The Garden is a great whispering literature
by Tarek Eltayeb
In my view, it is a mistake to imagine that the source of literature and its influences stem solely from extensive reading of literature, or from familiarity with history and biographies, or from those sciences closely related to literature, such as psychology, medicine, and the social sciences. There are important sources of life experience in many fields that some may consider completely distant from literature, for example: algology, immunology, nephology, penology, phonetics, and others. However, these sciences and others, which at first glance appear to have no connection to literature, are seen through a misconception. Interest in these relatively "exotic" sciences can benefit and add to art.
Many people have asked me how I study economics and connect it with literature. Some people think that economics is a field so distant from literature that it cannot possibly have a close relationship to it. When I tell them that my academic specialization was focused on the study of "philosophy of economics," specifically the branch of "economic ethics," and that my doctoral dissertation was titled "Transfer of Ethics through Technology," they respond. I actually wrote it in a play-like form, but one that necessarily followed scientific rules. This seems strange to many and perhaps appeared to be a form of scientific extremism, which it is not.
I also respond by saying that economics taught me literature, and that focusing on economics philosophically leads to an understanding of many aspects of life, including the causes of the wars and disasters we have experienced and are experiencing as a result of selfish economic interests, the global power centers and their tendency toward alleged superiority, the woes of colonialism, the neglect of global environmental health, and other factors.
At one of the seminars I attended during my studies at the University of Vienna, the professor of economic philosophy entered the classroom and posed a question: Is there a relationship between economics and literature? A discussion ensued for some time. Some believed there was no relationship between literature and economics, while others argued that there was, albeit an indirect relationship. My professor knew me and knew of my interest in literature. He had read some of my poems published in German. He smiled, addressing me, and said, "I'll await your response in a written scientific paper!"
The point is, I had written about the themes in the work of Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956) as a link between economics and war. A few weeks later, the professor entered the classroom and began discussing the works presented to him, engaging us in discussions with the author of each paper. He conducted the discussion professionally, sometimes supporting the student and sometimes agreeing with other students' objections and theses. When he delayed showing me my paper and discussing it, I thought he must not have liked it, but he surprised me at the time by revealing his interest in it, and he postponed talking about it until the end for a longer discussion, emphasizing that economics is never absent from art and vice versa. He engaged us in a long, engaging conversation, from which I derived far more benefit than I had from what I had written, read, and prepared.
* * *
Some people are surprised by my interest in flowers, vegetables, and trees, considering it a hobby far removed from literature. Again they ask what relationship gardening and literature could possibly have.
Since my retirement from university teaching at the University of Vienna, less than two years ago, I have tended to spend more time at our rural home in northern Austria, in the region bordering the Czech Republic. This is the home where my wife lived as a child with her parents and brother, until I joined them as a new member of the family in 1985, forty years ago. A few years ago, no one from my wife's family remained except us. We never left our apartment in Vienna, of course. I am still a "city person" at heart, and I also yearn for city life, cafes, museums, and meeting friends in Vienna's traditional cafés.
My wife's father, who comes from a farming family with land along the Danube and still owns it, planted numerous apple, cherry, pear, plum, walnut, hazelnut, and other trees in the home garden, in addition to his work as a policeman. His passion for farming and harvesting never changed. He died young but his spirit lives on in the garden and definitely haunts and changes me.
My wife's mother grew up in the upper middle class, worked as a teacher, and had a keen interest in reading, the arts, travel, and drawing. She was also a walking encyclopedia of knowledge about plants, birds, and animals. I have never found such a large number of references, illustrated books, and dictionaries devoted to these subjects in anyone’s library other than a specialist’s. She also cared for this garden as the central living element of this house.
It seems to me that the spirit of my wife's family still lives on in the house and garden, and that something of it has touched me, making me addicted to agriculture, farming, and gardening. My wife's knowledge is also, of course, inherited and very rich, even better than mine. I turn to her to explain many things or to ask about the names of plants and flowers, many of which I have now mastered in Arabic, although I still do not know the names of some in my native language.
I have also become fond of the region where we live in northern Austria, known as the "Waldviertel," rich in forests, birds, and rare animals.
This place has become a favorite place for me and a place of mental relaxation for contemplation and writing.
