The Most Secret Memory of Men: A Novel

by Mohamed Mbougar Sarr

I’m going to be a writer! But then that terrible moment always comes, en route, in the middle of the night, when a voice rings out and strikes like lightning; and it reveals to you, or reminds you, that desire isn’t enough, that talent isn’t enough, that ambition isn’t enough, that being a good writer isn’t enough, that being well-read isn’t enough, that being famous isn’t enough, that being highly cultured isn’t enough, that being wise isn’t enough, that commitment isn’t enough, that patience isn’t enough, that getting drunk off pure life isn’t enough, that retreating from life isn’t enough, that believing in your dreams isn’t enough, that dissecting reality isn’t enough, that intelligence isn’t enough, that stirring hearts isn’t enough, that strategy isn’t enough, that communication isn’t enough, that even having something to say isn’t enough, nor is working tirelessly enough; and the voice also says that all of that might be and often is a condition, an advantage, an attribute, a strength, of course, but then the voice adds that in essence none of those qualities are ever enough when it’s a question of literature, because writing always demands something else, something else, something else. Then the voice stops and leaves you to your solitude, en route, with the echo of something else, something else that rolls along and then away, something else in front of you, writing always demands something else, in this night without the certainty of dawn.