ABSTRACT
It was hard to leave that country, that clean land. Hard to find a way into the impure, no longer so clearly centred, confusing modern world. Hard to find words for this wild journey. Hard to become a writer, committing perjury all the time against the sacred Book. Letting the wildness into the words. Transgressing, remembering the old fear. Listening to the earth and the women, breathless with desire, wanting so much the dance and the laughter, the unholy babble of speech.
