Novels are house bound phenomena. They express a species of exile where our lives are either in the process of becoming, or have wholly become, urbanised; a kind of mourning. A grief, like one of those elongated faces you see on painted African masks; for a loss that cannot be rectified: whatever the ostensible subject matter the racial memory that is its spring is the vanished pastoral. The ancient, ancestral powerhouse is our homelessness.
Posted in: The Mirror
O/I: MNDSPC 
Posted on June 6, 2007
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