Because she knew, because he had confessed to her, that he’d given up writing long ago. Snipped it off like a thread, without having made a conscious decision, without prior intent. He’d thrown away his pencil and stepped away from its lines. Unable to swallow a single letter more, he’d turned away from his meal like a dyspeptic, instead taking up a diet of not writing, a period of light relaxation, during which he felt neither hunger nor indigestion. This new regimen was soothing at first, and he thought it would be temporary, like any diet. But months passed, followed by years, and he luxuriated in his withdrawal and isolation. Soon, whenever someone spoke a sentence in his hearing, he found himself picking apart their words as they rose and fell, turned and spun, examining them until the continuity of their thought was severed, and whatever remained quickly evaporated. Then, on the rare occasion that he picked up something to read, he discovered that the letters would separate from each other to make space for squirming, ugly little intruders that robbed the words of their meaning. He found it more and more difficult to get his eyes to travel from the first letter to the last in words that seemed to distend as he read, like pale, flabby bodies whose heads can’t be told from their asses.

In the end, he was certain that speech itself had lost its shape. It had deteriorated, worn out, to melt over his hands like candle wax, where it began to burn and caused a near-physical pain. There was nothing in the world so infuriating as the words a man couldn’t help but read, hear, stammer, and repeat. It became his sole object of complaint. Mr. N decided that he hated writing. Maybe the time would come when he was ready to pick up his pencil again, but that time was slow in coming. He would give up all thought of being a writer, at least for a while.

Then that tyrannical high-rise, that tower sprouted up. It kept rising until he felt as though its bulk was somehow crushing his chest. He left his balcony and his apartment and checked into the hotel. This was years ago now, but Miss Zahra never grew weary of reminding him about his writing, insisting that he get back to work. “Writing will relax you,” she once told him. Then, taking hold of his hand, she added, “Your gifts are a blessing!”

Mr. N just laughed. “If it were up to me, I’d share out this ‘gift,’ as you call it, with everyone,” he said. “Why shouldn’t anyone who likes the idea enjoy this coveted little hell?” It was clear that she didn’t understand, and how could he explain to her that his body, separated from writing for so long, had become a smooth, orderly landscape after having been a mountain pocked with rocky slopes and caves?

“If you don’t want to write anymore, at least go back to reading?” suggested Miss Zahra.