Preface
i traveled， I wandered， I never left my birthplace
and I long/or the city of light.
--Author s poem \"Questioning\"
I DON T CONSIDER this work a book in the customary sense.
It is rather an experience transformed into words. A voice
long silent has at last chosen to sound. Lacking the talent to
paint an inferno or a paradise， let alone a seagull or a child;
~ S
devoid of the sculptor touch--my statues remain uncut， bur-
ied in a quarry somewhere--and without Orpheus lyre; I have
had to rest my case in words--all despite the realization that
in attempting to express the inexpressible， words get in the way
and a measure of injustice is bound to happen. A predicament
for which I have no cure. While attempting to fix his heroine
Emma Bovary to the page， Gustave Flaubert wrote， \"Language
is like a cracked kettle on which we beat our tunes for bears
to dance to; while all the time we long to move the stars to
pity.\" Pen in hand and counting on your discretion， I take on
the risk of telling you what I know of myself and what I have
~ tl in
seen， what ts go g on，\" and what I hope for. Deep inside me
a medieval troubadour pulls the strings and beats the drum.
We travel together.
Ever since I can remember--age five， six， seven， perhaps--I
have been writing in my mind and living my lines. It all began
as I sat in the shade of an old， old sycamore tree gazing into
the sky， witnessing sunrise， waiting for sunset， and talking
to the moon. The wind in the reeds and the soothing sound
of water flowing in an unnamed winding creek kept me com-
pany. Here songbirds come and go， trilling， quibbling over
who knows what. Herds of sheep， cows， buffalo and guard
dogs pass me by. Down-to-earth peasants and shepherds hurry
in the faint dawn light， some mounted on the backs of their
patient donkeys.
ix
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