Hospital talk
By
Naguib Mahfouz
My health is better, thank God. But the dreams, the dreams I used to have when recuperating, which were an unexpected source of inspiration for my writing, seem to have gone forever. Or perhaps they come and they go and then I don't remember them which really amounts to the same thing.
They used to be my way of conquering illness, those dreams. Or rather, they seemed to invest the sleep of illness with meaning. At times, indeed, I felt that my entire life's experience was distilled in them -- which was enough of a reason to write them down, give them literary shape.
Now, as I lie here recuperating from yet another stint in intensive care, I feel the dreams are gone, destroyed.
Perhaps there will come a time when my dreams begin to surface again at the edge of consciousness. That will happen when I am less tired, less drained by so much illness on top of old age. And then maybe I will begin to remember these miniature, profound scenarios. They will assume a life force of their own and then they will be written down. I hope: my reserves of inspiration are not spent quite yet. No, my reserves are not spent.
Based on an interview by Mohamed Salmawy.
