Morel

I recently read a fantastic (I use that term with every possible implication) novel called The Invention of Morel by Adolfo Bioy Casares.  In addition to its many strengths, it captures a sense of what it means to spend time alone in a way that I have never encountered before.  It is a great read and the publisher (nyrb) is showing itself to be a consistent source of wonderful literature.

I read this section as I was falling asleep and the coincidence was too perfect not to share it...

Now I am Looking for a way to construct a permanent bed; I shall not find it here in the lowlands; the trees are decayed and cannot support me.  But I am determined to change all this:  when the tides are high I do not sleep, and the smaller floods interrupt my rest on the other days, but always at a different hour.  I cannot get used to these inundations.  I find it difficult to sleep, thinking of the moment when the muddy, lukewarm water will cover my face and choke me momentarily.  I do not want to be surprised by the current, but fatigue overcomes me and then the water is already there, silently forcing its way into my respiratory passages.  This makes me feel painfully tired, and I tend to be irritated and discouraged by the slightest difficulty.