I am in a village in vietnam walking around with some village boys and I am moved to tears seeing the beauty of the place, a long straight canal with bridges over at regular intervals. The pale unspoilt light.
Later I am in some gentleman’s club, still in the same country I think, and Martin E is reading from a novel to me. the words are in gold type on black pages and almost impossible to read, he rubs white powder over them to help. It is a novel about a man in vietnam (or some other once war ravaged country like Iraq). We are stunned by the device that the central character dies half way through and describes his body being brought home. In the next chapter, and half way through the book, he is born again.