Fathers die.You keep on loving them in any way you can.You can't hide him away in your heart.

In the desert the most loved waters, like a lover's name, are carried blue in your hands, enter your throat. One swallows absence.

I believe this. When we meet those we fall in love with, there is an aspect of our spirit that is historian, a bit of a pedant who reminisces or remembers a meeting when the other has passed by innocently…but all parts of the body must be ready for the other, all atoms must jump in one direction for desire to occur.

That's one of the great sadnesses of any life - knowing what you know now and then remembering what you did not know then.

As a writer, one is busy with archaeology.

Women want everything of a lover. And too often I would sink below the surface. So armies disappear under sand. And there was her fear of her husband, her belief in her honour, my old desire for self-sufficiency, my disappearances, her suspicions of me, my disbelief that she loved me. The paranoia and claustrophobia of hidden love.

It's an odd state to be in, blowing the whistle on your home country.