The Harafish

by Naguib Mahfouz

The cart glides along discreetly, garlanded with flowers. No one notices the creaking of its wheels. People only hear what they want to hear. The powerful believe they are joined in eternal union with the world. But the cart never stops and the world is an unfaithful spouse.

If permanence were possible, why would the seasons change?

People watched, remembered, counted the sidelong glances and the veiled intentions, misinterpreted what they thought they saw, anticipated the confirmation of doubts—all in the guise of piety and innocence.

“What are you looking for?” “Something I can’t find, and I find what I’m not looking for,”