How Does This Happen? To Fall In

Half A Page--and The Morning Is Already Ancient.

Between The Kitchen And The Destroyed Chapel A Door Led Into An Oval-shaped Library. The Space Inside Seemed Safe Except For A Large Hole At Portrait Level In The Far Wall, Caused By Mortar-shell Attack On The Villa Two Months Earlier. The Rest Of The Room Had Adapted Itself To This Wound, Accepting The Habits Of Weather, Evening Stars, The Sound Of Birds.

Some People You Just Had To Embrace, In Some Way Or Another, Had To Bite Into The Muscle, To Remain Sane In Their Company. You Needed To Grab Their Hair And Clutch It Like A Drowner So They Would Pull You Into Their Midst. Otherwise They, Walking Casually Down The Street Towards You, Almost About To Wave, Would Leap Over A Wall And Be Gone For Months.

I'm A Canadian Citizen. But I Always Want To Feel At Home In Sri Lanka. I'm A Member Of Both Countries.

The First Sentence Of Every Novel Should Be: Trust Me, This Will Take Time But There Is Order Here, Very Faint, Very Human.