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A review by neilrcoulter
The Cairo Trilogy: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street by Naguib Mahfouz
4.0
*spoilers*
I’m embarrassed that I only recently heard of Naguib Mahfouz. I have no excuse, and my missing him until now is only further proof that there are too many books waiting to be discovered in this world. Whatever the case, I am thankful to have discovered another fantastic novelist, who opens up for me new cultural and historical vistas and perspectives. As I’ve been learning more about the Arab world recently, reading Mahfouz is a very pleasant way of tying together some of the details I’m learning, within a fictional framework.
The Everyman’s Library all-in-one edition of The Cairo Trilogy is a beautiful book. It’s large, but sits well in the hand while reading. The pages and type are designed well, I like the ribbon bookmark, and there’s a helpful introduction and timeline in the beginning of the book.
I read the three volumes, with some time in between each one, over several months, and I wrote reviews for each book as I read it:
Palace Walk
Like many of my favorite novels (Middlemarch especially, but also beloved novels by Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, and others), Palace Walk introduces what seems like too many characters to keep track of. What adds to my difficulty is that I have no framework for placing Arabic names, so at first even just figuring out who’s who within the family is a little bit challenging. But also like other of my favorite novelists, Mahfouz is gifted in drawing out the distinctive characteristics of each person, so that within a very short time I feel like I’ve known and lived with these characters forever.
What I love about this novel is how it reflects aspects of my own life and character—usually painfully! In each member of the family I see aspects of my own struggles, internal things I’m ashamed of, frivolity that is just silly. This both draws me into the story and makes it hard to gaze at it. I want to know myself better through these characters, but I’m also scared to contemplate my faults and shortcomings so precisely.
The narrative is primarily internal and character-driven, rather than focused on action—but the story does include a number of spectacular actions. In the family, we first see an introduction to each character, and then weddings start coming fast and furious; and then a series of crises. For Egypt as a whole—which plays a role as an overarching character, looming over all of the smaller events—we see the Armistice of World War I, the hopes for independence from the British, and the 1919 Revolution: student demonstrations, uneasy intercultural relations, and tragedy.
Palace Walk is an incredibly emotional, gripping novel, and I loved every minute of it. It’s over a third the length of the trilogy as a whole, yet it feels like merely the setup for an ongoing, tremendous story. I look forward to diving into the second book of the series, Palace of Desire, after a short break.
Palace of Desire
This was a challenging book to read! I often felt that I was being beat up by one depressing event after another. In the same way that Thomas Hardy was criticized for “deriving an almost sadistic pleasure from Tess’s suffering” in Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Mahfouz is walking a very fine line between crafting a gripping, character-driven story, and wallowing in the worst of humanity. There were times when I wondered if Mahfouz was merely trying his hardest to show Yasin, especially, making the worst choices possible.
All throughout this second book of the trilogy, Mahfouz is taking each of his characters apart, piece by piece (in Yasin’s case, more than one piece at a time!). The death at the end of the first volume continues to resonate in the life of each of the surviving family members, and it’s hard to imagine these people finding a true, wise equilibrium. What’s left by the last 80 pages or so is only the foundations, and even those are in question. But those last pages of the novel are powerful, and I think they justify the awful behavior that led up to the conclusion.
I found most of Palace of Desire very gripping, but there were a few disappointments. One is that the actual historical events didn’t seem as directly connected to the story as in the first volume. This story is much more ambiguous, less rooted in the political events of the time (though they are still discussed by the characters, occasionally).
I was also disappointed in Khadija. She is just really difficult in this story, and every time the narrative shifted to her for a few chapters, I would sigh inwardly, “Oh please, not a chapter about Khadija!” I hope she may find some maturity and redemption in the final volume.
In this book, Kamal becomes the primary protagonist—which is no surprise, since I assume he is meant to stand for Mahfouz himself. Kamal’s main motivation—Aïda, the beloved—becomes a bit tiresome, especially as it is perfectly clear from the start how it’s going to end up. I am most curious to see Kamal’s continuing development in the third book.
I enjoyed the discussion of the early career of Umm Kalthoum. That was a nice historical touch. And I also love Mahfouz’s style of beginning a chapter in such a way that you’re not quite sure which character’s mind you’re in until you’ve read a few paragraphs. The way he constructs scenes of dialogue, with characters’ internal dialogue coming before what they actually speak aloud, is brilliant.