* * *
The most beautiful moments for me now are planting new varieties of vegetables, flowers, and trees in the garden, reading about them, and monitoring their watering. I purchase some from specialized stores or plant their seeds in small pots indoors in a warm, sunny spot until the time comes to plant them in the garden, while I fertilize, water, and monitor their progress.
The goal is not just crops; there are other things that are more important to me, such as moments contemplating the development of the plant and its ability to withstand the harshness of nature in the form of storms, winds, and heavy rain. For example, when I contemplate the delicate poppy flower, every time I see it, it is as if I am seeing it for the first time. It endures with tremendous resilience in all harsh conditions, radiating its stunning color and strength every day, and only dying when its natural time comes.
Writing, in its concept, is similar to planting. The idea is implanted in the mind, then placed on paper, where it grows. I continue to prune, adjust, and change it, and I am patient until I finally see the harvest. Agriculture requires patience, and its timing cannot be exceeded to produce fruit prematurely, unless we create a false atmosphere that is not found in uncontrolled nature. The taste of fruit from artificial greenhouses will not be as delicious. Similarly, writing requires time, patience, and a sincere feeling.
I do not fully understand the precise scientific process of what happens to a seed after it is planted underground; this is a great secret that can never be fully revealed, no matter how much we learn from explanatory science. However, I may mimic nature in producing my literary texts, intentionally or unintentionally, and then the result of the writing is a kind of a harvest.
Sometimes, while sitting in the garden, I am surprised by the loud sound of a bird nearby. I discover that the bird is tiny, smaller than a sparrow. The bird inspires me with profoundly with this meaningful disproportion, just as the tiny hummingbird, which hangs in the air with extraordinary agility, inspires me. Other times, I notice a large bird, but it is unable to fly easily, as it cannot soar with the agility of an owl, for example.
The contemplation of what I have mentioned, and dozens of other contemplations on flowers, trees, and nature in general, prompt me to have a special prayer, connection, to make a special effort to reach meaning, to reach a text as simple as a bird or a plant, which is always deeper than it appears.
* * *
I return to the garden and remember my childhood in Cairo in the early 1960s. I grew up on the outskirts of Cairo, near the first governorate where the Delta begins in Egypt. Back then, we thought of ourselves as city dwellers, the "petty bourgeoisie" of Cairo, compared to those from Qalyubia Governorate who were farmers. Incidentally, the word "farmers" still stigmatizes as socially inferior many who live in the Delta governorates or who work as farmers on the land.
As a boy in Egypt, and then as a young man, I realized that my shortcomings were my own. I was ignorant of the appearance of many plants and fruits on their trees or shrubs. For example, as a child, I thought tomatoes were a tree similar to the lemon tree at the entrance to our building, as were potatoes and sweet potatoes.
There is a huge legacy of ignorance related to certain perceptions that remain deeply ingrained in many people. For many, the kitchen is a place for women, and a man's work in it is seen as derogatory. Working the land, whether in gardening or agriculture, is the work of farmers and cannot be the work of an academic. Many of these misconceptions are passed down through generations and hardly change. For example, I feel great happiness when I stand in the kitchen inventing a new recipe for family or friends, a recipe that requires experimentation, patience, and love.
My image of the farmer changed completely when I arrived in Austria. What I saw here in the villages surprised me and changed my outlook, not just on farmers, but on all craftsmen or service workers (blue-collar workers), those whom we considered second- or third-class professions in my home country before moving here. The farmer or the sanitation worker here, in their normal outing clothes, does not differ much from the appearance of a teacher or an engineer. Many of them have hobbies, readings, and interests in art and politics, and they participate in many social activities, contrary to preconceived notions.
This striking image of me here, through professions and crafts, has changed many of the deeply held concepts I brought to Austria four decades ago.
I also witnessed my mother-in-law's interest in gardening, planting, and caring for it. I was amazed each time by her encyclopedic knowledge, and her ability to identify the name of a plant or tree from a single leaf. This is something I have yet to master, and I use a plant app to identify the species in the garden.
The path of research and contemplation remains open through a beautiful garden that offers me a great, whispered literature!
