I first read Paul Bowles’ "A Distant Episode" during an American short story class my freshman year of college. While I found the story harrowing, I thought little of the place in which the events occur or the sense of "otherness" which Bowles presented. It was only after I took a five day trip to Morocco my junior year that Bowles came alive to me. When I entertained the idea of going to Morocco, many people I spoke to warned against taking a trip there. The two most common remarks were that "It is like no other place in the world" and that "You could get lost there and never be found." Hearing these warnings, a sense of adventure and intrigue passed through me. Even after listening to stories of American "tourists" being forced into buying carpets or being harassed as they got off the boat in Tangier, I knew I was ready to see a new world. All of my life I’d looked at culture through Judeo-Christian eyes, only reading about the world of Islam and North Africa in small articles in Western papers. I often found these papers ethnocentric, selecting stories about celebrities and court room dramas instead of events going on outside the American sphere. While I knew I was going to be viewed as a tourist when I walked onto Moroccan land, I aimed to shed my pre-installed mores and folkways in order to gain insight into this distinct world. The fact that it was almost impossible to do this was one of the first things I learned.

As I got off the boat in the port of Tangier, I had no idea of what to expect. I had a big pack on my shoulders, in my pockets, a few Xeroxed sheets of information and hostel locations in Tangier, Marrakech, Fez, and Casablanca. Aside from these bits of guidance, I wanted Morocco to lead me. Like the characters in Paul Bowles’ novels, I was looking to escape the regimented life that I held in the U.S., where time was always of the essence and specific appointments were standard practice. Here there were no beepers or cellular phones. Food bought on the street came wrapped in old pages from magazines. Leather to be sold at a shop could be seen tanning in the sun right behind it.

Instead of seeing the Latin alphabet on street signs, Arabic characters directed people where to go and which stops the train was making. The call to prayer from the minarets of the mosques permeated the air, making one know that this was Allah’s country. Using only broken French and as little English as I could, I navigated my way through the labyrinth through the Medina. As I walked down these narrow streets, I saw veiled women, dead camels in butcher shops, and kif smoke emanating from bearded men’s mouths. Finally it clicked that the world described in "A Distant Episode" was not a fabricated world. It was a place unimaginable to the unknowing American who understood only McDonald’s and hot red sports cars. Here such commodities were unknown, as foreign to the common Moroccan as snake charming and Harira are to the typical American.

Tired of walking, I went into a tea house and sat down. Looking around me I saw only men and smoke. It was the first time that I had ever been in a place of business where women were not allowed as patrons. I sat down with my journal, drank my mint tea, and let my eyes and ears soak in everything going on around me. The faces did not contain any hint of interest in designer clothes or the latest song on the Billboard charts. The sweltering Moroccan sun had just as much power as Allah. Bowles described these non-Western beings in a book which he would later entitle Their Heads Are Green and Their Hands Are Blue, using these unusual colors to describe the otherness that third world countries placed on their inhabitants. Moroccans stayed in dark places as much as possible, wore light flowing clothing and used thin sandals instead of the latest Nike’s. The price that you first were given when you proposed to buy something at the local market was often double what you would finally negotiate to pay. The sweeter your tea was, the more respect a Moroccan was giving you.

Later in the day, I walked by a schoolroom, and saw fifty children cramped into a small space with no lights or air conditioning. They were all in plain-looking uniforms, staring diligently at the blackboard. As I peeped my head in through the slightly open door, I was instantly recognized. The children smiled for a brief moment and then looked at their teacher. As incognito as I had hoped to be, I could not help but be noticed. I was an outsider looking in.

In "A Distant Episode," the character of the Professor is presented as the quintessential outsider. He arrives in the small Saharan village of Ain Tadouirt looking to study the various dialects of Moghrebi. He visited the village ten years before and had befriended a café owner named Hassan Ramani. When he goes to the café to seek out his lone contact, the Professor finds out that Hassan has died. A great feeling of loneliness comes over the Professor as he realizes that he is truly on his own in a foreign land. Unable to find out more about his deceased friend, the Professor drinks a cup of mint tea and gives his waiter a large tip, hoping to incite conversation and make a connection.

Reduced to the status of a tourist, the Professor asks the waiter where he can purchase boxes made of camel udders. He explains that he aims to make a collection of these boxes and offers him a commission for every box he brings to him. The waiter gives him an insolent look and agrees, asking the Professor to wait for him to extinguish the fire for the tea pot and finish his business for the day. As the two oddly matched companions walk down the street, many people nod or quickly greet the waiter. In response, the Professor remarks out loud, "I wish everyone knew me" (Collected Stories 41). The waiter digs further into the Professor’s psyche by responding, "No one knows you" (Collected Stories 41). This line echoes through the story.

As the two continue to walk, terror mounts within the Professor. He does not know where he is going and is unsure if he can trust his guide. His search for mere trinkets has placed him in a situation of uncertainty. The more that the Professor aims to make a connection with the waiter, the more he is made to feel alone. Instead of long answers to his childish questions, the waiter uses as few words as possible, often giving ambiguous responses. Soon the "sweet bright desert" (41-42) appears in front of them. It is obvious that no boxes made of camel udders exist in a place where nothing exists. The Professor understands that he is at "the edge of the abyss" (42), looking out into nothingness and still walking towards it.

He cannot run away from this situation. There is nowhere to run and no telephone to call for assistance. Instead the Professor is left to hope that he is not being tricked by his guide, that there is some reason for their trip into the desert. The muted sound of a low flute passes through the air, providing the Professor’s predicament with an eerie accompaniment. And as he waits to see what happens, the waiter tells him that the path in front of him will lead to what he is looking for. He asks for payment and says that he is going home. Fifty francs and a cigarette later, the Professor is truly alone, with only the moonlight to guide him down the path.

