I RECENTLY UNDERTOOK a very long railway ride into the heart of Greece's interior, the iambic rhythm of train on track lulling me into an exquisite state of otherworldly awareness. Whereas I always prefer to devour the great literary tomes of the Russians and Eastern Europeans when I am in a state of convalescence and wishing to be utterly rid of myself, it is poetry to which I return when I feel alive and vital and am captive to shapeshifting landscapes.
Indeed, within whichever creed or culture I am currently steeping, the universal connections between all the arts, be they the West or East, magically become manifested to me. And so retrieving my somewhat careworn copy of the verse of Hafiz from my rucksack, I settle down to drink deeply from the Persian master's luminescence, aestheticism and wisdom.
