In the same way I have spent days and nights exploring the insides of books and the contents of their pages, only stopping in order to keep body and soul together with a little breakfast, taking short naps and performing prayers. When the holy month was two-thirds gone, I started to get sick, easily recognizing the annoying symptoms; that forced me to stop writing and adjust my work pattern.
No, no, I'm not one of those authors who can just make up their minds to sit down and write, showing certain symptoms of arrogance and a far from simple ability to fabricate in both vision and gesture. By God, that kind of posture disgusts me and occasionally makes me laugh.
No, no, for me writing is an unexpected jarring sensation, a sudden flare of inspiration; it can also be a tense and tricky process of fermentation, a painfully slow internal course of fruition.
I started having dreams about my wife. I would call for her because I urgently wanted her to come; and she would respond, "Here I am!" I would show her how things were going and what a flood of divine inspiration had reached me. I would tell her to untie my belt, open up my gates, and respond to my expectations. Then I would summon her again and ask her to bare her breasts. She would hear me and reply, "My bosom is your own possession, and all my senses cry out for you!" I then imagine myself telling her, "So here I am today, Fayha', conveying to you some awesome words, so remember them…. No, instead I'm going to tell you some things that, if I compose them all in succession, will bring me contentment and ascendancy." And thus did I set down "The Ascetic's Epistle," "A Book Containing Aphorisms and Homilies," "The Epistle of God's Discourse through the Medium of His Own Light," and "The Epistle of the Blessed Tablets." And all praise be to the True One for the signs of His generosity and beneficence.
Those were all epistles in which my ideas and inspiration were fully formed. There were others from the same period where, because of a lack of time, I merely planned the basic format. They were all either additions to or modifications of the text of Escape of the Gnostic, or else refinements and epigraphs, all of them lightly footnoted and easily comprehensible. I think that they enabled me to come closer to the definition of the essence of the unity of existence and complete perfection, all part of the ongoing struggle to link the potential existent with the Necessary Existent; in other words, to be transformed by the beautiful names of God that are its very essence and to be found worthy of the divine succession.
On the twenty-seventh day of the noble month of Ramadan, Hamada and Bilal came to visit me, escorted by `Abd al-Barr, the warden. The young man reassured me that everything was fine at home and that his mistress was longing to see me. Then `Abd al-Barr informed me with due gratitude that he had received some sacks of food that Bilal had brought with him, which were to be distributed to the poor on the day after the festival. I invited them all to take a stroll on the hillside, and they willingly joined me. We left the zawiya behind us and headed for the forest where the hermits lived. I noticed how amazed and scared Hamada looked as he observed the weird appearance of the figures that kept appearing and disappearing before his very eyes. While 'Abd al-Barr and I were chatting, we heard the young man behind us yelling and asking for help. Looking behind me, I could see an arm stretching out from the limb of a tree and grabbing him by the hand. With my companions I rushed to help him, but we could not wrestle him free of the person in the tree who had grabbed him-and he looked just like the wild and uncontrollable hermit I had met before. I used soothing words to get the hermit to let him go, and he promised to do so just as soon as he had had his fill of the handsome, beardless young man's face. At this point I recalled that looking at beardless youths, just like losing one's senses, public exposure, fantasizing, dancing, and tearing one's clothes are all reckoned among the faults characteristic of hermits. God alone knows whether that is true or not and what mankind conceals inside his breast. In any case it was only moments later that the hermit fulfilled his promise by releasing the youth. I was thus able to rescue him and calm him down somewhat. Sobbing loudly, he begged me to let him go back to his home.
"Not before you join us in a visit to the lunatics' asylum," said `Abd al-Barr with a smile.
It had not even occurred to `Abd al-Barr that the young man was in such a panic, but then Bilal started slapping his cheeks and clawing his chest. "Woe is me!" Hamada yelled. "Lunatics? God protect me!"
I signaled to Bilal that he could leave at once, so Abd al-Barr went over to the scared young man, calmed him down, then carried him in his arms back to the place where we had left the horses.
As we made our way slowly back to the zawiya, 'Abd al-Barr asked me if the enormous black man had swallowed his tongue. I recounted to him the man's disturbing history and resorted frequently to mention of God's all-powerful presence. I in turn asked him about the resident in the asylum whom I had come to know. He told me sadly that Al-Tamimi had committed suicide, and Byron the old man and `Ukasha al-Khalti, the asylum manager, had also died. He was sorry that the manager had passed away, and also that his replacement was a steward with a temperament just like Bilal's. The only way he could control the lunatics was by clapping them in irons, beating them with canes, and threatening them with the rack. The mention of this last device raised an issue that I knew nothing about, and my companion explained that the new steward and his brutal staff regularly showed it to any of the inmates who were particularly disruptive and noisy. Either he stopped doing whatever he was doing and calmed down, or else they would rip off his balls or pierce his skull. The entire thing utterly appalled me. I begged the warden to inform the governor about the situation and to ask him to appoint people who were doctors, not sadists.
Once he had indicated his agreement, we proceeded on our way till we reached the edge of the forest. From the top of a lofty palm we heard a voice. "Here I am," it shouted, "watching the Day of judgment happen. Did not the Prophet himself counsel, `If matters are entrusted to incompetents, then wait for the final hour!"' Abd al-Barr told me that this man had been behaving this way for some time, maintaining his vigil and eating figs from the palm tree and whatever else generous folk happened to send up to him by means of a length of rope. The steward at the asylum and his assistants were quite willing to disregard his behavior as long as he did not hurt anyone or start hurling stones at people. He advised me not to bother myself with either his condition or his words.
As we made our way back to the zawiya, I kept rubbing my hands together disconsolately and acknowledging God's almighty power both silently and aloud. By this time it was noon, so we prayed the prayer with the gathered assembly. Once that was over, I said farewell to my friend, in the hope of meeting him later in the evening to celebrate the Night of Power along with other believers.
And that is what happened. No sooner was the evening prayer over than the tiny mosque was filled with people. They all wanted to listen to readings of surahs from the Qur'an, while `Abd al-Barr and his assistants went around hanging up lamps and lighting them, filling censers with incense, and sprinkling rosewater over the attendees. When they all turned their attention to other litanies and devotions, my very breathing and memory joined in lifting them heavenward and kindling their flame. Truth to tell, bonds of brotherhood and holy fragrances began to spread among the assembly, duly accompanied by the scents of purest incense. Afterward hands were raised in supplication to the heavens, ready to be inspired by prayers like so many pearls on this blessed Ramadan night, the Night of Power, which, as the Qur'an says, is "better than a thousand months." Once their voices had turned hoarse and their throats were dry, the warden and his companions suggested that I be asked to conclude the prayer session. Standing up, I launched into a series of prayers in which I included peoples on both shores of the Mediterranean, the community leaders, and humanity in general. I made a special point of mentioning our poor, suffering Spain, but avoided mentioning any political figures. I did my best to be as eloquent as possible. All around me people were listening, necks outstretched as they chanted "Amen" in unison. My final prayer was "Praise be to God, the Lord of the Humanity."