
knowing who is saying what. The writing of the book is
a biological phenomenon, Eco tells us, it is a “communication tool most
closely linked to the body” while the modern inventions like the cinema,
radio and internet are not biological. This is followed by an extended
discussion on technology, “lasting media formats”, internet, how most
technological inventions — to preserve memories and transport knowledge —
have been created and rendered redundant in a matter of twenty years. This
takes the two of them back to memorising arts and then their loss with the
invention of the printing press. This also brings them to the centrality of
the book because “even if our entire audiovisual legacy were to be lost in
a power cut, we would still be able to read books in the light from the sun,
or in the evening by candlelight”. Carriere brings his
experience of cinema, arguably the next best thing man has created after
book, and together they evaluate the excellence of European experience and
compare it with Hollywood. You cannot talk about books
without thinking about civilisations and culture. Culture is the filtered out
version of what remains with us, the collective memory, the “process of
selection”. Which brings them to discuss contemporary culture and hence
internet which precludes the necessity of memorising anything because it
provides “everything, without the slightest hierarchy, selection or
structure”. In this age, then, is it
important to learn? Both of them think it is time to learn about the “act
of learning itself”, the “art of synthesis”, time to move on to the
distinction between learning and knowledge in the French language:
“Learning is what we are burdened with, and which may not always be useful
to us. Knowledge is the transformation of that learning into a life
experience”. The two gentlemen are
concerned about the books that have survived and what makes a book famous or
great. In the words of Eco, “We don’t read the same Shakespeare that
Shakespeare wrote. Our Shakespeare is much richer...A masterpiece isn’t a
masterpiece until it is well known and has absorbed all the interpretations
to which it has given rise, which in turn make it what it is.” So, he
concludes, Hamlet the muddled tragedy became a masterpiece because “it
resists our interpretation”. Both Eco and Carriere are
collectors of books, of rare titles, of incunabula, of occult and mistaken
sciences, of silliness and idiocy, and have views about everything from the
mundane to the most profound, relating to books. They are dismissive of
ready-baked books, books that are written in response to an event, and that
would include a major part of our publishing industry. Ironically, this too
could be counted among the ready-baked titles except that it is done in
style, is well-translated (from French) and has three best minds conversing
on books. How wrong could this one get?
“I
write to entertain myself” He comes across as an
introvert; one rarely sees him in any literary and cultural gatherings. Often
painted as a ‘very difficult person’, an ‘angry man’, he does not
care what other people think about him. Mazharul Islam is definitely not the
person as people think. A wonderful storyteller, novelist, folklorist and a
lovely human being, he has to his credit four collections of short stories, a
novel, a travel book on Punjab, and a book on folklore which is the first of
its kind. “I like to read nuggets
from world literature whenever I have any spare time. I don’t attend the
literary functions because I am happier in the company of books. I can’t
live without books as you can see,” he says pointing to a massive
collection of books around him. “I inherited the love for books from my
father who was an avid reader of historical novels,” he reminisces. It was in his ancestral
city of Wazirabad in the school days that Mazhar started composing poetry. In
those days, he used to adore a certain poet who lived in his neighbourhood
whom no one paid any attention. “Apart from that poet, my drawing teacher
was a great influence; he got my poem published in a children’s
magazine.” Mazharul Islam started off
as a poet, but then how did he drift towards the short story? He tells that
he was devastated on the death of his father. He picked up his pen to pour
his heart out and wrote his first story ‘Talaab’, that was published in a
literary magazine, ‘Nairang-e-Khayal’. Thereafter, there was no looking
back. He went to Rawalpindi and toiled hard and later joined Lok Virsa. Slowly, his reputation as
storywriter with a distinct style of his own started spreading. Initially, he
wrote under the shadow of the great Manto. “I adored Manto and you can feel
his influence on a few stories of mine. After that initial phase, I came out
and tried to carve a path of my own. You can’t compare me with any other
writer. You know people used to say that my stories were greatly influenced
by Kafka. But I hadn’t read Kafka back then.” One is tempted to ask why
is his prose studded with heavy metaphors, which the general reader might
find hard to grasp. “I am a surrealist by temperament and the way I
visualise life is also surreal. That is why my writings are overly
metaphorical. My books get good response from rural areas particularly Sindh.
