I dreamed of insurmountable evidence, scholarly respectability, publications, and lectures. I have boxes and boxes of neatly indexed note cards, each describing some small brick in a vast wall of research: an Indonesian story about a golden tree whose boughs made a shimmering archway; a reference in a Gaelic hymn to the angels who fly through heaven's gate; the memory of a carven wood doorway in Mali, sand-weathered and blackened by centuries of secrets.
-Alix E. Harrow
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