The story begins in the late 1940's and ends in the year 2025. It explores a friendship that developed between a Being in search of reunion and a boy child for whom life on earth might have contentedly wandered a course within a clan of a Nilotic People. This clan held fast to the idea that following the moment of death a person would follow the Lead Bull into the night and return again renewed. But our hero was pink and freckled, round and short, too easily seen at night to be useful and far too clumsy from the misfortune of having been given to the Wazungu, a word which when he first met it, meant "Those Who Wander Aimlessly." Over the gather of years this interdependence between the visible and the invisible blossoms and struggles as it attempts to construct a reality within the context of a society that rationalizes the silence of Gods and decries the clamoring of Ghosts. A moment of impasse when our hero's invisible friend begins to believe that once long ago he'd been denied Sainthood by an uncaring and decrepit God. And indeed under certain circumstances, in some societies, a relationship with the invisible may be deemed a possibly dangerous pathological condition. But it wasn't a pathology that took our hero to the Asylum, rather it was an attempt to avoid the consequences of seeking redemption by admitting to his sins. The real and the unreal find union in a library when the identity of J.H. is realized.
On a more personal note The Rabbit of Usk was originally to comprise ten books. In moments of reverie I fantasized about images and pictures and the magnificence of the number Ten. At around the 1.5 million word mark, and after achieving what I felt might be a satisfactory end point to a six of these ten books I was much aided by the glazed expression in the faces of my readers and permitted common sense and a degree of rationality to prevail. A story teller, I realized, does not balance his craft around the number Ten.
On a more personal note The Rabbit of Usk was originally to comprise ten books. In moments of reverie I fantasized about images and pictures and the magnificence of the number Ten. At around the 1.5 million word mark, and after achieving what I felt might be a satisfactory end point to a six of these ten books I was much aided by the glazed expression in the faces of my readers and permitted common sense and a degree of rationality to prevail. A story teller, I realized, does not balance his craft around the number Ten.
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