So if the people living in rural areas can enjoy my stories, there should not
be any problem for the urban readers. In its first month, my novel
‘Muhabbat Murda Pholon Ke Symphony’ was sold out in Sindh. I get a
similar response in the Seraiki belt.” He thinks that people
living in the rural areas are pure and “my characters yearn for purity in
love — that is why they connect with my work.” Then there is Mazhar’s
fascination or rather glorification of death, a theme too close to his heart.
Death fascinates him and he is not afraid to face it. “I love death and I
think a new life begins after death. I think suicide is the only pure thing
in life. I once tried but was saved. Suicide had great charm when I was
young.” He doesn’t run after
critics to get a favourable verdict on his work, “I keep myself away from
all literary groups and cartels. If people enjoy my stories, I am obliged.
Basically, I write to entertain myself and I don’t write for anyone,” he
says. His fiction attracted
celebrated writer Amrita Pritam who translated his stories into Punjabi and
published them in her literary journal. He regrets for not being able to meet
Amrita in person because, when he finally reached India to meet her, she had
already left the world. Noted scholar Christopher
Shackle paid him huge accolades in a detailed essay on his craft. Shackle
liked his distinct style of fiction as he translated his selected stories
into English. Folklore is an area in
which he is well-versed. During his tenure in Lok Virsa, he got a chance to
travel extensively throughout Pakistan on various research endeavours. With a
hands on experience, he wrote a book for the laymen titled as ‘Folklore Ke
Pehli Kitab’. Folklore, according to him, should be made a part of our
syllabus as it will tackle the menace of extremism by inculcating love for
our land and culture. His travels to various Dargahs and shrines resulted in
‘Lok Punjab’, a brilliant travelogue about the length and breadth of
Punjab.
Zia
Mohyeddin column I first came in contact
with Ravi Shankar in New York in 1962.The newly formed Asia Society had
invited him to perform for them. A week or so before the concert I, along
with Paul Scofield, Sir John Mills and George Rose, was invited to a lunch,
hosted by Nelson Rockefeller, at which we were to receive a citation. Rockefeller, the
philanthropist, was a seasoned host who mingled with his guests without the
affected charm that public figures put on when they meet strangers. When he
came to my table he talked about the forthcoming Shankar concert (Rockefeller
was also the patron-in-chief of ‘The Asia Society’) and on learning that
I was passionately interested in classical music he asked me if I’d mind
introducing him to the audience. I said I’d love to. The sitar maestro, Ravi
Shankar? thanks to the efforts of that uniquely gifted violinist, Yehudi
Menuhin had already made a name for himself in the West. I was on my guard
when I met him an hour before the concert. I thought he might secretly resent
the fact that a Pakistani and not an Indian had been asked to do the
introduction. He was absolutely delighted that I had been chosen for the
task. He had seen me on the stage and was full of praise for my work. His
smile was infectious. I mentioned that I had
hugely admired the music he had composed for ‘Pather Panchali’, the
award-winning Satyajit Ray movie, and he told me that it was one of the most
rewarding jobs he had ever done. Years later, Satyajit Ray informed me that
Shankar had not received a penny for his work because Ray didn’t have any
money left, and when he did, Shankar wouldn’t accept it. In 1981, I invited Ravi
Shankar to give a concert for my weekly programme, ‘Here and Now’, that I
was then producing for Associated Television in England. He was now living in
America. He not only accepted my invitation, but was generous enough to
instruct his agent in London not to insist on his usual fee which was way
above what my budget could afford. We met after a gap of
twenty years. His face was more lined now, but his winsome, elfish smile was
as heart-warming as ever. We talked about the state of music in Pakistan. He
regretted that although there were many formidable vocalists in Pakistan,
there hadn’t been any notable sitar players. He asked me if Sharif Khan
Poonchwalla, whom he remembered as a prominent sitariya from pre-partition
days, was still playing. He was saddened when I told him that he had passed
away. For the concert he chose to
play a Karnatak raga, Charukeshi. Like his earlier rendition of Keerwani,
another Karnatak raga, he moulded its structure to suit the Northern Indian
musical temperament. His bass notes, for which he was famous, gave the raga a
profundity, and not a touch of gloom. He was aware that he was playing to a
largely white audience but he never, for a moment, diluted his music, nor did
he make any concession to the musical taste of the audience. The aura he
created made it a memorable television performance. As usual, he was
accompanied by the virtuoso tabla player, Ustad Allah Rakha Khan. Allah Rakha
Khan too, had found a niche in America. He had been accompanying Shankar for
over two decades. Their chemistry had reached a degree of perfection that
defies description. Allah Rakha Khan, with his slack jaw and bulging eyes,
retained an expression of child-like wonder throughout the recital.
