The Line Between

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When my children were still small enough to be suckered (that's the two youngest, not their older sister; she was never that small), I could keep them occupied in the car for some while by telling them that if they turned their heads fast enough they could look in their own ears. (What, you never bought yourself a single blessed moment of sanity by risking your children's cervical vertebrae, eyesight, digestion, or emotional well–being? — Hypocrite lecteur, — man semblable, — monfrere! I want to see a note from your mother.)

In a very real sense, that's what I've been doing all my life — trying to turn my head in time to glimpse that creature, that color, that melody, that metamorphosis, that human situation to be found living just around the farthest corner of my vision. Ever since I was a small, shy, overweight boy — a boy who could most often be found curled up under the stairs of his Bronx apartment building, telling himself stories — I've been used to almost hearing voices, almost catching sight of Donne's «things invisible to see.» Indeed, my favorite among my own novels, The Innkeeper's Song, had its birth on an island off Seattle, with me well–snuggled into the sweet spot between sleep and waking, when a rough, sour growl announced itself in my head, saying distinctly, «My name is Karsh. I am not a bad man.»

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