The Egyptian by Mika Waltari

Posted by admin_akashic on Mar 4th, 2022 in Stories

Book 1: The Reed Boat

I, Sinuhe, the son of Senmut and of his wife Kipa, write this. I do not write it to the glory of the gods in the land of Kem, for I am weary of gods, nor to the glory of Pharaohs, for I am weary of their deeds. I write neither from fear nor from any hope of the future but for myself alone. During my life, I have seen, known and lost too much to be the prey of vain dread; and, as for the hope of immortality, I am as weary of that as I am of gods and kings. For my own sake only do I write this, and herein I differ from all other writers, past and to come.

For everything that has ever been written has been written to the glory of the gods or to the glory of the people. I also want to regard Pharaohs as people for they are like us in their anger and in their fear, in their desire and in their disappointment. There is no difference between us and Pharaohs even if they were written one thousand times among gods. Write them one thousand thousand times among gods but they still remain like people. They have the power to satisfy their anger and escape their fear, but no power saves them from their lust and disillusion. What has been written is written by command of Kings or to flatter the gods or to deceive people to believe something that did not happen; or what happened, happened in a different way; or that someone or another did more or less than he really did. This is my meaning when I say that since time immemorial until this day everything has been written to the glory of the gods or to the glory of the people.

Everything returns to normal, and there is nothing new under the sun, and a man does not change even if his clothes change and the words of his speech change. Therefore I believe that in the future writing will not change either, for man himself does not change. People gather around lies like flies around a honey cake, and a storyteller’s words are like incense when he sits in cow dung on a street corner, but it is truth from which people run away.

But I, Sinuhe, the son of Senmut, have grown weary of lies during my days of old age and disappointment. Therefore I write only for my own sake and only for what I have seen with my own eyes or know for certain to be true. Here I differ from everyone who has come before me or comes after me. A man who writes his words down on paper and, moreover, a man who lets his words and deeds be carved on stone, lives in hope that his words are read and that people after him will read them as well and praise his deeds and wisdom. But there is not much to praise in my words, nor to thank in my deeds, and my wisdom is bitter in my heart and does not please anyone. Children will not copy my words on clay tablets when they practise writing. People will not repeat my wisdom to appear as wise. Writing this, I give up any hope that I will ever be read or understood.

In his wickedness, man is more cruel and hardened than a river crocodile. His heart is harder than stone. His vanity is lighter than dust. Sink him in a stream, and he’ll be the same when his clothes dry up. Sink him in grief and disillusion, and if he rises, he rises the same as before. I, Sinuhe, have seen so many changes during the days of my life, but again everything returns to normal, and man has not changed. And there are also people who say that what happened, never happened before, but that is vain talk.

I, Sinuhe, saw a boy kill his father on a street corner. I saw the poor rise against the rich, and gods rise against gods. I saw a man, who once drank his wine from golden cups, bow his head in poverty and drink from the river. Those, who had once weighed gold, begged on alley corners while their wives sold themselves to painted black men for the price of a copper bracelet in order to buy bread for their children.

But so it has been before too. Also during the time of the Shepherd Kings a man, who had spent his nights on earthenware floors, later lay under the splendour of canopies; also then strangers came and crushed children’s heads on doorsteps and bound women to slavery who had worn royal linen; also then men, who had built their tombs on western mountains, were slain and their bodies thrown into the stream.

So nothing new has happened, and what is to happen has already happened in the past. If a man has not changed in the past, he will not change in the future either. Those who come after me, are the same who came before me. How could they understand my wisdom? Why would I hope for them to read my words?