It is impossible to know why the Professor begins to walk. He recognized the sinister look in the waiter’s eyes as he paid him and, being an intelligent man, understood that no rational being would sell boxes made of camel udders in the desert at night. And still the Professor continues to move into the unknown, justifying his actions by reasoning that, "since he was doing it, it was not so important to probe for explanations at the moment" (Collected Stories 44). Soon he is at the bottom of the path wondering if there is a cliff only a step ahead of him. Suddenly a pack of dogs are on him, mauling him and trying to bite his neck. Voices quickly blend into the symphony of agony and a gun is pushed against his back. The Professor cries out to no avail. The rescue of a friendly police officer in a blue Chevrolet is dispelled by the butt of the gun as the Professor is pushed down the path while the dogs continue to gnaw at him. Instead of being the investigator, the Professor is now the subject, a foreigner with no ties to anything from "home." He is kicked unconscious and wakes up among a group of sleeping camels, crying out with pain.

Within a day, the professor is turned into a beast. His ankles and chest are bound tightly and soon after regaining consciousness, his nostrils are pinched together as his tongue is slashed. All along, the sound of unrecognizable "guttural" (Collected Stories 45) voices surround him. Bottoms of tin cans are placed around his body and the Professor is taught to be a clown, shown various lewd gestures and made to perform as a dog would for his master. "Even when all his wounds had healed and he felt no more pain, the Professor did not begin to think again; he ate and defecated, and he danced when he was bidden…" (Collected Stories 46)

After years of attending school, being polished like a precious stone and nurtured with ideas, the Professor now inhabits the borders of inhumanity. The four years spent learning the Moghrebi language and countless hours of preparation for the journey to the Sahara all suddenly vanish. Instead, a man without "his people" is suddenly viewed from a completely different set of standards. No passport is checked and no American money is going to pay him out of his situation. His past life has no value in the present market and most ironic of all, "there had been no doubt from the start that he was a valuable possession" (Collected Stories 47).

Eventually the Professor is sold to a wealthy man who aims to use him to entertain his guests. As the wealthy man speaks in the more formal dialect of Moghrebi, a light goes off inside the Professor’s head and for a moment, he feels human again. The recognition of the language allows him to remember what he once was. A numbness comes over him, and he turns defiant. He will not perform for the guests when he is bidden. The wealthy man storms out of the house to look for the people who sold the Professor to him. He kills the previous owner and is then caught by the police. The Professor, left on his own eventually leaves the house and "turned his head toward the red sky" (Collected Stories 49). He continues to run towards the setting sun, having no place to go, unable to go back to his former life, unable to stay in the one he has.

Images of the Professor flowed into the fast landscape I saw as I took a long train ride between Tangier and Marrakech. As I sat down, an older man was helping his wife with her bags. He looked at me deeply and spoke in broken English, instructing me to help his wife with her luggage when she arrived in Marrakech and to make sure that she was received by her relatives. As her husband spoke, the woman did not say a word. She simply sat in her long robes, staid and highly composed. As the hours went by, I would look out the window and see only desert. On occasion, a few small dirt dwellings clustered together would break up the monotone landscape. The barren scenery sped by, as I listened to Arabic banter outside my compartment. I looked at the woman to see if there was any recognition in her demeanor but she did not move a muscle. I wanted to smile in the hope that the woman would respond to me and acknowledge my existence, but the distance that I felt between the two of us was too great for such a simple gesture. The nothingness that flashed by me now entered into my spirit, turning me melancholy and making me wonder if Moroccan men and women could ever meet and fall in love on a train.

Along our route, there were few stops and very little to occupy one’s imagination. There were no skyscrapers, flashy billboards or seven lane highways to look at. Instead, there was an occasional camel herd set against a faceless sky or the looming presence of the Atlas Mountains, brown silhouettes on a light blue background. I looked out the window, looked at the woman in my compartment, and watched as the conductor peered in through the open doorway. I thought of Bowles, wondering why he enjoyed being in this land so much that he lived the last forty years of his life here, without a telephone and little contact with the outside world. Why didn’t he end up like the Professor, running into the setting sun, looking for salvation? For as I gazed, I knew that anything could happen "out there."

Morocco challenges the outsider. In the absence of an outward display of feeling, inner workings have to be explored. I kept my eyes open, aiming to see and understand more. The train moved along. I began to ask questions in my head, wondering how people lived in the desert, what happened when the cold night set in, where they found kindling for fire and whether the call to prayer from distant minarets could be heard.

I arrived in Marrakech, helped the woman with her luggage and gently nodded my head at her relatives as they greeted her. While there was little public display, I could tell that each party was happy to see one another. I could imagine the family sipping mint tea all afternoon and catching up with each other’s lives. I retrieved my own bag and made my way to a hostel, looking for the landmarks described on my sheet of paper and listening to the music emanating from Djemaa El Fna. In this central square, Berbers walked around in traditional garb, snake charmers charmed rattle snakes, and incense rose in the air. I hurried to find my hostel so that I could begin to explore before nightfall.

The hostel was a ten minute walk from Djemaa El Fna. I passed by plots of land covered in garbage, pathways smelling of raw sewage and naked children running in the street. Arriving, I paid for two nights lodging and went up to my room. As I looked at it, I pictured my bedroom in the States. All of the modern conveniences that went unused on my countertops would be treasures here. I looked down at my backpack sitting on the bed. Moroccans would scoff at the amount of money I paid for it. They would throw up their hands when I would tell them that I did not bargain for it and that I used a credit card to pay for the transaction. Looking at my wallet and seeing the myriad of library, credit, bank, and calling cards told me how much my life was represented by small rectangular pieces of nothing. All of these things gave me power, but what if I was alone in the desert like the Professor?

