I made a small contribution to the arming.
I went there to teach and to make theatre. I saw the body bags go by my house and my son’s nursery school.
I heard the night screams.
I saw something begin.
At first, Robert could write pragmatically and could conceal the sectarian.
But I did not make the revolution.
There was hope.
A lot of it was made by children who I later had to teach a truer history. First, I had to teach it to myself.
The decline, the sectarianism, the racism that developed, was so obvious. The pedantic cultural nationalism, the scams for thugs and murderers. The deliberate deceptions and populist rants to appeal to the lowest.
I have tried with many others to support a change. I went back a few times to try a few things. I have tried to support the celebratory and glorious resistance literature that Robert hasn’t.
Probably like you, I thought things were of cosmic and universal significance and of personal reference to me, my narrative, destiny and self, in completely banal events, as the latest number one.
As I became antiques, I found, as a matter of fact, obvious truth and common sense; that I was wrong about everything important: love, family, significant persons, art, and common sense.
Now, I am in the best shape ever, I am as sharp as a wasp nest attack, I am as funny as a dancing baby camel on being set free in the yellow desert.
Transcultural adventure novels, on the other hand, are game parks. They are managed by transcultural guards, hired from local communities of readers and trained in literary weaponry. Transcultural literary novels resemble modern diplomatic processes.
They do not have a familiar structure.
Transcultures themselves lack classic architecture. They attempt to lead their readers outside of patterns of thinking and preconceptions.
They bring fluidity to genres and instability to characters. They require co-creation with their readers.
Call that trust.
Now the rain.