Wanderers’ Tales

What an astonishing thing a book is. It’s a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you’re inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.
- Carl Sagan

Since the beginning of Time (and perhaps before), many have travelled to the Lands of Dream and written about their journeys. Some of these tales are warnings, others are maps to roads that we may follow; all have been of great assistance in my own endeavours. Thus I have decided that once each week, in the late hours of Friday or the early hours of Saturday (or Caturday, as it is called in Katsouli), I will write here to tell you of one such story.

  • Monkeys