As I walked out the door of the hostel, I thought it would be difficult to adapt to life in Morocco. Instead of flush valve toilettes, there were holes in the ground with two convexities for each foot. Instead of toilette paper, there was a small bucket of water by the hole. I learned within a day that in Morocco that you never touch a man’s left hand because it is the one that he wipes with. Hot water for showers was unknown and I don’t know if a washing machine existed in the entire country. In terms of keeping track of the "outside world," there was no CNN, no instant stock quotes or twenty-four-hour home shopping network. The only instrument that marked time was the call to prayer. The only newspapers were in Arabic and French. Facial expressions were my words; hand motions and pantomime were all the sentences I could make. Without words I learned how to communicate again. A gentle nod or smile of appreciation helped me bridge more barriers than anything else. The beauty that emanated in response from the faces that met my eyes helped me to become engrossed in this foreign land. The absence of the outside world was quietly liberating.

While I spent only five days travelling in Morocco, it was enough to set curiosity ablaze. On the boat ride back to Spain, I watched as Tangier faded into blue. I began to crave literature about the country. I began to think more about Paul Bowles and wondered how he ended up permanently living so far from home. When I returned to the States, I read Bowles with abandon. I decided to read Let it Come Down first, The Spider’s House second, and finally The Sheltering Sky, Bowles’ most critically acclaimed novel. During short breaks between classes and the waning moments before I went to bed, I read his short stories, just to read descriptions of Acacia trees and listen to Moroccan names in my head.

After finishing the novels and short stories, it was time to delve into Bowles the man. Through Without Stopping, his autobiography, I entered the fragmented world of Paul Bowles the human being. This served to incite even more curiosity. How could an upper class seventeen-year-old boy get published alongside Gertrude Stein? Why did the very fact that Edgar Allen Poe went to University of Virginia lure him to that University instead of a more cosmopolitan institution? And with every letter I read and every interview that I came upon, I came to realize that Paul Bowles was as mysterious to me as the place he so often wrote about.

Paul Frederick Bowles was born in New York City on December 30^th, 1910, the only child of Rena and Claude Bowles. For the first five and a half years of his life, the family lived on the third floor of a brownstone in Jamaica, New York. Claude was a dentist and Rena a homemaker. Early in his childhood, it was evident that Paul was an intelligent boy. "My mother always claimed that I taught myself to read, and very likely I did, since I can’t remember a period when the printed word did not make its corresponding sound in my head" (Without Stopping 14). At the age of four, Bowles wrote his first story about animals in a small notebook. At the age of eight, he wrote a story about a woman who goes through a series of marriages and divorces, becomes a spy, learns how to play bridge, and smokes opium. (Without Stopping 35) Rena always read to Paul for half an hour before he went to sleep, filling his ears with stories of Poe and complex plot lines that most children would only read when they had entered high school.

From the beginning, Bowles was the object of his father’s jealousy. Whether or not it was a figment of his imagination, Paul remembers his grandmother telling him that when he was six weeks old, his father "came home one terrible night…opened the window up wide, walked over to your crib and yanked you out from under your warm blankets, stripped you naked, and carried you over to the window where the snow was sailing in. And if I hadn’t heard you crying a little later, you’d have been dead inside the hour" (Without Stopping 39).

Claude was extremely jealous of Paul. He was the object of Rena’s affection, a cocky, quick-witted boy who always had a new idea. Because of Claude’s distorted views on child rearing, Paul was never allowed to play in a sandbox or ride a bike. Instead he lamented, "at the age of five I had never even spoken to another child or seen children playing together. My idea of the world was still that of a place inhabited exclusively by adults" (Without Stopping 23). Claude’s office and laboratory took up the first and second floors of the brownstone. Each afternoon Paul was allowed to play in the back yard for an hour. If he stood still, Rena would tell him to play. If he played, Claude’s secretary would yell out from the window, telling him that his father wanted him to "calm down." (Without Stopping 14).

Paul was required to have all of his toys put away by six o’clock each night. Dinnertime was his most dreaded hour. Claude believed in Fletcherization, a method in which food had to be chewed at least forty times before it was swallowed. Paul begged his mother to allow him to eat alone but she never acquiesced. While she believed in a warm and caring parental style, Rena gave in to Claude’s maxim that "a kid will always go as far as you let him" (Without Stopping 23). As a result, Claude’s discipline overruled the tenderness that Rena wanted to show towards Paul.

Because of his upbringing, Bowles became old without ever being young. His isolated childhood gave rise to alienation when he enrolled in school. The family moved to a new house in Jamaica, Long Island in the summer of 1916 where Paul began second grade in the Model School as the youngest in his class. From the outset, Paul knew that he would not fit to fit into this new environment. "School was no good. It took me one day to discover that the world of children was a world of unremitting warfare. I accepted group beatings as part of the pattern." (Without Stopping 27). Claude offered no consolation; he said, a beating "brings him down to earth" (An Invisible Spectator 13).

An only child with no friends, Paul cultivated his creativity. He wrote a daily newspaper with fictitious stories and made daily journal entries concerning the lives of fictitious people. At the age of eight, Paul began to take piano lessons. The piano became an outlet of expression, one which he would later use to write scores for Broadway plays, musicals, and Hollywood films. A year later, he composed an "opera" entitled "Le Carre: An Opera in Nine Chapters," about men who wanted to change wives. The idea of escape into a different life would later become the focus of his major writing.

