After a good deal of effort and cogitation on my part, I have finally become convinced that the harvest it will produce will be scant. My endeavors may occasionally produce a flower, but as with Sisyphus will never fully bud. It will be exactly like what I have described above, namely something of a kind that, were I to write it down, the surface words could be understood but without all the hidden nuances that it contains. All of which means that there is no point in recording it and attracting feeble intellects to its contents.
True enough, before I was beset by this enormous disaster, it would occasionally happen to me, like any other human author, that my ideas would simply dry up. Even so, I felt too proud to use that as a pretext for doing nothing or for going into some kind of decline. At such times I would practice my other kind of activity, bringing to the forefront some older problems: I would pose some questions on theological issues and the hidden inner meanings of things, convoluted issues of extreme complexity such as one for which the only solution lies in a reliable and rigorous mode of analysis.
But as of today, even that mode of resolution is rare and unattainable. There is no power or might except in free Truth!
1
TO BE THE LIVING, breathing person, someone scored by despair and grief, the memory alive to a loss that lingers like a sharp knife under the skin, and yet at the same time to go out into the world fabricating a radiant Buddha's smile and all the symptoms of well-being and contentment;
To address people in a manner that suggests an assertive and rigid optimism, one that at times almost rises to a shriek;
To make resounding declarations of enthusiasm and present things as though surreal or else wrapped in ideals-
All such things involve sheer rhetoric; they may even be the acme of rhetoric. If not, then so be it. After all, rhetoric is no easy, uncomplicated function, nor is it within the powers of people whose dreams, tastes, and disposition are not up to the task.
In fact, ponder along with me, those of you who possess the requisite mind and spleen. Just imagine where we would now find ourselves were it not for various skills of dissimulation and concealment, imaginative powers and oil from empty bottles, psychological tricks and superabundant fantasy!
How can I avoid devoting particular love and affection to magic, alchemy, geomancy, and even the words of poets; after all, as the saying puts it, "The sweetest poetry is the most deceitful!"
On the same subject (and maybe in quest of some relief and consolation), I disguised myself and went to the desert area outside Murcia to consult a Jewish fortune-teller who was renowned for her ability to tell people's fortunes and offer advice. Along with a lot of other people I waited for quite a while. When my turn came, she stared straight into my eyes, then said something amazing: "The thing you've come to me for, Ibn Sabin, that's something for which I have no cure. Neither my implements nor my potions will be of any use. Go back whence you came and, to the extent possible, immerse yourself in your own past. Write down your efforts and whatever you see. Perhaps then you will remember, or forget."
I tried to say something, but she stopped me. When I wanted to pay her, she refused to accept anything. With that I got up reluctantly and followed her enormous servant to the exit door.
Following the fortune-teller's suggestion, I proceeded to sequester myself for seven consecutive days, concentrating entirely and exclusively on those occasions and moments that immediately preceded the loss. The idea was that such a procedure might serve to relive my agony and guide me to what I had lost and needed so much. Among the things that emerged was a picture of the brash and impetuous youth that I myself had been. I had been brought up exactly like Imam Ibn Hazm,* nourished among women's thighs and passed from one lap to another. It was among women that I had memorized the Qur'an and poetry, the art of chanting religious texts, and correct diction, even handwriting and playing both lute and flute. When I think back, I find myself breathing in the scent of their mouths and breasts. It feels as though a gentle perfume is wafting through my very self.
For me, my sister, and my brother, my dear mother, Umama, was a paragon of tender, loving motherhood. Whenever my father got angry and piled abuse on me, it was my mother who provided refuge and protection. My father was actually a retainer for the ruling Banu Hud* family, a group of rulers who were forever playing musical chairs with executive positions and intriguing against each other. My father's plan was that I should be an exact duplicate of my elder brother, namely a carbon copy of himself, heir to his secrets, expert in the various ways of climbing the bureaucratic ladder of ranks and salaries, and of grabbing a portion of the prestige involved. However, my entire nature resisted such a notion; I wanted something entirely different, something more in line with my own inclinations.
From my teenage years into adulthood, the parts of Spain that were still in Muslim hands were shrinking from one decade to the next. Where prominent rulers and politicians were concerned, the situation showed a relentless slide toward fragmentation and a resort to the lowest common denominator. I myself followed the lead of the majority of such people and their offspring by indulging in all sorts of reckless luxury and pomp, seeking pleasures and delights of every kind. I became very adept at such activities. It was as if I were going to die the very next day, or else Izra'il, the Angel of Death, was allowing me some extra time, but only on condition that I concentrate entirely on sensory pleasures that would inevitably result in my demise.
Faced with what seemed like all-encompassing disaster and imminent terror, these rulers-fathers and sons alike-started devoting themselves to those pleasures that provided the greatest consolation and distraction: food and sex. For my part, I can vouch for the fact that I favored the latter over the former; indeed I can identify it as being the most successful and efficacious antidote to the occasional fits of depression that would come over me.
My father divorced his second wife and married another woman younger than both himself and my mother. With that he divided his daily routine between two separate households, and his activities and preoccupations multiplied. As a direct result I now found myself liberated from his violent moods and direct control. My mother was well aware of my current proclivities, but chose to ignore them as long as I concentrated on my education and studies. Even so, she was well aware of my dallyings with our female neighbors, both divorcees and virgins, and of the way I consorted with prostitutes who had to pay a tax for their professional activities to the amir's market-inspector; for that reason they were known as "polltax women," that being a label that was known far and wide in the Peninsula.
What am I supposed to say about these poll-tax women? Invoking the advice of the fortune-teller, I will now trawl my memory, but all I can remember about them is a few vague impressions that recall both the phony gaiety of their existence and its sheer vulnerability. By now I have completely forgotten their predominantly black color. I have no idea what their fate has been. I suspect that some of them may have died or suffered a premature old age; for others opportunities may have opened so they could either make their own way in the world or else gain manumission and seek repentance for their sins.