The Literary Review, September 22nd, 2001
I know I make people uncomfortable, and embarrass even those who come to hear me sing. I regret that, but not how all the talk and nervous laughter fades as I rise from the ground and, hovering in the campfire smoke, slowly turn to consider this small circle of which I am the centre.
We feel it then, share the silence.
Of course, nothing can stop a persistent and desperate cynic from occasionally shouting, `Look, rotisserie!' or, `Spit roast!' But no cynicism remains once I begin to sing.
Sing? Perhaps that is not the right word, because it is not really singing. And it is not really me w...
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