Precociously intelligent, Paul was promoted from fourth to sixth grade and by age twelve, he had already read almost all of Edgar Allen Poe’s stories with Rena before bedtime and had made sense out of Emerson’s Essays. He wrote his class notes in code so that other students wouldn’t be able to copy them. In the seventh grade, Paul still thought that men and women had the same anatomy. And while his writing, reading, and piano playing continued to improve, it was evident that Paul suffered some major gaps in socialization. Still, the stories that he read to his class were so engaging that the students often stayed after school to hear him read.

In January of 1924, Bowles entered Flushing High School. Tired of taking the trolley to Flushing, the following September he transferred to Jamaica High School. When Claude heard of his decision, he quipped, "I know why he wants to switch schools. Because there they don’t know yet what a damn fool he is" (Without Stopping 67). Rena did little to combat her husband’s abuse of Paul. She was busy taking care of her sister, a morphine addict who was living with them at the time and trying to undergo detoxification. All of the family negativity seeped into Paul’s blood, and it would stay with him throughout much of his life.

Jamaica High had both good and bad effects on Paul. He became the poetry editor of the literary magazine yet he failed geometry and still seemed alienated from his classmates. Nonetheless, his cultural education flourished. He attended Saturday philharmonic concerts at Carnegie Hall, viewed exhibitions at the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and "bought [the New Yorker] on the way to the orthodontist’s" (Without Stopping 69). It was from this magazine that Paul first learned of Transition, a new literary magazine from Paris whose contributors included James Joyce, Gertrude Stein, Earnest Hemingway, Samuel Becket, Franz Kafka, Joan Miro, and Pablo Picasso. Paul became enamoured with the city because of the magazine and believed that "Paris was the center of all existence; I could feel it glow when I faced eastward as a Moslem feels the light from Mecca, and I knew someday, with luck, I should go there and stand on sacred spots" (Without Stopping 70).

It made sense that Paul could fall in love with a place that he had never seen. Like many unhappy children who dream of escaping their lives, the descriptions contained within Transition provided a world of fantasy, a place to imagine about where he could run away and live a happier life. This dreaming and love of the writers published in the Transition led Paul to compose a series of poems for the magazine, a high school boy mailing off his thoughtless words, wondering if he would even receive a response. A few months later, the poems were published alongside the famous names listed above. It was a moment of triumph for Bowles. Even in his happiness, he never told Claude about his success. The fierce competition for favor in Rena’s eyes continued to escalate and Paul didn’t want to add to Claude’s view of him as a "conceited little rotter" (Invisible Spectator 14).

Paul graduated from Jamaica High School in January of 1928. His class chart read, "Paul Bowles: He Is/ A day dreamer; He Thinks He is/ A poet; He’d Like to Be/ A Futuristic artist; Always Seen with a dazed expression; Hobby/ Literature" (Invisible Spectator 47). He planned to go to the University of Virginia the following fall, choosing the institution because Edgar Allen Poe had gone there. He knew nothing else about Virginia. With half a year to spare, Paul enrolled in the School of Design and Liberal Arts in New York City. Claude dismissed this endeavor as a waste of time but Paul, who painted in his spare time, was looking to nourish his artistic side.

Paul was not the most traditional artist. He often painted people with blue skin tones and created a series entitled "Worm in D" in which a worm was the only recognizable image in ten abstract paintings. Paul’s most notable experience in art school was his handling of the figure studies component of the class. With this new endeavor, Paul’s dysfunctional childhood was rehashed, "I had never seen an unclothed human body before, either male or female, and after a few weeks of observing the phenomenon, I had no desire to see another. It had never occurred to me that human beings were so repulsive." (Without Stopping 72).

Paul’s comments concerning the nude models reveal his unusual sexuality. While he met his first "girlfriend" in art school, their relationship was only platonic. Bruce Morrissette, one of Bowles’ longtime friends reported, "He was basically antisexual. Interested in people, yes, but not sexually. Never" (Invisible Spectator 50). The idea of love was still quite difficult for Paul to comprehend. Paul cared deeply for Rena, yet he resented her for not standing up to Claude. He was mystified by people, yet could not come to grips with his own conceptions of what his ideal lover would be. With so many passions, so many curiosities, it would be difficult for one person to quench all of Paul’s desires. From the title Without Stopping, it is evident that Paul was living at a pace all his own, with very few people able to move with him long enough to understand who he was.

The rigors of a traditional university did not endear themselves towards Paul. While he was finally done with Fletcherization. and no longer under the constant scrutiny of his father, Virginia simply did not meet his expectations. He lamented, "The idea of attending classes and studying did not occur to me seriously because there was nothing in the classes I particularly wanted to learn" (An Invisible Spectator 61). Instead, Paul cultivated his "eccentric" tastes even more. He began to drink alcohol and inhale ether. Instead of reading the classics and studying his Latin, he deeply immersed himself in the writers of Transition:

In effect, Paul had become an even more "conceited little rotter." Though he partied, he still made dean’s list his first term.

Paul came to believe that school was a waste of time. A month into the second term, he could no longer sit still. At eighteen, he finally took hold of the idea that he could make his own decisions. The past remained in Jamaica, yet the scars of his childhood still haunted Paul. Virginia was simply not far enough away.. A "compulsive decision" decision had to be made:

Paul wrote his parents, asking them to immediately send one hundred and twenty-five dollars in order to cover the costs of textbooks and living expenses. He then sent another telegram to Mary Crouch, a friend he who worked at the New York Public Library, asking her to help him get his passport.

