Politically I Don't Believe Anymore That We

I Tend Not To Know What The Plot Is Or The Story Is Or Even The Theme. Those Things Come Later, For Me.

One Of The Things That Happens In Novels It's Almost Like A Continual Debate With Yourself. That's Why You're Writing The Book. It's Why You Create Characters: So You Can Argue With Yourself.

So The Books For The Englishman, As He Listened Intently Or Not, Had Gaps Of Plot Like Sections Of A Road Washed Out By Storms, Missing Incidents As If Locusts Had Consumed A Section Of Tapestry, As If Plaster Loosened By The Bombing Had Fallen Away From A Mural At Night.

She Lights A Match In The Dark Hall And Moves It Onto The Wick Of The Candle. Light Lifts Itself Onto Her Shoulders. She Is On Her Knees. She Puts Her Hands On Her Thighs And Breathes In The Smell Of The Sulphur. She Imagines She Slap Breathes In Light.

Sometimes When She Is Able To Spend The Night With Him They Are Wakened By The Three Minarets Of The City Beginning Their Prayers Before Dawn. He Walks With Her Through The Indigo Markets That Lie Between South Cairo And Her Home. The Beautiful Songs Of Faith Enter The Air Like Arrows, One Minaret Answering Another, As If Passing On A Rumor Of The Two Of Them As They Walk Through The Cold Morning Air, The Smell Of Charcoal And Hemp Already Making The Air Profound. Sinners In A Holy City.