Scholars and their books: a peculiar Islamic view from the fifth/eleventh century (presidential address).

• Author: Al-Qadi, Wadad

Scholars are notorious for their love of their books. They might undergo all kinds of difficulties when they compile them, and they might not want to read, or even look at, them once they are published and in their hands, finished products; but they surely await reviews of them with great anticipation, and hope for the best. When the reviews appear, they rejoice in the positive ones, try hard to be stoic about mixed ones, and are certainly hurt by negative ones. They might even become angry, and it is not unheard of that they question the motives or scholarship of the negative reviewers, so that it is not uncommon to hear them say something like: "And who does she think she is!" or "I know why he said what he did--but I cannot tell you, at least not for the time being!" This is not to say that the relationship between scholars and their books is simple. On the contrary, it is quite complex. Many scholars pass through periods of self-doubt about their scholarship; many have writers' blocks for periods that can extend for several years; and many reevaluate every now and then what they have accomplished and often feel uncertain about the outcome of their reevaluation. But in almost all cases, their scruples do not lead them to question the principle of writing books: this is something that comes with the territory of the profession. And it is probably safe to say that none of them would consider getting rid of their books: good or bad, they are just too dear to them--too close to their hearts. And yet, is it possible that the relationship between a scholar and his books should become so sour that he actually destroys the very object of his affection?

In medieval Islamic civilization--a civilization renowned for its scholars' love for their books--we read in the biographical literature about three early scholars who destroyed their books. There is, first, Abu 'Amr b. al-'Ala', the celebrated early scholar of Arabic language and Qur'an "readings," who died ca. 154/770. It is reported that the collections of notebooks of poetical proof texts he had compiled filled an entire room in his residence. Later on, having devoted himself to Qur'an readings, he burned these books and thus had to rely on his memory when he cited poetry. Then there is Yusuf b. Asbat, a transmitter of Prophetic traditions (hadith) and an ascetic, who died about the beginning of the third/ninth century. This Yusuf is reported to have buried his books. The burial affected his accuracy adversely and he was unable to narrate his hadith as it should be narrated. Lastly, there is Dawud al-Ta'i, the scholar of hadith and Islamic law turned ascetic, who died in 160/777 or 165/781. We know more about the circumstances surrounding his destruction of his books. It is reported that one day he pelted a person with a pebble. The person said to him: "O Abu Sulayman, your tongue has become long, and so has your hand!" Dawud remained silent for one year, neither being asked about scholarly matters nor providing answers. Thereafter, he took his books and cast them into the Euphrates. He then gave up scholarship, devoted himself to worship, and chose to live a solitary and ascetic life. There are stories about his having inherited from his mother a house that badly needed repair. Instead of repairing it, however, he lived at first in one room until it became uninhabitable, then moved to another room until it, too, became uninhabitable, and then to a third, and so on until he died. He also inherited money from his father. He used this money for his expenses all his life, and the same money was used to provide for his burial shroud.

All we know about these three scholars' lives comes from the notices that are reported in the biographical sources. Their brief accounts do not provide us with enough information to form a picture about the potential negative relationship between scholars and their books other than to suggest that there could be some relation between book destruction and an individual scholar's preference for a withdrawn, ascetic lifestyle. However, we do possess a five-page letter by a litterateur and scholar of the fourth-fifth/tenth-eleventh century in which he explains why he burned his books. This letter, unique in Arabic literature, goes far beyond contextualizing one historical instance of book destruction; it raises general questions, directly and indirectly, about the relationship between scholars and their books. In that sense, it should prove instructive to scholars in every age, and is hence relevant to us today. The letter will be the subject of this address. But, first, a few words about the author, Abu Hayyan al-Tawhidi.

