Written in the here and now, this book is a wonder. It has men, women, boys and girls in it. In all sorts of order. Some rich, some poor, some gorgeous, some crude, some faint-at-heart and some others — toddlers and much older. And hues of complexion and religion. And carnal intimacy and wrongdoing, not to forget its fair share of death and despair, all, it must be said, adequately warranted. And it also boasts cats and dogs, and donkeys and wildebeests too. And country lanes and highways and wild mountain streams and jungle waterways. And it accommodates stories, quite a few in all, about gold diggers, harvesters or the likes of killers and lovers. Indeed, this book is full of wonder. All of it is constructed with sentences, some short and some much longer, all through the power – within its punctuation – the power of words and pronouns, some possibly proscribed, some others not so, but just the same always at all times all utilised in good faith and fair ways. And for further good measure, this book likewise claims an author, for, amongst its intrigues and characters, a voice can just about be heard; here cutting in to offer a comment, or there to tell of yet unknowns.

Verily, this book is a wonder. It entertains. It bears witness. It is a mysterious stranger sitting on a train mindful of the rolling skies and horizons beyond their carriage window, yet at all time attentive to — for, no matter how the land lies, no man is an island, or such is what John Donne did do rightly say — attentive to the absurdity of terror; the horror, the fear, the fervour, the generous intolerance of the time-honoured book-burners and undying torchbearers.

On such wondrous account — to speak nothing of much of its notions — this storybook may be too unruly to please today. Still and all, maybe they’ll forgive it tomorrow.