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

I see the poem or the novel ending with an open door.

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

What is interesting and important happens mostly in secret, in places where there is no power. Nothing much of lasting value ever happens at the head table, held together by a familiar rhetoric. Those who already have power continue to glide along the familiar rut they have made for themselves.

I promised to tell you how one falls in love.

It's a discovery of a story when I write a book, a case of inching ahead on each page and discovering what's beyond in the darkness, beyond where you're writing.

Every night I cut out my heart. But in the morning it was full again