by Robert Irwin
Jahiz was a noted bibliomaniac. He used to pay the owners of bookshops to be locked up in their premises at night so that he could read the stock. It is reported that he was killed when an avalanche of books collapsed on top of him. The first extracts from his masterpiece, the Kitab al-Hayawan, are in praise of books.
… A book is a receptacle filled with knowledge, a container crammed with good sense, a vessel full of jesting and earnestness. It can if you wish be more eloquent than Sahban Wa’il, or less talkative than Baqil: it will amuse you with anecdotes, inform you on all manner of astonishing marvels, entertain you with jokes or move you with homilies, just as you please. You are free to find in it an entertaining adviser, an encouraging critic, a villainous ascetic, a silent talker or hot coldness. As to ‘hot coldness’, al-Hassan b. Hani said:
Say to Zuhair, when he goes off by himself and sings:
Whether thou sayst little or much, thou art a prattler.
Thy coldness makes thee so hot that to me thou seemest like fire;
Let no one be surprised to hear me say this: is not snow both hot and cold at once?
…Moreover, have you ever seen a garden that will go into a man’s sleeve, an orchard you can take on your lap, a speaker who can speak of the dead and yet be the interpreter of the living? Where else will you find a companion who sleeps only when you are asleep, and speaks only when you wish him to?…You denigrate books, whereas to my mind there is no pleasanter neighbour, no more fair-minded friend, no more amenable companion, no more dutiful teacher, no comrade more perfect and less prone to error, less annoying or importunate, of a sweeter disposition, less inclined to contradiction or accusation, less disposed to slander or backbiting, more marvellous, cleverer, less given to flattery or affectation, less demanding or quarrelsome, less prone to argument or more opposed to strife, than a book.
I know no companion more prompt to hand, more rewarding, more helpful or less burdensome, and no tree that lives longer, bears more abundantly or yields more delicious fruit that is handier, easier to pick or more perfectly ripened at all times of the year, than a book.
I know no animal product that despite its youth, the short time that has elapsed since its birth, its modest price and its ready availability brings together so much excellent advice, so much rare knowledge, so many works by great minds and keen brains, so many lofty thoughts and sound doctrines, so much wise experience or so much information about bygone ages, distant lands, everyday sayings and demolished empires, as a book.
… For all its smallness and lightness, a book is the medium through which men receive the Scriptures, and also government accounts. Silent when silence is called for, it is eloquent when asked to speak. It is a bedside companion that does not interrupt when you are busy but welcomes you when you have a mind to it, and does not demand forced politeness or compel you to avoid its company. It is a visitor whose visits may be rare, or frequent, or so continual that it follows you like your shadow and becomes a part of you…
A book is a companion that does not flatter you, a friend that does not irritate you, a crony that does not weary you, a petitioner that does not wax importunate, a protégé that does not find you slow, and a friend that does not seek to exploit you by flattery, artfully wheedle you, cheat you with hypocrisy or deceive you with lies.
A book, if you consider, is something that prolongs your pleasure, sharpens your mind, loosens your tongue, lends agility to your fingers and emphasis to your words, gladdens your mind, fills your heart and enables you to win the respect of the lowly and the friendship of the mighty. You will get more knowledge out of one in a month than you could acquire from men’s mouths in five years – and that at a saving in expense, in arduous research by qualified persons, in standing on the doorsteps of hack teachers, in resorting to individuals inferior to you in moral qualities and nobility of birth, and in associating with odious and stupid people.
A book obeys you by night and by day, abroad and at home; it has no need of sleep, and does not grow weary with sitting up. It is a master that does not fail you when you need him and does not stop teaching you when you stop paying him. If you fall from grace it continues to obey you, and if the wind sets fair for your enemies it does not turn against you. Form any kind of bond or attachment with it, and you will be able to do without everything else; you will not be driven into bad company by boredom or loneliness.
Even if its kindness to you and its benevolence towards you consisted merely in saving you from the tedium of sitting on your doorstep watching the passers-by – with all the aggravations that posture entails: civilities to be paid, other people’s indiscretions, the tendency to meddle in things that do not concern you, the proximity of the common people, the need to listen to their bad Arabic and their mistaken ideas and put up with their low behaviour and their shocking ignorance – even if a book conferred no other advantage but this, it would be both salutary and profitable for its owner.
