I wandered off about age thirteen and didn’t come back. Later I went looking for myself. During the search everything got vague. I never quite understood what other people were so involved with. This is probably the most major faux pas you can perform in any culture. I picked up some ideas. I wouldn’t call them answers, or even obessions, as much as metaphors or structures of metaphors. They were recombinative. They were cyclic, and expended themselves across a decade. That was as far as I could go with anything. It was long as I could sustain an interest. During that period I would pursue one or two projects intensively–combining them for preference with a failing relationship, a house move, two hobbies and a career suicide–then move on. I came to know this process as ”writing”. “Writing” was my way of engaging with myself. As much as I could, I tried to avoid other people’s descriptions of it. By the end of the 1970s the best I could imagine myself doing was to write down as accurately as possible a conversation heard in a cafe in Huddersfield. Even then it was clear that once you put an object like that to use, you are basically making it up.