A fabulous tale-well worth reading 'till the very end.

Art thou not aware that they roam confusedly through all the valleys [of words and thoughts]
Q:26:243

A friend of a friend told me of this book; in the book was a footnote that mentioned the review of another book and in this other book there was a passing reference to ----'s book and it is from there that I re-tell this story....

Your goal is the Fire: it is your [only] refuge*
Q:57:15

[*="friend"]

al-Ma'arri's 'Epistle of Forgiveness' (which, incidentally, mirrors Dante but predates it by about three centuries) tells the story of one of the great poets, sitting at the very outer rim of Heaven, the outer regions where not many people venture, gazing intensely towards that fiery place far down below. From this vantage point he can survey the whole of Hell and his vision is taken up by its spectacle. But more than that. To his surprise he realises that he can converse with its inhabitants and so, why not avail such an opportunity!

The great Syrian poet decides to strike up a conversation with the famed Imru' al-Qays, the very same poet whose verses were hung on the Ka'ba. He inquires about his work and in particular of his justly praised epic, about the lack of an "and" in some versions, the inclusion of it others. What is one to make of this?

The response is swift and brief:

May God blot out the scholars of Baghdad!..If one reads the text in such a way what is left of the distinction between poetry and prose?

The Syrian is impressed. Despite the dense walls of smoke, the pungent smell of burning, he receives clear answers to the various textual, grammatical, lexical, and metrical questions he puts to the classical authors. Each statement is concise and uttered with the utmost serenity.

[Lest it be objected that time should not be wasted on such frivolous matters let me remind you, dear reader, that there time is not of the essence]

Having understood much Ibn al-Qarih-for that is the name of the illustrious poet whose journeys so delight us-travels around various places in Heaven. Here he comes across a city that is not bathed in light but pocked with caves and eerie trees. And this is where those creatures who lived before Adam are to be found. He converses with one such creature, a spirit who has taken on the form of a very old man. The old man reminds al-Qariah that no one really knows anything in comparison to the poetry of the spirits.

[Man!] What does he know of poetry. You are completely bedazzled by one ode and even commit it to memory when I can dictate thousands upon thousands of words in this same meter, more than can be written on all the leaves of the world, each more beautiful than yours. This is mere child's play for us! In fact, just one poem would rival all of yours. These words are the work of one of our poets who died an unbeliever and is now burning in the circles of Hell.

He's enticed by the prospect of having access to this vast treasure trove of poems but, then again, why transcribe so many words? Are these to be compared to the treasures of Heaven? Anyway, this is a dilemma only at the theoretical level for the spirit is reticent. Even more, the great poets and mythical literary figures he questions don't seem to remember any of their own poems-even though he can quote vast tracts of their beautiful verses to them.

By this time our Syrian friend is a little bemused. It appears that the inhabitants of Heaven are suffering from sort of literary and linguistic amnesia.

One poet explains to al-Qarih: my eternal beatitude has allowed me to forget all these poems and I no longer remember a single line of them.

Ibn al-Qarih pleads with him and offers to recite them in the most melodious voice in an attempt to jog the great poet's memory. The old man, as if remembering at least something of his former fame-if not his poetry- concedes:

Recite them for me, and may God's mercy be bestowed on you plentifully.

Further on, and to his great delight, he comes across al-Khalil ibn Ahmad, the first and greatest grammarian of classical Arabic. He looks up and sees Khalil riding a beatific chariot and 'as he ponders the verses in his memory it occurs to him that one could truly dance to the music of their elaborate rhythm.

At that instant, God the Almighty, in the kindness of His wisdom, allowed a walnut tree to emerge from the ground. The tree immediately let its nuts ripen, and threw so many of them to the ground that God alone would be capable of counting them. The walnuts broke open, and from out of each nut there stepped four maidens, who inspired wonder in all those near and far alike, who saw them. They danced to the verses of al-Khalil...

And yet the strangest of things happens here as well: al-Khalil, despite all the promptings, cannot recall that these are indeed his verses. After crossing the bridge, he tells al-Qarih, he has no recollection of such things. Al-Qarih is greatly saddened by this. How is it possible that he who once possessed the greatest memory of all Arabs, he who had dedicated his life to the very rules of time, could produce such a blank look? He begins to grow more and more despondent with every great figure he meetst. Was this, then, the future of mankind, of civilisation?

At last, Al-Qarih comes across Adam and recites to him two of his verses or ones that are commonly attributed to him. But Adam can only reply:

What is said in these lines is true and whoever composed them was surely a wise man. But as for myself, this is the first time I have heard these words.

Al-Qarih walks respectfully towards him and suggests that perhaps Primal Man has a faulty memory for a scholar has argued that you are in fact named 'Man' on account of your forgetfulness.

Adam reproaches him. "But how could such a thing be possible!" And then, with impeccable logic he explains to al-Qarih that he spoke Arabic only when he was in heaven; on earth he spoke Aramaic. Furthermore, the Arabic verse says: 'From the earth were we created, and to the earth we must return'. Only someone who was on earth could have thought up of such words, adding: the tongue of the poem is an index of time...it was most likely composed by some fellow in his spare time.

Our wily protagonist isn't completely satisfied by this explanation. Is it not possible that it was translated into Arabic? At which point Adam swears by God that the verse is not his and after that what else can be said: there can be no further dispute!

Al-Qarih wanders from place to place, ever more forlorn, ever more disappointed. The poets of Paradise, like Primal Man, forget and are not even aware of their forgetfulness. They are, it seems, happily reconciled to their forgetful nature. (The sinners, on the other hand, can do nothing but remember). Only the poet, only al-Qarih is allowed to remember! Is memory, then, the mark of the redemption we cannot achieve? Is al-Qarih mysteriously and mistakenly admitted to Paradise although he doesn't belong there, as if someone has forgotten to check his name against a list? The unsaved is, perhaps, a witness to a beatitude that the other poets cannot recall or have no need of recalling.

And only he, the fragile figure of a resolutely unredeemed humanity, could therefore glimpse a relation to language that would do justice to the empty essence of the speaking being who forgets; a relation in which recollection and oblivion remain as indistinguishable as the continuity and discontinuity of the time to which they are bound, and in which the memory of speech is at last liberated from everything that has been stored in it.