Sugar Street
Ok, so I’m fine with a book that presents the frequent despair in the human condition. I don’t mind characters who doubt the foundations of their lives, and a bit of tragedy happening in a novel is acceptable and necessary. But the extent to which Mahfouz refuses his characters the briefest glimmer of hope and joy becomes wearying by the third book. For me, the pinnacle was when Aisha’s daughter dies in childbirth. I just could hardly believe that Mahfouz would subject that poor woman to yet more tragedy. What is it that Mahfouz wants to show us through this incessant despair?
One key may be a line that ends a chapter about people taking shelter during a nighttime air raid: “In this brief moment of darkness, life had reminded careless people of its incomparable value” (1174). Perhaps Mahfouz has crafted this extended “moment of darkness” simply to remind the reader of life in all of its joys and sorrows. In following the members of this family through the streets of Cairo over decades, we see the depths of human nature—lustfulness, lack of self-control (or misplaced, excessive discipline), paralyzing doubt, seemingly pointless political maneuvering, along with uncontrollable tragedy. It’s an uncomfortable mirror held up for us to look into, that we can contemplate our own weaknesses, and the sorrows that come upon us, unlooked for and unexpected. After taking this journey with Mahfouz, hopefully we have eyes so desperate to see light in the world around us that we will seek it out in ways that we might not have before—and seek to be that light for other people.
Reflecting on the trilogy as a whole, a couple of things stand out to me. One is the suffocating nature of the Cairo setting. Not that Cairo itself is presented in an uncomplimentary way—but there seems to be no escape. The family members hear news (increasingly, especially in the third volume, which speeds through the years) from the world outside of Egypt, and they have acquaintances who set off for other parts of the world (Kamal’s friends, in particular, seem freer to leave their homeland than any other characters do). Yet there is an intense gravity that keeps them rooted to the same place, giving the story an almost claustrophobic feeling. It’s as though Mahfouz is relentlessly forcing us to stay with these characters, denying them the life changes that would naturally happen if they could just get out of Cairo for a while (though it doesn’t seem that fleeing Egypt is healthy for many of the characters who do have the opportunity)—like, a change of scenery would be a false way of distracting them from their real, internal struggles. It’s an interesting, infuriating technique for a novel—especially a series of novels that runs to as many pages as this one does.
The other recurring theme that affected me was the way that there is no foundation for stability for these characters. These are characters who at least pass through phases of devout religious faith, yet that faith always seems a little distant. It’s more of a magic talisman than a present help for real-life trauma and struggle. It’s a constant, nagging presence in the story, but it’s always ambiguous. Is Amina right to cling to her hopes as she visits the shrine every day? I think so—and I think Mahfouz thinks so—but this novel is never going to admit outright that it’s a worthy activity that does any good in the world. Kamal’s constant doubt and questioning never resolves itself; Yasin remains devout and yet absurd; other characters have varying perspectives on belief, but nothing that brings lasting, tangible joy to their lives.
The other typically solid foundation in life is family—which is by far one of the dominant themes of these books. Yet here again, family doesn’t offer much worthwhile guidance for life. The sons follow in their father’s footsteps—even unknowingly, at first—but there is no possibility of open communication, by which the father might impart some wisdom before they squander their lives on the same lusts. When Kamal’s heart is broken by Aïda, there’s no one to come alongside him and assure him that such young crushes are perfectly normal, or show him how to move on in life. Instead, he falls into sensual lusts and drinking, blind to the fact that it’s these very behaviors that keep him from seeing the world, and his own life, truthfully. None of al-Sayyid Ahmad’s children try to replicate the kind of household they were subjected to, yet none of them seems to know quite how to establish a household at all. Much of the novel—especially from the second volume onward—finds the entire family in a liminal state (modeled externally by Aisha and internally by Kamal). They’re not quite what they started out as, but they haven’t yet become anything else distinct. They walk through life, wondering what happened to them, but they find no answers. At the conclusion of the story, it’s hard to imagine that that family will still be a cohesive unit after another generation or two. (And if Yasin is the one who transmits the family lore, then the next generations won’t even know what really happened. “What is truth?”)
The Cairo Trilogy is a fascinating, depressing, challenging story. I’m glad to have spent some months working my way through it, though I’m also glad to look at my own life and see joy and hope and light.
