Writer

A writer can survive without a car but a window with his palm feeling the breath of a street or a garden, a few weeping pens and clean sheets are indispensables. He can live with the moon as his eastern neighbour or with pines, cantankerous mynahs or even factories. As of now freedom of expression would mean for him expression of freedom. For example, the word 'clitoris' would be as exhilarating as uttering: 'the revolution is a farce.' He would have continued: 'The ophthalmic optician shut down his clinic after far-sighted revolutionaries came for a free checkup.' But that wouldn't sound aesthetic even though it's the truth. He hates himself for having to utter the ugly things and even his bold words would seem prudish in free worlds. This is what clings to him even in exile, the reality about freedom which led to his exile. He would have pursued the more beautiful words, skies, dances, images, discourse, trees, nudes, illumination, if he possessed the gift of being free