I have also taken notice of your desire for poetry, but I must confess that I am not in the mood for waxing poetic. These modern hospitals are not quite fitting; they are too sterile, too mechanical; there are too many synthetic materials, too much plastic to be a good place for fostering passion. This corner is too quiet, too deadly quiet: a good place for writing - but not poetry; whether it be for my poetry or my prose, this hospital wing is too orderly; the rhythm here is too tired, too much going about one's business with a barely disguised reluctance. There's no way to wheedle any poetry out from these people. They are probably underpaid - but then again, I know nothing about British health care, and I'm not the sick one, so I won't complain. I don't think you want any elegies - although, when I look at Albert's quiet body: the once sturdy frame slowing sinking into itself - an elegy is all I can think of writing. But there is time for that.

Now between these two feelings, eros and romance, we have the stuff of poetry - or, at least, most of it - which leads us to the mind, with which we show 'attention,' the care and courtesy that betrays our feelings. This attention is based on ties of kinship, whether these be real or desired, and, consequently, attention is what makes us 'members of a family.'

Then I went to the bookshelf. There were lots of Hungarian books and lots of books in English. There was poetry, mostly Hungarian. There was a book by Endre Ady: Uj versek. "New poems," I said to myself, translating as I pulled the book from the shelf. It was an old book: an edition from nineteen twenty-five. "Not so new anymore," I said, returning the book to its place. There were lots of books by 'Szabo's, and they were all different people named Szabo. "Must be a popular name," I said. Then I noticed a more familiar one at the end of the shelf: Konrad with a K - that was all that was written on the spine, and, knowing that Joseph Conrad's name was originally spelled with a K, I thought this might be a book by my favorite author. It turned out to be a certain Gyorgy Konrad, apparently a Hungarian.

But by describing this malaise, I do not mean to imply that these people are accustomed to death - that is a good thing if they have it; my suspicion is that many of these people - and not just in the hospital but outside as well - many of these people walking around are unaccustomed to life. I'm not sure what I mean - perhaps I mean that these people are too familiar with their pedestrian existence - but no matter what I mean, I do have the feeling that many of the patients here would know what I'm trying to describe - I'm sure those people have plenty of poetry to share - but they are not in this room with me, are they? They are not locked in a room with a sleeping dead man; nor do I think they are trying to give their sisters poetry. They are trying to survive, and that is plenty poetic for anyone.