Mohamed Mbougar Sarr
In Conversation
This week, we spoke to Mohamed Mbougar Sarr about awakening as a writer, leaning into creative intuition and telling stories that command their own form.
Interviewed by Zulaikhah Agoro.
ZA: I’d like to start at the very beginning of your writing exploits. What was your earliest experience with telling stories?
MMS: I think that there was only one way for me to become a writer, one way that mattered to me and made the idea seem possible. By closing a book, reading a sentence, or seeing an image in a book that transported me to another world, that door was opened for me. But which book was it, and which sentence? What was this metaphor that inspired me? Did it come from one of my maternal grandmother’s stories, that she told me when I was 5 years old, whose voice shaped me and my memories? Was it a copy of Balzac’s Le Père Goriot or a sentence written by Borges? Was it written by Malick Fall, the often forgotten author of La Plaie? Or was it in a verse written by the Senegalese poet Senghor?
It’s impossible to say exactly or to tell you when it started. But one thing is certain: a writer is very often a product of the books they’ve read, the time they spent among words and the rhythm of sentences. And I suppose that one day, whether it’s because of humility or ambition, we ask ourselves: why not me? Why am I not a writer? The rest is a question of talent, courage, patience, luck and the ability to know how to gracefully accept defeat. That’s what happened for me; my ‘why not me?’ happened when I was 22 years old. But I think this question was inside of me from birth, and I just needed to mature enough for it to make itself known.
ZA: That is so beautifully said. So, once you had your why-not-me moment, what happened next? Can you walk us through your journey to becoming an author?
MMS: I am one of the lucky ones who sent a manuscript to a number of publishing houses, with no support from within the industry, and, one day, from among the thousands of rejections, came a yes. Although to be honest, Présence Africaine, the publishing house that published my first novel, called me on the phone. I remember crying with joy in the middle of the classroom where I was deciphering an obscure text by Friedrich Schiller. I received the letter a few days later. I kept it, but I also held onto the rejection letters.
Before that, I was a student. I had just arrived in Paris and I somewhat resembled a character in a John Fante novel, sending short stories to literary competitions and journals as a way of earning some money and financing my studies, and also to confront the idea of being a writer. One of these short stories, La cale, won a prize and a few days later (I don’t know if there is a link between the two), Présence Africaine called me. This publishing house was a key player in the fight for space in Francophone literature for Black culture and colonised countries. Black identity was supported by the publishing house and the journal that carries the same name. It’s a resounding honour to be published by them, a dream that I had thought out of reach, especially at such a young age when I was all but unknown.
ZA: On that note, your debut novel, ‘Brotherhood’ proved to be a smash hit that won the Grand Prix du Roman Métis, the Prix Ahmadou Kourouma, and the French Voices Grand Prize. You also recently received France’s most prestigious book prize, the Prix Goncourt. How do you feel about all this success? Did you anticipate it? How has your writing approach evolved since you made your debut?
MMS: It’s impossible to anticipate a book’s success. All that I wanted was to continue writing and, with each book, to immerse myself more in literary research. I would be a hypocrite to say that being recognised in literary spaces is unimportant, but that came much further down on my list of ambitions. Being successful depends on so many external factors that it is pointless to pin all of one’s dreams on it, as an author. I’m a stoic, so I concentrate on what I can do myself: put in the effort, spend more time on each phrase, improve myself by delving even further into the depths of a novel, paying attention to my characters, the scenes, the lyricism. I was lucky enough to see each of my books receive a great response from critics and win at least one prize.
As it is so prestigious, the Goncourt belonged to another dimension. Before I won it, I was relatively anonymous. It was my opportunity. However, those years alone on the outside taught me one thing that, now that I am a little closer to the centre, has become my guiding compass. In literature, the pressure that you put on yourself should never be less than the pressure put on you by others.
ZA: I’d like to touch briefly on your last release, The Most Secret Memory of Men, which is loosely inspired by Malian novelist Yambo Ouologuem and his disappearance from the literary scene. A feature in The New Yorker hypothesizes on why you decided to write a novel on this legend rather than taking another approach like a biography, saying ‘Sometimes the greatest tribute that authors can pay to their predecessors is simply to continue where they left off.’
