“I was trying to think of my father as a gentian,” he went on. “But all I get is the persistent image of the most enormous turd.” “Even turds,” she assured him, “can be seen as gentians.” “But only, I take it, in the place you were writing about—the clear place between thought and silence?” Susila nodded. “How do you get there?” “You don’t get there. There comes to you. Or rather there is really here.”