Pellat (ed.), The Life and Works of Jahiz
(trans. D. M. Hawke), pp. 130–32
COMMENTARY
Sahban Wa’il was a pre-Islamic figure famed for his eloquence; Baqil was a pre-Islamic figure famed for his lack of eloquence.
The al-Hassan ibn Hani whose verses are quoted by Jahiz is the poet Abu Nuwas al-Hasan ibn Hani’ al-Hakimi. He is more commonly referred to as Abu Nuwas and he is discussed elsewhere in this chapter.
As Charles Pellat explains in his excellent introduction to the works of Jahiz, the third volume of the Kitab al-Hayawan was supposed to be devoted to pigeons, but first Jahiz digresses to set out his views on jokes and to relate some examples, of which the following is one example:
… I was sitting one day with Dawud b. al-Mu’tamir al-Subairi when a beautiful woman went by, dressed in white; she had a lovely face and figure, and wonderful eyes. Dawud got to his feet, and since I was sure he was going to follow her, I sent my slave to see what happened. When Dawud came back, I said to him: ‘I know that you got up to go and speak to her; it is useless to lie, and your denials will not hold water. I merely wish to know how you accosted her and what you said to her’ (though I fully expected him to embroider some fantastic exploit for me, as he was wont). ‘I accosted her,’ he replied, ‘with these words: “Had I not espied in you the stamp of virtue, I should not have followed you.” She burst out laughing, and laughed so much that she had to lean against the wall, then replied: “So it is the stamp of virtue that gives a man like you the impudence to follow and lust after a woman like me? To say that it is virtue manifest that makes men brazen really is the absolute limit!” ‘
Pellat (ed.), The Life and Works of Jahiz
(trans. D. M. Hawke), pp. 148–9
Jahiz’s description of a qadi (judge) harassed by a fly is one of the most famous passages in the Kitab al-Hayawan:
There can never have been a magistrate as sedate, composed, dignified, impassive, self-controlled or precise in his movements as a qadi we had at Basra called ‘Abd Allah ibn Sawwar.
He used to say the morning prayer at home, though he lived quite near the mosque, and then go to his court, where he would wrap his robes around him and sit down without supporting himself on anything as he did so. He sat bolt upright and stock still, neither turning round in his seat, opening his coat, crossing his legs or leaning on either arm of the chair; he was like a statue.
He would remain thus until the noon prayer compelled him to rise, then sit down again and take up the same posture until the time of the afternoon prayer; having accomplished that, he would remain motionless until sunset, when he would get up, say his prayers, and sometimes (what am I saying? often, rather) return to his seat and deal with a multitude of deeds, contracts and miscellaneous documents. Then he would say his evening prayer and go home. If the truth be told, he never once got up to go to the lavatory during the whole of his tenure of office: he did not need to, since he never felt like a drink of water or other beverage. Such was his routine all the year round, winter and summer, w
hether the days were long or short. He never so much as lifted his hand or inclined his head, but limited himself to moving his lips.
One day, when his assessors and the public had taken their places beside him, in front of him and in the galleries, a fly settled on his nose. It lingered there awhile, and then moved to the corner of his eye. He left it alone and endured its biting, just as he had armed himself with patience when it settled on his nose, never twitching his nostrils, shaking his head or waving it away with a finger. However, since the fly was becoming really persistent, causing him acute pain and moving towards a spot where it was beyond bearing, he blinked his eyelid. The fly did not go away. This persistence drove him to blink repeatedly, whereupon the fly moved away until the eyelid stopped moving, then returned to the corner of the eye even more fiercely than before and stuck its sting into an already sore spot. The qadi’s endurance was weakening and his irritation growing: he blinked harder and more rapidly. The fly went away for a moment, then settled again and became so persistent that our qadi, his patience completely at an end, was reduced to driving it away with his hand. Everyone in court was watching this and pretending not to see it. The fly went away until he dropped his hand, then returned to the charge and compelled him to protect his face with the hem of his sleeve, not once but several times.