What is your take on this? Why did you decide to write a fresh new novel rather than a precise account of Yambo Ouologuem’s history?
MMS: In reality, I started by carrying out academic research into Ouologuem. I didn’t make it to the end for two reasons. The first, and the most obvious, is laziness.
ZA: Haha, I can relate to that.
MMS: The second, and the realest, is that I felt this story called for a particular form. I believe that stories command their own structure, and an author’s wisdom comes from sometimes listening closely and finding that form. The story of Ouologuem needed to take the form of a novel, to make it a larger metaphor than that of Ouologueum’s individual destiny. There are so many authors who disappear after controversy or sink into the mystery, and abandon their craft, that it is almost banal. But what makes the story of Yambo Ouologuem so singular? When we speak about formal singularity, the novel pricks its ears. Where we have limited facts, there is an abyss of silence and impossibility. A biography or academic essay stops and tries to leans in. But the novel jumps into it: another truth emerges, the truth of novels: made of feelings, intuition, hypothesis, fantasy, invention. I delved deep into my understanding of the Ouologuem case and all the political and literary questions surrounding it (plagiarism, literary discrimination and racism, postcolonial relations), and used the form of the novel to do so. On a certain level, fiction transfigures reality, and opens another, whereas an essay analyses reality. Hermann Broch, the great Austrian novelist, said that only the novel can shed light on the human experience. That’s what I believe too.
The Ouologuem scandal came about because of a novel. It indicated the best literary genre to tell the story.
ZA: Now I’d like to talk about your latest work, ‘The Silence of The Choir’. It was originally released in French in July 2017 and has now been translated into the English language. What was the process of translating the story like? How did it feel to see the story change form, so to speak?
MMS: To me, translation has always seemed a bit like a miracle. What interests me is that it isn’t just simply a translation of the author’s words, it’s even more than that. Translation is a deep understanding of the writing beyond the obscurities and secrets hidden within the text. Translators let the writing become a part of themselves. Translation is more than just a technicality, it is also a kind of love (or rage), a meeting between the text and the heart (or soul, if you want to be less lyrical). The choices made by a translator interest me to the highest level, as their choices are readings and interpretations of a text. In addition, it is amazing to see a story written in one language and context, and for it to then change into a different language and context. It fills me with curiosity, gratitude and excitement.
I didn’t have much contact with the person who translated my book into English. I know, from experience, that translators work very differently. Some are in close contact with the author, while others choose to work completely alone. I understand and accept both methods. I am always open to exchanges regarding the intricacies of a text. The Silence of the Choir is very dear to me. It was my second book, the one I doubted the most. It was also a book tied to a contemporary political, geographic and human situation filled with tragedy: the fate of refugees arriving from the sea in Europe, met with all kinds of reception, including sometimes the most hostile of welcomes. I wrote it with a certain narrative ambition. I hope that you can feel this ambition in the English translation. I’m sure you can.
ZA: The ambition is definitely present. Since we are on the topic of the political, I’d like to slightly veer the conversation in that direction. Usually, popular African literature tends to lean towards the Anglophone side of the continent. I am quite used to seeing English-speaking writers getting ‘preferential’ treatment on the global scene so it is very refreshing to see you as a Francophone author doing so well.
I’d like to hear your thoughts on the literary scene in Francophone Africa, particularly Senegal where you are native to. How do you think writers from these regions can get more global recognition for their work that is on par with their Anglophone counterparts?
MMS: It’s an interesting comparison, one which involves profound consideration of the historical and political context. The most obvious of these is language: English dominates global markets and English speakers make up the majority of readers, to such an extent that no other language can compare. Writing in English therefore increases your chances of being read on a larger scale, and being recognised in certain circles. It is not necessarily automatic for these authors, but the English-language market offers more opportunities than the French-language market.
