I was still in Columbia in the spring of 1992.  Sitting on my porch, I read a story by Mark Twain.  In it the greatest writer who had ever existed was never published, and his scripts were locked away in a chest that has been forgotten.  Yet, in heaven, he led the parade of all the writers there.   The part about “the greatest writer” left me cold.  But I had lived with Ceremonies so long.  No one else had read it.  I was drawn irresistibly to the image of writing something that was never shared with anyone.  Somehow it warmed me.