I’m embarrassed that I only recently heard of Naguib Mahfouz. I have no excuse, and my missing him until now is only further proof that there are too many books waiting to be discovered in this world. Whatever the case, I am thankful to have discovered another fantastic novelist, who opens up for me new cultural and historical vistas and perspectives. As I’ve been learning more about the Arab world recently, reading Mahfouz is a very pleasant way of tying together some of the details I’m learning, within a fictional framework.
The Everyman’s Library all-in-one edition of The Cairo Trilogy is a beautiful book. It’s large, but sits well in the hand while reading. The pages and type are designed well, I like the ribbon bookmark, and there’s a helpful introduction and timeline in the beginning of the book.
I read the three volumes, with some time in between each one, over several months, and I wrote reviews for each book as I read it:
Palace Walk
Like many of my favorite novels (Middlemarch especially, but also beloved novels by Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, and others), Palace Walk introduces what seems like too many characters to keep track of. What adds to my difficulty is that I have no framework for placing Arabic names, so at first even just figuring out who’s who within the family is a little bit challenging. But also like other of my favorite novelists, Mahfouz is gifted in drawing out the distinctive characteristics of each person, so that within a very short time I feel like I’ve known and lived with these characters forever.
What I love about this novel is how it reflects aspects of my own life and character—usually painfully! In each member of the family I see aspects of my own struggles, internal things I’m ashamed of, frivolity that is just silly. This both draws me into the story and makes it hard to gaze at it. I want to know myself better through these characters, but I’m also scared to contemplate my faults and shortcomings so precisely.
The narrative is primarily internal and character-driven, rather than focused on action—but the story does include a number of spectacular actions. In the family, we first see an introduction to each character, and then weddings start coming fast and furious; and then a series of crises. For Egypt as a whole—which plays a role as an overarching character, looming over all of the smaller events—we see the Armistice of World War I, the hopes for independence from the British, and the 1919 Revolution: student demonstrations, uneasy intercultural relations, and tragedy.
Palace Walk is an incredibly emotional, gripping novel, and I loved every minute of it. It’s over a third the length of the trilogy as a whole, yet it feels like merely the setup for an ongoing, tremendous story. I look forward to diving into the second book of the series, Palace of Desire, after a short break.
Palace of Desire
This was a challenging book to read! I often felt that I was being beat up by one depressing event after another. In the same way that Thomas Hardy was criticized for “deriving an almost sadistic pleasure from Tess’s suffering” in Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Mahfouz is walking a very fine line between crafting a gripping, character-driven story, and wallowing in the worst of humanity. There were times when I wondered if Mahfouz was merely trying his hardest to show Yasin, especially, making the worst choices possible.
All throughout this second book of the trilogy, Mahfouz is taking each of his characters apart, piece by piece (in Yasin’s case, more than one piece at a time!). The death at the end of the first volume continues to resonate in the life of each of the surviving family members, and it’s hard to imagine these people finding a true, wise equilibrium. What’s left by the last 80 pages or so is only the foundations, and even those are in question. But those last pages of the novel are powerful, and I think they justify the awful behavior that led up to the conclusion.
I found most of Palace of Desire very gripping, but there were a few disappointments. One is that the actual historical events didn’t seem as directly connected to the story as in the first volume. This story is much more ambiguous, less rooted in the political events of the time (though they are still discussed by the characters, occasionally).
I was also disappointed in Khadija. She is just really difficult in this story, and every time the narrative shifted to her for a few chapters, I would sigh inwardly, “Oh please, not a chapter about Khadija!” I hope she may find some maturity and redemption in the final volume.
In this book, Kamal becomes the primary protagonist—which is no surprise, since I assume he is meant to stand for Mahfouz himself. Kamal’s main motivation—Aïda, the beloved—becomes a bit tiresome, especially as it is perfectly clear from the start how it’s going to end up. I am most curious to see Kamal’s continuing development in the third book.
I enjoyed the discussion of the early career of Umm Kalthoum. That was a nice historical touch. And I also love Mahfouz’s style of beginning a chapter in such a way that you’re not quite sure which character’s mind you’re in until you’ve read a few paragraphs. The way he constructs scenes of dialogue, with characters’ internal dialogue coming before what they actually speak aloud, is brilliant.