Secondly, Anglophone African authors are often not tied to London or New York to the same overwhelming extent that Francophone African authors are to Paris. Paris remains the prestigious centre of the French language editorial world. Paris can decide, choose, exclude or establish. This extroversion of Francophone African literature, for which France remains the driving force, is deplorable. I’m not sure if this is also the case for Anglophone authors because in the English speaking world there are so many editorial centres, and these Anglophone authors may also originally come from countries that have powerful markets.
What makes our situation- and I’m speaking about authors within the Francophone African space-even more tragic, is that we depend on a literature, that is French literature which, itself, is losing strength and influence. Of course, we all know and read works by the French literature greats, but in the modern era, even they aren’t that visible in the wider world, with the exception of just two or three of them. We are therefore on the margin of a literature which is itself on the margin.
The solution is to develop our own literary ecosystems within our own African countries, to reduce our dependence on other countries. This happens by building more publishing houses, stronger literary prizes, and by creating a mass of readers and reviewers. It is a long, hard process, but I think it’s in progress. Choosing to co-publish can also put Paris’ domination into perspective. That’s why The Most Secret Memory of Men was published by two different publishing houses: Philippe Rey in France and Jimsaan in Senegal.
ZA: That’s certainly a a very sound choice, and I believe if more African authors follow that route, the industry will progressively improve over the coming years. Now, I want to delve into the technical side of things. When you have an idea for a new book, how do you approach the process of creating the book? Do you work with strict outlines or simply go with the flow?
MMS: Usually, my books start with images, not ideas. These images may be physical or imaginary, and the first stages of my work involve testing their rigidity and their endurance against time. Only the most persistent of these images can become functioning scenes. These inaugural scenes might not even go on to form the beginning of the novel, but I use them to develop the story. I wrap other scenes around this inaugural scene, and so this scene becomes the core of the novel. It is therefore important for me to see this scene, to see the characters come to life, and the questions that come from these characters as soon as I have grasped them. These questions, naturally, don’t just come from anywhere, but from me, and they will always surround some kind of existential theme. Once this scene, which led to my questioning, is written, I decide how I will start the novel, and I will write until I have reached the point that this scene takes place, which could be 200 pages later, but often less.
This is to say, therefore, that my method - and I don’t know if ‘method’ is the right word-of writing is a mixture of chaos because the initial image often emerges from disorder which remains so for a time. Then, as soon as that first image becomes solid and clear, the writing becomes linear. I don’t know how to write from a detailed plan. I believe in intuition. I think it was Marguerite Duras (whose books I don’t particularly like), who asked herself (and for once, I agree with her) what was interesting in knowing what one would write before one has written it. I believe a novel creates its own start point and its own form. I believe in the autonomy of form, that the author should temper, organise and control it, but that the form itself appears from the sentences written.
As for the practical side of things, I am a nocturnal writer. Daytime offers very few quiet hours, and even the dawn is too short, and quickly becomes noisy as soon as people wake up. Also, I always end up writing lying down, even if I make a point of starting by sitting at my desk like a serious writer. It’s clear to see that I am not that. I like to read a few pages of text by my favourite writers before I start, something that will warm me up and propel me into my writing.
ZA: I absolutely believe you are a serious writer, haha. That’s why I’d like to know, are you currently working on anything new? When is your next book coming out?
MMS: Yes, after almost three years of keeping busy promoting my latest book, I am once again back to writing a new book. An image is there, and it’s a solid one. We’ll see where it takes me. But I feel the necessary enthusiasm and doubt to get going. However, I’m not sure I’ll finish it any time soon, unless the spirit of Balzac is reincarnated in me one night, and I’m able to write a book in just a few weeks.
ZA: In that case, we must immediately find a way to invoke Balzac’s spirit. Final question, what is your best advice for aspiring authors?
MMS: Some advice as old as time. Read. A lot.
Mohamed Mbougar Sarr was born in Dakar in 1990. He studied literature and philosophy at the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales in Paris. Brotherhood, his first novel, won the Grand Prix du Roman Métis, the Prix Ahmadou Kourouma, and the French Voices Grand Prize, in Alexia Trigo’s translation. He was named Chevalier of the National Order of Merit by the president of Senegal.
Photo credit: © Momar Niang
Interview translated from French by Isabel Williams
