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To
devote
yourself
to
the
creation
and
enjoyment
of
beauty
,
then
,
can
be
a
serious
business
-
not
always
necessarily
a
means
of
escaping
reality
,
but
sometimes
a
means
of
holding
on
to
the
real
when
everything
else
is
flaking
away
into
…
rhetoric
and
plot
.
Not
too
long
ago
,
authorities
arrested
a
brotherhood
of
Catholic
monks
in
Sicily
who
were
in
tight
conspiracy
with
the
Mafia
,
so
who
can
you
trust
?
What
can
you
believe
?
The
world
is
unkind
and
unfair
.
Speak
up
against
this
unfairness
and
in
Sicily
,
at
least
,
you
’
ll
end
up
as
the
foundation
of
an
ugly
new
building
.
What
can
you
do
in
such
an
environment
to
hold
a
sense
of
your
individual
human
dignity
?
Maybe
nothing
.
Maybe
nothing
except
,
perhaps
,
to
pride
yourself
on
the
fact
that
you
always
fillet
your
fish
with
perfection
,
or
that
you
make
the
lightest
ricotta
in
the
whole
town
?
I
don
’
t
want
to
insult
anyone
by
drawing
too
much
of
a
comparison
between
myself
and
the
long
-
suffering
Sicilian
people
.
The
tragedies
in
my
life
have
been
of
a
personal
and
largely
self
-
created
nature
,
not
epically
oppressive
.
I
went
through
a
divorce
and
a
depression
,
not
a
few
centuries
of
murderous
tyranny
.
I
had
a
crisis
of
identity
,
but
I
also
had
the
resources
(
financial
,
artistic
and
emotional
)
with
which
to
try
to
work
it
out
.
Still
,
I
will
say
that
the
same
thing
which
has
helped
generations
of
Sicilians
hold
their
dignity
has
helped
me
begin
to
recover
mine
-
namely
,
the
idea
that
the
appreciation
of
pleasure
can
be
an
anchor
of
one
’
s
humanity
.
I
believe
this
is
what
Goethe
meant
by
saying
that
you
have
to
come
here
,
to
Sicily
,
in
order
to
understand
Italy
.
And
I
suppose
this
is
what
I
instinctively
felt
when
I
decided
that
I
needed
to
come
here
,
to
Italy
,
in
order
to
understand
myself
.
It
was
in
a
bathtub
back
in
New
York
,
reading
Italian
words
aloud
from
a
dictionary
,
that
I
first
started
mending
my
soul
My
life
had
gone
to
bits
and
I
was
so
unrecognizable
to
myself
that
I
probably
couldn
’
t
have
picked
me
out
of
a
police
lineup
.
But
I
felt
a
glimmer
of
happiness
when
I
started
studying
Italian
,
and
when
you
sense
a
faint
potentiality
for
happiness
after
such
dark
times
you
must
grab
onto
the
ankles
of
that
happiness
and
not
let
go
until
it
drags
you
face
-
first
out
of
the
dirt
-
this
is
not
selfishness
,
but
obligation
.
You
were
given
life
;
it
is
your
duty
(
and
also
your
entitlement
as
a
human
being
)
to
find
something
beautiful
within
life
,
no
matter
how
slight
.
I
came
to
Italy
pinched
and
thin
.
I
did
not
know
yet
what
I
deserved
.
I
still
maybe
don
’
t
fully
know
what
I
deserve
.
But
I
do
know
that
I
have
collected
myself
of
late
-
through
the
enjoyment
of
harmless
pleasures
-
into
somebody
much
more
intact
.
The
easiest
,
most
fundamentally
human
way
to
say
it
is
that
I
have
put
on
weight
.
I
exist
more
now
than
I
did
four
months
ago
.
I
will
leave
Italy
noticeably
bigger
than
when
I
arrived
here
.
And
I
will
leave
with
the
hope
that
the
expansion
of
one
person
-
the
magnification
of
one
life
-
is
indeed
an
act
of
worth
in
this
world
.
Even
if
that
life
,
just
this
one
time
,
happens
to
be
nobody
’
s
but
my
own
.
When
I
was
growing
up
,
my
family
kept
chickens
.
We
always
had
about
a
dozen
of
them
at
any
given
time
and
whenever
one
died
off
-
taken
away
by
hawk
or
fox
or
by
some
obscure
chicken
illness
-
my
father
would
replace
the
lost
hen
.
He
’
d
drive
to
a
nearby
poultry
farm
and
return
with
a
new
chicken
in
a
sack
.
The
thing
is
,
you
must
be
very
careful
when
introducing
a
new
chicken
to
the
general
flock
.
You
can
’
t
just
toss
it
in
there
with
the
old
chickens
,
or
they
will
see
it
as
an
invader
.
What
you
must
do
instead
is
to
slip
the
new
bird
into
the
chicken
coop
in
the
middle
of
the
night
while
the
others
are
asleep
.
Place
her
on
a
roost
beside
the
flock
and
tiptoe
away
.
In
the
morning
,
when
the
chickens
wake
up
,
they
don
’
t
notice
the
newcomer
,
thinking
only
,
"
She
must
have
been
here
all
the
time
since
I
didn
’
t
see
her
arrive
.
"
The
clincher
of
it
is
,
awaking
within
this
flock
,
the
newcomer
herself
doesn
’
t
even
remember
that
she
’
s
a
newcomer
,
thinking
only
,
"
I
must
have
been
here
the
whole
time
…
"
This
is
exactly
how
I
arrive
in
India
.
My
plane
lands
in
Mumbai
around
1
:
30
AM
.
It
is
December
30
.
I
find
my
luggage
,
then
find
the
taxi
that
will
take
me
hours
and
hours
out
of
the
city
to
the
Ashram
,
located
in
a
remote
rural
village
.
I
doze
on
the
drive
through
nighttime
India
,
sometimes
waking
to
look
out
the
window
,
where
I
can
see
strange
haunted
shapes
of
thin
women
in
saris
walking
alongside
the
road
with
bundles
of
firewood
on
their
heads
.
At
this
hour
?
Buses
with
no
headlights
pass
us
,
and
we
pass
oxcarts
.
The
banyan
trees
spread
their
elegant
roots
throughout
the
ditches
.
We
pull
up
to
the
front
gate
of
the
Ashram
at
3
:
30
AM
,
right
in
front
of
the
temple
.
As
I
’
m
getting
out
of
the
taxi
,
a
young
man
in
Western
clothes
and
a
wool
hat
steps
out
of
the
shadows
and
introduces
himself
-
he
is
Arturo
,
a
twenty
-
four
-
year
-
old
journalist
from
Mexico
and
a
devotee
of
my
Guru
,
and
he
’
s
here
to
welcome
me
.
As
we
’
re
exchanging
whispered
introductions
,
I
can
hear
the
first
familiar
bars
of
my
favorite
Sanskrit
hymn
coming
from
inside
.
It
’
s
the
morning
arati
,
the
first
morning
prayer
,
sung
every
day
at
3
:
30
AM
as
the
Ashram
wakes
.
I
point
to
the
temple
,
asking
Arturo
,
"
May
I
…
?
"
and
he
makes
a
be
-
my
-
guest
gesture
.
So
I
pay
my
taxi
driver
,
tuck
my
backpack
behind
a
tree
,
slip
off
my
shoes
,
kneel
and
touch
my
forehead
to
the
temple
step
and
then
ease
myself
inside
,
joining
the
small
gathering
of
mostly
Indian
women
who
are
singing
this
beautiful
hymn
.