He arrived in New York the third week of March and stayed at Mrs. Crouch’s daughter’s vacant apartment to save money. After tackling the obstacle of obtaining his birth certificate, Paul acquired his passport and readied for his voyage. He wrote no letters to friends at school and told no relatives. Armed only with three letters of introduction to friends of Mrs. Crouch, twenty-four American dollars, a stack of books and a random assortment of clothes, Paul departed for Boulogne-sur-Mer with no idea of what to expect, excitement eclipsing the hesitation of taking such a drastic step in his life.

Paul arrived in France the second week of April, 1929. Having no plan, he spent the day with the family of a woman he had met on the boat. Through the kindness of her brother, Paul was able to locate an inexpensive pension for the night. Knowing that he would be broke by the end of the week, Paul immediately contacted one of Mrs. Crouch’s friends who referred him to someone at the Paris office of The Herald Tribune. By the end of the week, he was working there as a switchboard operator, connecting some of the writers that had been published in Transition. Looking back, Paul wrote, "Paris was a continual joy… Some nights the mere fact of being there excited me so much that there was no question of going to bed until I had walked all the way across the city" (Without Stopping 70).

While Paul was settling into his new life, his parents began to wonder why they had not heard from him. Rena traveled south to Virginia to find him. Neither his friends nor teachers knew of his whereabouts. They simply told her that he was gone without leaving any details. In this instance, the alienated became the alienator. Rena and Claude had been phased out of Paul’s life. As he came to terms with his new surroundings, he looked back to his past and wrote, "I fully expected never to see my family again. I had taken matters into my own hands, and that they would not forgive" (Without Stopping 86).

Faced with a meager salary and no savings to rely on, Paul lived in shabby hotels and ate cheap, unhealthy food. When he became sick, Madame Daniloff, one of Mrs. Crouch’s acquaintances, took Paul to a doctor. After telling him that he needed rest and better living conditions, Madame Daniloff suggested that Paul write to his parents and ask for money. When he told her that his parents had no idea of his whereabouts, she scoffed and composed a letter, telling Rena and Claude of Paul’s illness. When they received the letter, they were relieved that Paul had finally been located. Nonetheless, Claude and Rena interpreted Paul’s sickness as a drug addiction and decided that they would send no money to support his drug habit.

Since he had arrived in Paris, Paul had not introduced himself to any of the famous writers and artists who had graced the pages of Transition. Still a very young man, Paul grappled with the fear that he would not be accepted into the intellectual elite. Doubting himself, the man who was always a loner suddenly became lonely. While his poems continued to be published in various literary magazines, Paul still could not fill the voids inside of him. He turned to another form of escape, taking a job at a bank in which he lamented, "I am working pleasantly, being pleasant in the pleasant Banker’s Trust. There is not time for anything but working, eating, sleeping (a little) and keeping banal rendezvous… I’ve lost myself. I don’t use my wits from one bedtime to another" (Letter to Bruce Morrissette, June 20, 1929).

Once again, Paul’s attempt to find stability and focus in his life failed. He spent time with acquaintances, roamed the streets of Paris and waited to find some sort of direction. In early July, Billy Hubert, an unofficially adopted son of Claude’s parents showed up in Paris. Hubert was a few years older than Claude and sought out Paul. He saw the shabby conditions that Paul lived in and invited him to stay at his fancy hotel. Hubert was a successful businessman in New York and treated Paul to gourmet meals and new clothes. "The first evening together, Hubert, who had not seen Bowles in ten years, immediately began to compliment him on how handsome he had become. That night, as Bowles put it, he received a ‘further sexual initiation, equally cold blooded and ridiculous’ (Invisible Spectator 77).

Having only had his first sexual experience with a woman a month before, Paul once again entered into a new world. While it was evident that he continually sought to undergo new experiences, with both of the sexual encounters, he was the seduced instead of the seducer. The fact that his first homosexual experience came from a man who was closely connected to his father was disturbing and confusing. Armed with a two hundred dollar check from his parents, Hubert somehow convinced Paul to return to New York. On July twenty-fourth, the day after a night of drunkenness with Hubert at a Casino, Paul departed to New York, utterly misguided and looking to reclaim even an ounce of stability.

Instead of welcoming Paul, Claude criticized his son for taking off without saying a word, telling him that he had caused his mother immense distress. As Paul listened to Claude, he came to feel that he had gained strength. While Claude alleged "You’re so busy thinking about yourself and what you want. You never see anything around you. There are others in the world, too, you know" (Without Stopping 97), Paul came to feel great triumph for he had succeeded in getting away from his parents instead of caving in to the harsh constraints that Claude had put on him.

Again with little direction, Paul found a job at Dutton’s Bookshop on Fifth Avenue. He lived with his parents for a few weeks while he settled into being back in New York. After building up a small savings, Paul rented an apartment in Greenwich Village, again failing to tell his parents of his actions. An old flame reemerged, as Peggy, Paul’s girlfriend from art school, became a regular fixture in his life in New York City. While he openly admitted that he was extremely enamoured with Peggy, he concluded in a letter that "I was long ago aware that whatever I put my hand to is made into some sort of vice. There can never be any love, any affection, any satiation ‘in my life.’ Whatever is to please me must be a vice" (An Invisible Spectator, 81).

Paul questioned his return to New York. The job at Dutton’s was no greater than his job at the bank in Paris. He began to compose fiction and realized that writing was "therapeutic" (Without Stopping 97). Still, Paul found no answers to his grand life questions. He lamented, "If a composer said to me: ‘You are a composer,’ that would be all right. Or if a poet said: ‘You are a poet,’ that would be acceptable, too. But somebody had to say something" (Without Stopping 98).