Tawhidi was born in the early fourth/tenth century, probably in Baghdad, to a family that appears to have been extremely poor. In his early life, he seems to have associated with Sufis, performed the pilgrimage in their company, and demonstrated a tendency to believe in supernatural, divine provision and an interest in finding out who "strangers" in society were. For his livelihood, he took up manuscript copying, a "profession of misfortune," as he called it, and one that "consumes one's lifetime and eye-sight." Nevertheless, it is clear that this profession led him to close association with books early in his life and probably opened the door for him to pursue higher education. His studies at first centered on the linguistic and religious sciences: Arabic language, morphology and grammar, Qur'an, hadith, and law, and his teachers in these disciplines were some of the most competent and revered scholars of Baghdad at the time. Armed with a solid education and a budding literary talent, Tawhidi started to think of improving his social position, and thus traveled to Rayy--in the vicinity of modern Tehran--seeking the patronage of the famous vizier litterateur, Abu al-Fadl Ibn al-'Amid. His trip was a complete failure, for other than making some new, valuable acquaintances, he received nothing from the vizier, and thus returned to Baghdad. Shortly thereafter, the vizier Abu al-Fadl died and was replaced by his son Abu al-Fath, also seemingly a man with interest in the arts. Tawhidi sent him a highly laudatory letter and again headed to Rayy. But his experience this time was no better than the previous one, and a disappointed Tawhidi returned to Baghdad. Within a few months, the new vizier was killed and was replaced by a towering literary and scholarly figure, the famous al-Sahib Ibn 'Abbad. Filled with hope, Tawhidi packed his bags for the third time and traveled to Rayy. But if his two previous trips were failures, this trip was a resounding defeat and humiliation, for the arrogant vizier refused to recognize Tawhidi's literary talent and scholarly acumen and treated him as a mere copyist, demanding that he copy his own--the vizier's--literary works! After three years of living backstage and witnessing the dark side of the illustrious vizier's lifestyle, Tawhidi returned to Baghdad, frustrated, angry, and as destitute as ever, and wrote a book, Akhlaq/Mathalib al-wazirayn, in which he exposed the vices of this vizier and the two viziers with whom he had failed previously.

Concentrating again on writing, he finished another book, al-Basa'ir wa al-dhakha'ir, a ten-volume, sensitive literary anthology he had begun a decade earlier. He also began to widen his scholarly horizons, attaching himself to a circle of diverse Aristotelian philosophers of various religious backgrounds who met regularly to discuss all kinds of issues from a philosophical perspective--from medicine and astrology to music and literature. Elated with his new experience, Tawhidi wrote a book, al-Muqabasat, in which he recorded the discussions he heard, editing them as he saw fit. In the meantime, the appointment of a new vizier in Baghdad reawakened Tawhidi's aspiration for literary and scholarly recognition, and also for a decent income. This time success did not totally elude him: the vizier, Ibn Sa'dan, recognized his talent and made him his private interlocutor and informant. But luck was not completely on Tawhidi's side even this time. For one thing, the vizier, who was generous with his time, was not generous with his money; and he was killed less than two years after Tawhidi had met him. And for another, his relation with the vizier aroused the anger of a friend of his who had introduced him to the vizier: if Tawhidi wished to mend his relations with him, his friend told him, he should put in writing all the conversations he had had privately with the vizier. Tawhidi complied with the request and compiled a three-volume record of his discussions with the vizier, his al-Imta' wa al-mu'anasa. He ended the book with a letter on political advice he had written to the vizier and another to his friend describing his crushing poverty and humiliating life conditions and begging this friend for any kind of employment. But, here again, his cries for help fell on deaf ears. Now in his mid-fifties, Tawhidi had amassed almost nothing. Consumed with worry about finding the next day's food, he could give no thought to living comfortably. From that time, information about him becomes scarce. He might have made another attempt at seeking a patron's favor, in Shiraz this time, but no success is recorded. When he was in his eighties, he wrote a book on friendship, his Risalat al-sadaqa wa al-sadiq, in which he complained bitterly about the lack of friends and persistent destitution, and another book, al-Isharat al-ilahiyya, on divine signs, in which he addressed God with meditative pieces in a pronounced Sufi vein: he had returned to the security of Sufism with which he had begun his life. In the same year, 400/1010, he burned his books. When he died fourteen long years later, in 414/1023, he was buried in the Sufis' cemetery in Shiraz. He left behind the six books and two letters that I have mentioned, along with six additional books and eight more...