Only once, in four decades before the mast of journalism, has an editor ever asked me to go anywhere in the world that I chose and damn (or at least file) the expense. A newspaper’s weekend magazine planned a special issue on literary travels and needed a contribution. Typically, I decided to visit a place marked on no map. Or rather, it exists everywhere and nowhere, like the “haze” of obscured meanings that Charlie Marlow seeks to penetrate on his voyage upriver in Heart of Darkness.
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