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