The magistrate realized that no detail of this scene was escaping his assessors and the public. When he caught their eye, he exclaimed: ‘I swear the fly is more persistent than the cockroach and more presumptuous than the crow! God forgive me! How many men are infatuated with their own persons! But God acquaints them with their hidden weakness! Now I know I am but a weakling, seeing that God’s most feeble creature has vanquished and confounded me!’ Then he recited this verse: ‘And if the fly should rob them of aught, the gods of the idolaters would be unable to restore it to them. Worshipper and idol are both powerless.’
Pellat (ed.), The Life and Works of Jahiz
(trans. D. M. Hawke), pp. 154–5
The next passage comes from Jahiz’s ‘Letter on Singing-Girls’:
The singing-girl is hardly ever sincere in her passion, or wholehearted in her affection. For both by training and by innate instinct her nature is to set up snares and traps for the victims, in order that they may fall into her toils. As soon as the observer notices her, she exchanges provocative glances with him, gives him playful smiles, dallies with him in verses set to music, falls in with his suggestions, is eager to drink when he drinks, expresses her fervent desire for him to stay a long while, her yearning for his prompt return, and her sorrow at his departure. Then when she perceives that her sorcery has worked on him and that he has become entangled in the net, she redoubles the wiles she had used at first, and leads him to suppose that she is more in love than he is. Later she corresponds with him, pouring out complaints to him of infatuation for him, and swearing to him that she has filled the ink-well with tears and wetted the envelope with her kisses; that he is her sole anxiety and care in her thought and mind by night and day; that she desires no other than him, prefers nobody else to her infatuation for him, never intends to abandon him, and does not want him for his money but for himself. Then she puts the letter in a sixth of a sheet of paper, seals it with saffron, ties it up with a piece of lutestring, declares it to be concealed from her guardians (in order that the deluded lover may have more confidence in her), and insists on the necessity of his replying. When she gets a reply to it, she asserts that she finds the reply her only consolation, and that she has taken it as a substitute for the sight of him in person, and quotes,
Many a missive telling the heart’s secret, charming in its melodious eloquence has come when [my] heart has been sore because of the long time I have waited for it; I laughed when I saw it, but wept when I read it; my eyes saw unpleasing news, and the tears started up unbidden to my eye. You tyrant of my soul, my life and death are in your hands.
Then she sings to him,
My loved one’s letter is all night long my bosom companion, at times my confidant and at times my fragrant scent; the start of the missive made me laugh [with joy], but then he made it too long and caused me to weep.
Later, she begins to find fault with him, affects to be jealous of his wife, forbids him to glance at her companions, makes him drink out of her half-emptied cup, teases him with bites of her apples or with a salute from her sweet-basil, bestows on him when he departs a lock of her hair, a piece of her robe, or a splinter from her plectrum; presents him at Nayruz with an embroidered belt and some sugar, at Mihrjan with a signet ring and an apple; engraves his name on her own signet ring; and if she happens to stumble, lets slip his name. When she sees him, she declaims,
The sight of the lover is sweet to the loved one, his shunning her is a dread disaster for her.
Then she tells him that she cannot sleep for love of him, and cannot bear to touch a bite of food by reason of her yearning for him, and is never weary of weeping for him when he is away; that she can never think of him without agitation, or utter his name without trembling, and has gathered a bowlful of her tears over him. When she encounters his name, she quotes Majnun’s verse I love every name that is the same as hers, or like to it, or in any way resembles it.
If anyone calls out the name, she quotes Majnun’s other lines,
Often has someone called out, when we were on Mina’s slopes, and has stirred unwittingly my heart’s griefs; he has called by the name Layla someone other than my love, and it was as though by [the very word] ‘Layla’ he caused a bird in my breast to fly up.
But it sometimes happens that this pretence leads her on to turning it into reality, and she in fact shares her lover’s torments; so that she will come to his house and allow him a kiss, or even greater liberties, and give herself to bed, should he think fit [to accept] that from her. Sometimes she may renounce her craft, in order for her to be cheaper for him [to buy], and makes a show of illness and is sullen towards her guardians and asks the owners to sell her; or she may allege that she is really a free woman, as a trick to get herself into the lover’s possession, and out of anxiety for him lest her high price should ruin him – specially if she finds him to be sweet-tempered, clever in expressing himself, pleasant-tongued, with a fine apprehension and delicate sensibility, and light-hearted; while if he can compose and quote poetry or warble a tune, that gives him all the more favour in her eyes.