Although he was shy in Paris, the greater frustration that Paul in felt in New York caused him to contact artists and writers. The small group of intelligentsia suggested that he show his music to Henry Cowell, a composer, pianist, and the publisher of New Music Quarterly. After playing him a few of his compositions, Cowell scribbled a quick letter of introduction to Aaron Copland and sent Bowles on his way. It ended up being Paul’s biggest breakthrough. Copland was considered one of the most original contemporary composers at the time. With the letter in hand, Paul’s excitement was evident.

After a few visits, Copland agreed to give Paul a daily lesson in composition. Paul quit his job at Dutton’s and returned to his parent’s house in order to conserve money and make use of the family piano. In the heat of Paul’s enthusiasm and excitement, Rena and Claude demanded that he return for a second semester at the University of Virginia. Instead of leaving without a trace and defying his parents as he’d done before, Paul relented and left for Charlottesville.

Because he had made the Dean’s List his previous term, Paul was excused from classes as an added perk of being such a good student. As a result, Paul spent his days wandering the Ragged Mountains and visiting his friend Bruce Morrissette in Richmond. Later that Spring, Copland traveled to Charlottesville to visit Paul. "At one musical evening Aaron was prevailed upon to play a movement of his Jazz Concerto; it was then that I understood the extent of the provincialism at the university. Instead of finding it enormously exciting as I did, the guests seemed to think it was some sort of hoax" (Without Stopping 100). Bowles was disappointed but finished the spring term in Virginia. He returned to New York later that summer, hoping to borrow money from his parents so that he could accompany Copland to Germany in the fall.

Once again, Paul’s re-entry into the life of his family and his past was not graceful. He felt that he no longer had to abide by the strict rules of his father and often acted out. The tension culminated when Paul threw a meat knife at Claude and splintered the glass pane in the front door as he ran out of the house. Rena made Claude take the car out and find Paul. When he caught up to him, Claude convinced Paul to return home, saying that he was causing his mother tremendous pain. As they entered the house, another confrontation occurred. Paul yelled, "You can’t stand me because every time you look at me you realize what a mess you’ve made of me! But it’s not my fault I’m alive. I didn’t ask to be born" (Without Stopping 105). While he did not regret what he said to his father, the fact that Paul had exposed his own pain bothered him. His quest to be strong and to seem impregnable had failed. The only thing he could do was to escape again.

On April 10, 1931, Paul arrived in Paris. With a loan from his friend Harry Dunham, Paul paid for passage and retained something to live on. He was able to find free accommodations through friends and once again set about trying to break into the world of the intelligentsia. Now confident using his solidified musical and literary reputation, Paul sought out Gertrude Stein. He had carried on a formal correspondence with her in the past year and when a lean, energetic, and cocky youngster entered the room, she exclaimed, "I was sure from your letters that you were an elderly gentleman, at least seventy-five" (Without Stopping 106).

Bowles' hesitancy quickly subsided. Stein was extremely fond of Paul and nicknamed him Freddy. He was her showpiece, a nineteen-year-old American who had the wit of an old man and a brashness which made for great entertainment during dinner parties. Stein and Alice Toklas introduced Paul to writers and artists who graced the pages of Transition and other avant-garde magazines. These were moments of great excitement for Bowles, a young man, meeting intellectual "celebrities" such as Ezra Pound and Jean Cocteau.

A few weeks later, Copland arrived in Paris, ready to travel to Germany. When they arrived in Munich, Bowles received invitations to stay at friends’ vacation houses. Offered the chance to meet more people, Bowles often abandoned his studies to take holidays. Paul was a young socialite, wanting to stand in the circles of important people and be seen with them, hoping to find fame by association. Copland criticized Bowles’ lack of dedication but recanted when Paul played him a composition he had written. While undependable and undirected, Bowles the writer and composer could produce extremely good work without taking the time which others could not do without.

In early July, Bowles returned to France and Gertrude Stein, ready to reenter the world of excitement and intellectual bliss. Paul soon became frustrated by Stein’s abrasive personality. She criticized his poetry, often disagreed with him in order to be playful, and described him as "a manufactured savage…the commonest of contemporary phenomena, the American suburban child with its unrelenting spleen" (Without Stopping 119). Bowles had little interest in being the poster boy for dysfunctional children. Copland rejoined him in France and the two discussed where they should spend the remainder of the summer. As they threw out names of sites in the Alps and ports on the Atlantic, Stein quickly interjected, "The place you should go is Tangier. Alice and I spent three summers there, and it’s fine. Freddy’d like it because the sun shines every day" (Without Stopping 123).

Later that afternoon, the two decided to heed Stein’s advice. At first glimpse, Bowles believed that "The trip to Morocco would be a rest, a lark, a one-summer stand. The idea suited my overall desire, that of getting as far away as possible from New York. Being wholly ignorant of what I should find there, I did not care" (Without Stopping 124). Once they got off the boat, Bowles and Copland’s opinions of what stood in front of them immediately diverged. While Copland hated the heat, the landscape, and the lack of inspiration that he felt, Bowles was enamoured. In fact, he loved Tangier more than any person in his life. It was sexually open, teeming with well-toned young males, and equipped with enormous amounts of kif to help him escape even more. He called it his "dream city" (Without Stopping 128). The place welcomed him like a true family member:

This filling of an unexplainable void invigorated Bowles. he soaked up every minute, every degree of intense heat, and every new sound emanating from the Medina. After only two months, Copland was ready to get back to comfort, productivity, and "civilization." On the other hand, Bowles had no interest in leaving his new-found salvation. Before leaving for Berlin, Bowles convinced Copland to travel to Fez. Bowles was then supposed to return to Paris to continue his composition studies, but a letter from Harry Dunham saved the day. Dunham and his money came to visit Bowles. The two traveled for a few weeks, spending most of their time in Casablanca and Marrakech. Bowles enjoyed these cities but still longed to be back in Tangier. With no money left and Dunham on his way back to Dresden, Bowles returned to Paris to refill his war chest.

