By Naguib Mahfouz We used to have seasons. Winter would approach slowly, intensify, peak, and then spring would set in. Seasons took weeks to change. This year, though, the pattern appears to have been broken. It was hot till mid-November, then turned cold overnight, cold and rainy, as if at the touch of a button. I prefer winter to summer. Winter is more productive. I wrote most of my novels in winter, and the weather features in some of the titles, as in Quails and Autumn and Love under the Rain. I feel rejuvenated in winter. I'd leave at 6am for a walk across the river followed by a coffee at the Ali Baba Café in Tahrir Square. And however cold it was by the time I reached the café I would feel warm. The trees are greener in winter. The rain washes the leaves of the dust that has collected over many months. And the sky, oddly, seems bluer as it peeks from between the tufts of white cloud. Now the cold gets to me more quickly. Age has taken its toll. Spring is my least favourite season. I am allergic to pollen. I remember well how I would wait impatiently for the spring to finish, then stop writing and go to Alexandria for the summer. Based on an interview by Mohamed Salmawy.