Beeston (trans, and ed.), ‘The Epistle on Singing-Girls’
by Jahiz, pp. 31–3
COMMENTARY
Nayruz and Mihrjan are the Persian festivals of the spring and autumn equinoxes respectively. Both days were occasions for gift-giving.
Majnun (‘Madman’) is the name by which the semi-legendary seventh-century poet Qays ibn Mulawwah is commonly known. His illfated love for Layla sent him mad and he withdrew into the desert, where the wild beasts were his only companions. The story of Majnun and Layla was popular with Arab and Persian poets and painters.
Although Jahiz’s essay Risalat al-Qiyan (‘Letter on Singing-Girls’) is presented in the form of a letter, this was a formal fiction, as this epistle, like so many similar literary products of the ‘Abbasid age, was really addressed to the general reading public. Singing girls were already employed by the Umayyad caliphs to entertain them. Such entertainers were usually highly educated and were skilled not only in singing and music (usually on the lute), but were also expected to be expert and well-informed conversationalists. Some masters of singing-girls were prepared to hire them out for other men’s parties, sending them off with a raqib, or guardian. The function of the singing-girl was somewhere between that of a prostitute and a professional bluestocking. Poetry was commonly given a musical setting and then sung by these geisha-like creatures. Hence the musician and courtier Ishaq al-Mosuli declared that ‘Music is like a book that men conceive and women register’ (though in fact some singing-girls composed their own poetry). Jahiz makes only a perfunctory pretence of defending this institution and in fact th
e treatise is an attack on these seductive but immoral denizens of the court of the ‘Abbasid caliphs.
The Kitab al-Bukhala’, or ‘Book of Misers’, is one of Jahiz’s best-known works. It can be read as Jahiz’s lament for the decline in standards of hospitality in his own time (but in Arab literature each age perceives itself as a decline from the previous one). Partly the book was also written to demonstrate that the Arabs exceed all other races in generosity – in particular the Khurasanis (inhabitants of eastern Iran), who had a special reputation for meanness. Generosity was esteemed as one of the virtues in medieval Arab culture. It loomed particularly large in the minds of literary folk, who relied on their wits and their learning to secure them their next meal. Finally, like many of Jahiz’s products, the Kitab al-Bukhala’ can be read simply as entertainment. It is full of quirky portraits and anecdotes, such as the one concerning a governor of Basra who, after soaking himself in melted butter for medicinal reasons, had the butter sold on in the local markets. After word of this got about, Basrans stopped buying butter for a year.
One evening Zubaydah got drunk and donated a gown to a friend of his. Once the gown was on his drinking companion he was afraid Zubaydah would have second thoughts, for he knew it was a drunken slip of the tongue. So he went straight home and put on a black barnakan belonging to his wife. When morning came Zubaydah asked about the gown and looked for it. ‘You donated it to So-and-so,’ they said. So he sent to him, then went to him and said: ‘Don’t you realize that an intoxicated man’s gift, buying, selling, charity and pronouncement of divorce do not hold good in law? Furthermore, I dislike to receive no credit and that folk should attribute this to intoxication on my part. So give it back to me in order that I may present it to you of free will when sober, as I dislike any of my property to go to waste futilely!’ When he grasped he was resolved to keep it he addressed himself to him and said: ‘You, man! Folk jest and make fun without being in any way reprehended for it – so hand back the gown, Allah grant you good health.’ Said the man to him: ‘This is the very thing I feared. I didn’t set foot to ground until I had made a neck-opening in it for my wife and I have added to the sleeves and cut away the front parts. If after all this you want to take it back, take it back.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll take it back as it will do for my wife as it did for yours.’ ‘It’s at the dyer’s,’ he said. ‘Hand it over!’ said Zubaydah. ‘It wasn’t I who gave it to him,’ countered the man. When he knew it was lost he said: ‘My father and my mother be ransom to the Apostle of Allah with regard to his dictum: “All evil was assembled in one room and locked in and the key to it was drunkenness.” ‘