Sugar Street
Ok, so I’m fine with a book that presents the frequent despair in the human condition. I don’t mind characters who doubt the foundations of their lives, and a bit of tragedy happening in a novel is acceptable and necessary. But the extent to which Mahfouz refuses his characters the briefest glimmer of hope and joy becomes wearying by the third book. For me, the pinnacle was when Aisha’s daughter dies in childbirth. I just could hardly believe that Mahfouz would subject that poor woman to yet more tragedy. What is it that Mahfouz wants to show us through this incessant despair?
One key may be a line that ends a chapter about people taking shelter during a nighttime air raid: “In this brief moment of darkness, life had reminded careless people of its incomparable value” (1174). Perhaps Mahfouz has crafted this extended “moment of darkness” simply to remind the reader of life in all of its joys and sorrows. In following the members of this family through the streets of Cairo over decades, we see the depths of human nature—lustfulness, lack of self-control (or misplaced, excessive discipline), paralyzing doubt, seemingly pointless political maneuvering, along with uncontrollable tragedy. It’s an uncomfortable mirror held up for us to look into, that we can contemplate our own weaknesses, and the sorrows that come upon us, unlooked for and unexpected. After taking this journey with Mahfouz, hopefully we have eyes so desperate to see light in the world around us that we will seek it out in ways that we might not have before—and seek to be that light for other people.
Reflecting on the trilogy as a whole, a couple of things stand out to me. One is the suffocating nature of the Cairo setting. Not that Cairo itself is presented in an uncomplimentary way—but there seems to be no escape. The family members hear news (increasingly, especially in the third volume, which speeds through the years) from the world outside of Egypt, and they have acquaintances who set off for other parts of the world (Kamal’s friends, in particular, seem freer to leave their homeland than any other characters do). Yet there is an intense gravity that keeps them rooted to the same place, giving the story an almost claustrophobic feeling. It’s as though Mahfouz is relentlessly forcing us to stay with these characters, denying them the life changes that would naturally happen if they could just get out of Cairo for a while (though it doesn’t seem that fleeing Egypt is healthy for many of the characters who do have the opportunity)—like, a change of scenery would be a false way of distracting them from their real, internal struggles. It’s an interesting, infuriating technique for a novel—especially a series of novels that runs to as many pages as this one does.
The other recurring theme that affected me was the way that there is no foundation for stability for these characters. These are characters who at least pass through phases of devout religious faith, yet that faith always seems a little distant. It’s more of a magic talisman than a present help for real-life trauma and struggle. It’s a constant, nagging presence in the story, but it’s always ambiguous. Is Amina right to cling to her hopes as she visits the shrine every day? I think so—and I think Mahfouz thinks so—but this novel is never going to admit outright that it’s a worthy activity that does any good in the world. Kamal’s constant doubt and questioning never resolves itself; Yasin remains devout and yet absurd; other characters have varying perspectives on belief, but nothing that brings lasting, tangible joy to their lives.
The other typically solid foundation in life is family—which is by far one of the dominant themes of these books. Yet here again, family doesn’t offer much worthwhile guidance for life. The sons follow in their father’s footsteps—even unknowingly, at first—but there is no possibility of open communication, by which the father might impart some wisdom before they squander their lives on the same lusts. When Kamal’s heart is broken by Aïda, there’s no one to come alongside him and assure him that such young crushes are perfectly normal, or show him how to move on in life. Instead, he falls into sensual lusts and drinking, blind to the fact that it’s these very behaviors that keep him from seeing the world, and his own life, truthfully. None of al-Sayyid Ahmad’s children try to replicate the kind of household they were subjected to, yet none of them seems to know quite how to establish a household at all. Much of the novel—especially from the second volume onward—finds the entire family in a liminal state (modeled externally by Aisha and internally by Kamal). They’re not quite what they started out as, but they haven’t yet become anything else distinct. They walk through life, wondering what happened to them, but they find no answers. At the conclusion of the story, it’s hard to imagine that that family will still be a cohesive unit after another generation or two. (And if Yasin is the one who transmits the family lore, then the next generations won’t even know what really happened. “What is truth?”)
The Cairo Trilogy is a fascinating, depressing, challenging story. I’m glad to have spent some months working my way through it, though I’m also glad to look at my own life and see joy and hope and light.