“My horizons are enlarged by reading the writers of poems, seeing a painting, listening to some music, some opera, which has nothing at all to do with volatile human condition or struggle of whatever. It enriches me as a human being. And so the artists should not be tempted to make propaganda of their lives.” --- Wole Soyinka

My friend always refers to the literature we have on Tibet as 'propaganda.' I used to grimace when I heard that word. Somehow, I always thought that propaganda ought to keep its ugly head (or so I thought) hidden in Mao's little book. What had I, an artist, anything to do with propaganda? I ought, like Soyinka says, to 'enrich' myself. I am a tainted artist if my writing leans to the tendencious.

I write solely because I have not the strength to be a writer or an artist without making note of what happened a week ago in the Himalayan mountains. http://www.protv.ro/filme/404.html

Pilgrims fall down on the snow without a sound. The others carry on. The soldier sits down and lights a cigarette. All of it lacks the sheen of reality. But perhaps my reality has been tainted too: by the all pervasive accompanying music, by the pitch black shrieks, by the information I am able to receive at three in the morning.

I refuse to let my reality destroy someone else's. I refuse to let my 'Writing' come in the way of life: my life and my people's.