After only one summer, Bowles was hooked on a place. While he had few friends in Morocco, the non-Western lifestyle, the lack of "books, radios, newspapers, theater, ballet and art" all liberated Paul. When he reflected back on the busyness and chaos of New York and Paris, he breathed a sigh of relief when he thought of Tangier: "You don’t have to put up with all that nonsense" (Without Stopping 119). In the absence of high culture, Bowles found a space to create. There were no competitors or ties to the past, only what seemed to be a timeless land full of wonder and mystery.

In December of 1930, Bowles was back in Paris. He waited for Copland to finish up his work in Berlin and then traveled to London with Virgil Thomson where he saw "Sonata for Oboe and Clarinet" performed. He heard the music he composed on the piano come to life, with all of the instrumentation that he had only played out in his head. Critics disliked the piece, but since they had also panned Copland’s work, Bowles was not disheartened. He had still been billed alongside Copland and could finally consider himself a true composer. For a few short moments, he was treated like a celebrity and basked in the spotlight.

Back in Paris, doctors suspected Bowles had syphilis. While Paul was always considered a non-sexual being, it was evident that he had become more active. Although he does not name any partners in his autobiography, it is likely that the sexually open environment of Morocco gave rise to the majority of his sexual encounters. While it is known that Bowles had no sexual relations with Copland or Thomson, the fact that he was a young and attractive "eccentric" did not hurt his cause. He was always a man of mystery when it came to his sex life. Openly, he was talkative, engaging, and witty, yet he always avoided talking about his partners. Even if he was frequently seen with a particular person, one could make no assumption as to whether or not there was a sexual connection. While it appeared that Bowles lived the life of a playboy, dancing through the hippest social circles, it is possible that he never "acted" as much as he talked.

In April of 1932, Bowles left his sickbed to accompany a literary agent, John Trounstine, as a guide to Morocco. They visited artists and eccentrics in Tangier and Fez but as quickly as the visit had begun, it was finally over. Once again, as soon as his friend left, Bowles had no money to remain. He returned to Paris, wondering if he was ever going to be able to settle down for a lengthy period of time with stable funds and the resilience to actually stay put in a single place. He wondered whether Morocco itself represented a positive haven or an attraction by virtue of what it lacked.

At the end of May, Bowles was sick with typhoid. He was unconscious for two weeks and was not discharged from the French hospital until July. Feeling that he needed to make up for lost time, Bowles went to Monte Carlo in order to compose. Once he found a traveling companion in George Turner, the two headed for the Sahara. Turner was a twenty-three year old American who shared Bowle’s passion for North Africa. They started their journey in Algiers taking buses throughout Algeria until they arrived in Bou-Saada, a city on the outskirts of the Sahara. From there, they hired a guide and began to explore the barren and empty sea of sand. The cold nights were a test of Bowles’ fragile health; the love that he felt for Tangier he did not feel for the Sahara.

The trip with Turner only lasted a few months but his experience with the Sahara left an impression on him. He watched a young girl dance naked at a brothel, recorded the impressions of Turner, and took mental snapshots of his surroundings. Instead of paying the girl for a sexual act, Bowles paid a premium to watch her uncomfortably shuffle back and forth in the nude. Turner could not help himself and later went off into the night to be sexually satisfied. Through these experiences, Bowles was able to build the foundation for The Sheltering Sky. Turner became the character of George Tunner, the vivacious American who represented all that was wrong with America. The brothel would later be incorporated into Port’s foray away from Kit, when his confusion about love, sexuality, and emotion is manifested.

In the fifteen years between the trip to the Sahara and Bowles’ writing of the Sheltering Sky, the cyclical period of running out of money and leaving Morocco to find more of it continued:

All of the frustration of being homeless, penniless, and directionless came to a breaking point. Against his will, Bowles returned to the States, the supposed "land of milk and honey." Paul once again was forced to confront his parents, scour for money, and figure out when he could head for greener pasture. In a letter to Copland, he wrote, "I hate America because I feel attached to it, and I don’t want to feel that way. In Africa for instance, I can sit and feel unlocated; I can look at the landscape and turn the page and look at another, and it means nothing" (In Touch 117).

In 1936, Bowles wrote fiction in Massachusetts at his aunt’s house, composed another sonata in a New York apartment lent to him by Copland, scored a film for a friend and worked for an Austrian suffering from encephalitis in Baltimore. In early 1937 he met Jane Auer, a quiet red-head who also had a sense of adventure. She was spoiled, cocky, artistically ambitious, and searching for an escape. While Auer was a decided lesbian, Bowles still had not figured out where his sexual preference lay, though he was primarily homosexual. Dutch artist Kristians Tonny mentioned to Paul and Jane that he wanted to go to Mexico and a few hours later, they all agreed to take a trip. Paul had inheritance money from his grandparents and Jane had wealthy parents. While they had spent little time with each other, each recognized a certain magic in the other. They were both eccentrics with eccentric ideas and eccentric friends. They had peculiar tastes in music, art, and literature. Each was looking to "make it" in the world without the support of a loving family. While both were stubborn and independent people, they were drawn to each other immediately.

