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way a lot of very happy but very stressed-out people who are going to have to organize everything at lightning speed; a friend and agent who is now looking at me with affection and respect; and a teacher who isn’t here but who doubtless knows that I have now made a commitment, even though I didn’t understandwhat he meant at the time. It’s a cold night, and I choose to walk back alone to the hotel, feeling rather frightened at what I’ve done, but happy, too, because there’s no turning back.
    That is what I wanted. If I believe I will win, then victory will believe in me. No life is complete without a touch of madness, or, to use J.’s words, what I need to do is to re-conquer my kingdom. If I can understand what’s going on in the world, I can understand what’s going on inside myself.
    A T THE HOTEL , there is a message from my wife, saying that she’s been trying to contact me and asking me to phone her as soon as possible. My heart starts pounding, because she rarely phones me when I’m traveling. I return her call at once. The seconds between each ring seem like an eternity.
    Finally, she picks up the phone.
    “Véronique has had a serious car accident, but don’t worry, she’s not in any danger,” she says nervously.
    I ask if I can phone Véronique now, but she says no. She’s still in the hospital.
    “Do you remember that clairvoyant?” she asks.
    Of course I do! He made a prediction about me as well. We hang up, and I immediately phone Mônica’s room. I ask if, by any chance, I’ve arranged a visit to Turkey.
    “Can’t you even remember which invitations you accepted?”
    “No,” I say. I was in a strange state of euphoria when I started saying yes to all those publishers.
    “But you do remember the commitments you’ve taken on, don’t you? There’s still time to cancel, if you want to.”
    I tell her that I’m perfectly happy with the commitments; that’s not the problem. It’s too late to start explaining about the clairvoyant, the predictions, and Véronique’s accident. I ask Mônica again if I have arranged a visit to Turkey.
    “No,” she says. “The Turkish publishers are staying in a different hotel. Otherwise …”
    We both laugh.
    I can sleep easy.

The Stranger’s Lantern
    A LMOST TWO MONTHS of traveling, of pilgrimage. My joy in life has returned, but I lie awake all night, wondering if that sense of joy will stay with me when I return home. Am I doing what I need to do to make the Chinese bamboo grow? I’ve been to six countries, met my readers, had fun, temporarily driven away the depression that was threatening to engulf me, but something tells me that I still haven’t re-conquered my kingdom. The trip so far hasn’t really been any different from other similar journeys made in previous years.
    All that remains now is Russia. And then what will I do? Continue making commitments in order to keep moving, or stop and see what the results have been?
    I still haven’t reached a decision. I know only that a life without cause is a life without effect. And I can’t allow that to happen to me. If necessary, I’ll spend the rest of the year traveling.
    I’m in the African city of Tunis, in Tunisia. The talk isabout to begin, and—thank heavens—the room is packed. I’m going to be introduced by two local intellectuals. In the short meeting we held beforehand, one of them showed me a text that would take just two minutes to deliver and the other a veritable thesis on my work that would take at least half an hour.
    The coordinator very tactfully explains to the latter that since the event is supposed to last, at most, fifty minutes, there won’t be time for him to read his piece. I imagine how hard he must have worked on that essay, but the coordinator is right. The purpose of my visit to Tunis is to meet my readers. There is a brief discussion, after which the author of the essay says that he no longer wishes to take part, and he leaves.
    The talk begins. The