The infirmity gifted by this fever allows me to make myself into two eyes and read the fever through reading glasses which
are unfortunately not at all magical, in any way. And as I read I try to
understand whether it is metaphorical or representational, like all readers of
epics and novels do.
Yes. I agree that I turn around in the bed sleepless burning
in the cauldron of my body. In the vapid hours of such wakefulness the
unintelligible words that escape my befuddled mind get lost in the eternity I
stare into. My two days hunger gives me an illusion that I am writhing in the
middle of a desert, a terrain which I have never seen, but which I use a lot in
my so called poems, as done by all dilettantes. Again and again I think of
pushing the bed down with the remaining strength of my weak hands and lift my fragile
body up to try to prepare a little coffee, but then each time I sink back to
the bed cut down by the remembrance that there is no coffee powder left. It has
been four days since I have washed my body, and I am emanating a malodor, perhaps
one of the worst possible by a man alive.
Despite all this I agree that the fever may still be metaphorical
and not representational. Or else the fever may be a complex mixture of the
metaphorical and the representational - inconceivably complex for men to
understand its pattern (men who forever vainly try to untangle this intricately
interwoven brocade).