Occasionally, when they had a banter and vied with each other to grab the sum
(the starting point of the rhythmic cycle), Khan won the race, but his smile,
at such moments, was not triumphant; it was rather an apology for having been
a stickler. Shankar always acknowledged that Allah Rakha had scored a point
by beaming at him. For those of you who may not be aware of it, Allah Rakha
Khan was the father of the modern-day tabla supremo, Zakir Hussain. In his autobiography ‘Ragmala’,
he writes lovingly about the years he spent in Paris as a growing lad. Paris,
in the 30’s, was truly the art centre of the world. Shankar used to see
legendary figures like Gertrude Stein, Henry Miller and Cole Porter
“without, realising who they were or how famous.” His brother Uday Shankar
(now an internationally acclaimed dancer) had set up house in Rue de
Belvedere in Paris. The house was like a salon. Jazz and Classical musicians,
ballet and flamenco dancers were in and out all the time. George Segovia the
great guitarist and Pablo Casals, the cello maestro, were among those who
visited the house. He remembers visiting the
Theatre Champs Elysee where he merrily sucked sucettes (flat and round bon
bons). He was taken to concerts conducted by Toscanini and Stravinsky. He
speaks, wistfully, of the “five lovely daughters” of George and Ludmilla
Poolef (celebrated Russian actors) and he fell in love with each one of them.
The sights and sounds of Paris stayed with him forever. Of all the sub-continental
musicians Ravi Shankar was the only one au fail with Western classical music
and jazz. His knowledge and the fact that he lived most of the time in the
West in great comfort made the well-known gurus of our vocal and instrumental
music jealous of him. They gave him a lot of flak for corrupting the purity
of classical music. It is to his credit that he never reacted to them. He
went on with his mission which was to make Raga music known to the world. It
is largely due to his efforts that people in the West no longer think of our
music to be a “lazy twang of cats and owls.” Throughout his life, Ravi
Shankar remained an innovator. He devised a change in the making of his sitar
which enabled him to make it sound like Vichatra Veena, if he so willed. He
was a composer of rare distinction; his sitar concerto, which he wrote for
the London Philharmonic Orchestra, showed the world how to use western
instruments in an Indian musical composition. He composed many memorable
songs for Indian movies. He was the first person to set up a full-fledged
orchestra for All India Radio. He was an indefatigable genius. Two of his long-playing
records haunt me: his exposition of the ragas Rageshwari and Parmeshwari, a
raga he created himself. Over the years I have listened to them again and
again, always with gratitude that he presented these discs to me.
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“This
is Not the End of the Book” that Jean-Claude Carriere recalls his
interaction with Claude Levi-Strauss about creating a book of conversation
between the two of them, as suggested by a publisher. Strauss “refused with
great charm, saying: ‘I don’t want to repeat what I have already said
better’.” Here is Carriere recording a conversation with Umberto Eco
(both of them have indeed said better things elsewhere) curated by
Jean-Philippe de Tonnac.