Many people have asked me how I study economics and connect it with literature. Some people think that economics is a field so distant from literature that it cannot possibly have a close relationship to it. When I tell them that my academic specialization was focused on the study of "philosophy of economics," specifically the branch of "economic ethics," and that my doctoral dissertation was titled "Transfer of Ethics through Technology," they respond. I actually wrote it in a play-like form, but one that necessarily followed scientific rules. This seems strange to many and perhaps appeared to be a form of scientific extremism, which it is not.
I also respond by saying that economics taught me literature, and that focusing on economics philosophically leads to an understanding of many aspects of life, including the causes of the wars and disasters we have experienced and are experiencing as a result of selfish economic interests, the global power centers and their tendency toward alleged superiority, the woes of colonialism, the neglect of global environmental health, and other factors.
At one of the seminars I attended during my studies at the University of Vienna, the professor of economic philosophy entered the classroom and posed a question: Is there a relationship between economics and literature? A discussion ensued for some time. Some believed there was no relationship between literature and economics, while others argued that there was, albeit an indirect relationship. My professor knew me and knew of my interest in literature. He had read some of my poems published in German. He smiled, addressing me, and said, "I'll await your response in a written scientific paper!"
The point is, I had written about the themes in the work of Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956) as a link between economics and war. A few weeks later, the professor entered the classroom and began discussing the works presented to him, engaging us in discussions with the author of each paper. He conducted the discussion professionally, sometimes supporting the student and sometimes agreeing with other students' objections and theses. When he delayed showing me my paper and discussing it, I thought he must not have liked it, but he surprised me at the time by revealing his interest in it, and he postponed talking about it until the end for a longer discussion, emphasizing that economics is never absent from art and vice versa. He engaged us in a long, engaging conversation, from which I derived far more benefit than I had from what I had written, read, and prepared.
* * *
Some people are surprised by my interest in flowers, vegetables, and trees, considering it a hobby far removed from literature. Again they ask what relationship gardening and literature could possibly have.
Since my retirement from university teaching at the University of Vienna, less than two years ago, I have tended to spend more time at our rural home in northern Austria, in the region bordering the Czech Republic. This is the home where my wife lived as a child with her parents and brother, until I joined them as a new member of the family in 1985, forty years ago. A few years ago, no one from my wife's family remained except us. We never left our apartment in Vienna, of course. I am still a "city person" at heart, and I also yearn for city life, cafes, museums, and meeting friends in Vienna's traditional cafés.
My wife's father, who comes from a farming family with land along the Danube and still owns it, planted numerous apple, cherry, pear, plum, walnut, hazelnut, and other trees in the home garden, in addition to his work as a policeman. His passion for farming and harvesting never changed. He died young but his spirit lives on in the garden and definitely haunts and changes me.
My wife's mother grew up in the upper middle class, worked as a teacher, and had a keen interest in reading, the arts, travel, and drawing. She was also a walking encyclopedia of knowledge about plants, birds, and animals. I have never found such a large number of references, illustrated books, and dictionaries devoted to these subjects in anyone’s library other than a specialist’s. She also cared for this garden as the central living element of this house.
It seems to me that the spirit of my wife's family still lives on in the house and garden, and that something of it has touched me, making me addicted to agriculture, farming, and gardening. My wife's knowledge is also, of course, inherited and very rich, even better than mine. I turn to her to explain many things or to ask about the names of plants and flowers, many of which I have now mastered in Arabic, although I still do not know the names of some in my native language.
I have also become fond of the region where we live in northern Austria, known as the "Waldviertel," rich in forests, birds, and rare animals.
This place has become a favorite place for me and a place of mental relaxation for contemplation and writing.
* * *
The most beautiful moments for me now are planting new varieties of vegetables, flowers, and trees in the garden, reading about them, and monitoring their watering. I purchase some from specialized stores or plant their seeds in small pots indoors in a warm, sunny spot until the time comes to plant them in the garden, while I fertilize, water, and monitor their progress.
The goal is not just crops; there are other things that are more important to me, such as moments contemplating the development of the plant and its ability to withstand the harshness of nature in the form of storms, winds, and heavy rain. For example, when I contemplate the delicate poppy flower, every time I see it, it is as if I am seeing it for the first time. It endures with tremendous resilience in all harsh conditions, radiating its stunning color and strength every day, and only dying when its natural time comes.
