After many years of believing I never dream of anything, I dreamed of Africa. It happened on a late August night here at the farm in Keane valley, about as far from Africa as I have been able to situate myself. I couldn’t recall the dream’s story although I knew it was in Africa, the country of Liberia and my home in Monrovia, and that somehow the chimps had played a role, for there were round, brown mask like faces still afloat in my mind when I awoke, safe in my bed, in this old house in the middle of the Adirondack mountains, and found myself overflowing with the knowledge that I would soon return there.
The Darling by Russell Banks
