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tahar ben jalloun
Depression came later, when I
found myself alone in my large
apartment. I asked my oldest
son to live with me for a few
days. He couldn’t because
of work; he was making a
film in Corsica. He called me
often. On this occasion, I
realized how tough loneliness
could be. I started listening
to opera. I had a pile of
unwrapped CDs. My recovery
passed by with music. There
was sadness in the air. I was
incapable of going back to my
work. I didn’t read any of the
books that people had given
me — detective fiction, so-
called light reading. I became
allergic to newspapers and
informational magazines. It all
seemed vain and unimportant;
I felt diminished. But it wasn’t
visible. In the end, it was only
me who could know what
brought me down. They
removed my organ. There
was nothing put in its place. A
hole, wide open. Depression
starts with this observation.