Writing, in its concept, is similar to planting. The idea is implanted in the mind, then placed on paper, where it grows. I continue to prune, adjust, and change it, and I am patient until I finally see the harvest. Agriculture requires patience, and its timing cannot be exceeded to produce fruit prematurely, unless we create a false atmosphere that is not found in uncontrolled nature. The taste of fruit from artificial greenhouses will not be as delicious. Similarly, writing requires time, patience, and a sincere feeling.
I do not fully understand the precise scientific process of what happens to a seed after it is planted underground; this is a great secret that can never be fully revealed, no matter how much we learn from explanatory science. However, I may mimic nature in producing my literary texts, intentionally or unintentionally, and then the result of the writing is a kind of a harvest.
Sometimes, while sitting in the garden, I am surprised by the loud sound of a bird nearby. I discover that the bird is tiny, smaller than a sparrow. The bird inspires me with profoundly with this meaningful disproportion, just as the tiny hummingbird, which hangs in the air with extraordinary agility, inspires me. Other times, I notice a large bird, but it is unable to fly easily, as it cannot soar with the agility of an owl, for example.
The contemplation of what I have mentioned, and dozens of other contemplations on flowers, trees, and nature in general, prompt me to have a special prayer, connection, to make a special effort to reach meaning, to reach a text as simple as a bird or a plant, which is always deeper than it appears.
* * *
I return to the garden and remember my childhood in Cairo in the early 1960s. I grew up on the outskirts of Cairo, near the first governorate where the Delta begins in Egypt. Back then, we thought of ourselves as city dwellers, the "petty bourgeoisie" of Cairo, compared to those from Qalyubia Governorate who were farmers. Incidentally, the word "farmers" still stigmatizes as socially inferior many who live in the Delta governorates or who work as farmers on the land.
As a boy in Egypt, and then as a young man, I realized that my shortcomings were my own. I was ignorant of the appearance of many plants and fruits on their trees or shrubs. For example, as a child, I thought tomatoes were a tree similar to the lemon tree at the entrance to our building, as were potatoes and sweet potatoes.
There is a huge legacy of ignorance related to certain perceptions that remain deeply ingrained in many people. For many, the kitchen is a place for women, and a man's work in it is seen as derogatory. Working the land, whether in gardening or agriculture, is the work of farmers and cannot be the work of an academic. Many of these misconceptions are passed down through generations and hardly change. For example, I feel great happiness when I stand in the kitchen inventing a new recipe for family or friends, a recipe that requires experimentation, patience, and love.
My image of the farmer changed completely when I arrived in Austria. What I saw here in the villages surprised me and changed my outlook, not just on farmers, but on all craftsmen or service workers (blue-collar workers), those whom we considered second- or third-class professions in my home country before moving here. The farmer or the sanitation worker here, in their normal outing clothes, does not differ much from the appearance of a teacher or an engineer. Many of them have hobbies, readings, and interests in art and politics, and they participate in many social activities, contrary to preconceived notions.
This striking image of me here, through professions and crafts, has changed many of the deeply held concepts I brought to Austria four decades ago.
I also witnessed my mother-in-law's interest in gardening, planting, and caring for it. I was amazed each time by her encyclopedic knowledge, and her ability to identify the name of a plant or tree from a single leaf. This is something I have yet to master, and I use a plant app to identify the species in the garden.
The path of research and contemplation remains open through a beautiful garden that offers me a great, whispered literature!
Photo by Gehan Omer
Born in Cairo. He moved to Vienna in 1984. In addition to literary writing, he teaches at three universities in Austria. Seventeen books in Arabic have been published for him, so far. His books have been translated into numerous European languages, including: German, French, English, Spanish, Italian and other languages. Attained various major fellowships and awards: Elias Cannetti Fellowship of the City of Vienna, 2005 and Grand Prize for Poetry 2007 at the International Festival Curtea de Arges in Romania. Received the Decoration of Honor for Services to the Republic of Austria in literature and literary communication- domestically and internationally, 2008. His recent publications in Arabic include: Missing Words, Cairo, Istanbul 2022. You Saw Something You Shouldn’t Have Seen, Cairo 2025. A Little God’s Play, Tunisia, 2021. Floating Naked, Cairo, 2018.