Much like Kit and Port Moresby in The Sheltering Sky, Paul and Jane were looking to find salvation. Armed with letters of introduction to various writers, artists, and composers, Paul, Jane, Tonny, and his wife arrived in Monterrey. The next few days, they traveled by primitive and dirty buses through the countryside. Jane did not adjust to the new environment. "For two days going through the mountains, she crouched, frightened and sick, at the back of the bus, unmindful of Tonny’s scornful remarks" (Without Stopping 198). It was evident to everyone that Jane hated Mexico and a few days later she was gone. It is quite surprising that Jane could not "rough it," since she would later end up settling in Tangier, a place just as dirty and primitive as Mexico.

In the wake of Jane’s departure, Bowles, unscathed, continued to explore and study the local music but soon returned to New York. Later that July, Jane telephoned Bowles and explained that she had not prepared herself properly for Mexico. Reality had suddenly gotten in the way of romantic dreaming, and there was nothing to do but leave. After the admission, Paul and Jane started building a deep relationship. The two talked about their skewed views concerning love, life, and family. They got so worked up searching for solutions that suddenly, their musings struck a chord of twisted wisdom: "Jane and I used to spin fancies about how amusing it would be to get married and horrify everyone, above all, our respective families" (Without Stopping 207). Soon after, the two shocked themselves and others: they went through with their plans.

While Bowles justified his actions by saying that marriage was part of the course of life, Jane attributed her consent to loneliness. Although both could have settled down with a member of the same sex, it was evident that their respective estrangement from "normal society" plagued them. It appears that Paul and Jane found a certain salvation in each other, one which had never been found in their respective lovers. The excitement of having a true companion overshadowed the evident concerns of two young homosexuals entering into a heterosexual marriage.

Much like the rest of their lives, the marriage of Jane and Paul did not conform to traditional standards. Virgil Thomson observed, "Paul was very attached to her and she was very attached to him and that was that. But I don’t think that they ever slept together because she wouldn’t have him. Jane was set up as a lesbian and that was her way of life" (An Invisible Spectator 185). Other friends reported that the two did have sexual relations but that their amorous relationship was short-lived. Perhaps no one will ever know.

Paul and Jane honeymooned in Central America, returned to New York, and wound up in Paris in May of 1938. Their relationship turned sour there after six weeks. While both of them visited friends and maintained their own independent lives, Jane often would not come home at night. Strangely enough, Paul suddenly felt lonely. He took a train to St. Tropez but realized that he could not escape the predicament. While the two reconciled, they really came to more of an understanding whereby each agreed to give the other more space. It was evident that this troubled Bowles, something which would later be explored in the Sheltering Sky with the roles of the needy and the seemingly uncaring lover reversed.

In 1940, Bowles received word that Orson Welles wanted him to return to New York to score Too Much Johnson. Once again running out of money, the Bowleses relocated. Jane began to work on a novel while Paul composed. After spending time in New Mexico and Mexico on commissioned assignments including a translation and adaptation of Garcia Lorca’s Asi Que Pasen Cinco Anos, Paul was at an impasse with his musical work. While he was hailed by critics as a talented composer, he could not obtain a steady income. Too Much Johnson was shelved, some of his other scores were rejected. Bowles managed to work with Tennessee Williams and William Saroyan, but still could not earn a regular income. In 1942, Virgil Thomson, the chief music critic of the New York Herald Tribune, hired Bowles as a reviewer. Paul quickly learned that he could write his reviews in less than an hour.

While he thought little of the job as a reviewer, the process of writing renewed an old interest in Bowles. Having spent the majority of his recent years composing, Paul, never the one to stand on his laurels, began to write fiction. His "Distant Episode" and "Call at Corazon" garnered critical acclaim. Meanwhile, Jane’s novel Two Serious Ladies, was criticized by reviewers as too complicated. Bowles, who had considered literature only a hobby in high school, suddenly became regarded as a writer. While he continued to write scores when the right opportunity presented itself, Paul now became more interested in fiction. In a 1952 interview with the New York Times, Bowles told Harvey Breit that he had "always felt extremely circumscribed in music. It seemed to me there were a great many things I wanted to say that were too precise to express in musical terms."

Tired of being in New York, Tangier infused itself into Bowles’ dreams. In June of 1947, he was suddenly offered a contract and an advance on a novel. Thrilled, Bowles began brainstorming: "I got the idea for The Sheltering Sky riding on a Fifth Avenue bus one day going uptown to Tenth Street. It would be a work in which the narrator was omniscient. I would write it consciously up to a certain point, and after that let it take its own course" (An Invisible Spectator 257). Jane, on the heels of rejection, told Paul that she would join him in Morocco in six months. Paul, on the heels of opportunity, departed the Western World, aiming to bolster his literary career by writing a book that would propel him to forefront of American literature.

It is difficult to discern where art imitates life and life imitates art. With The Sheltering Sky, Bowles openly admitted that he created Kit Moresby "as a counterfeit Jane" (Preface to the Sheltering Sky 11) so that he could have a companion as he wrote the book. Jane was in the States eighty percent of that time and in this, his first novel, it is evident that Bowles wrote about what he knew: the feeling of loneliness, being an expatriate, and dysfunctional relationships. Since he had little power over his own life, Paul dreamed and romanticized within the sphere of fiction, trying to find salvation and right personal wrongs. By the end of the novel, it becomes evident that there are only certain things man has control over, that all of the heart and soul that he pours into trying to change his place in the world can still come up short. While Bowles and Kit Moresby are dreamers, it is evident that they cannot always get what they want. Bowles realizes it, and Kit has to learn it through one traumatic experience after another.

Within the opening pages, Kit is presented as the object of both the readers’ and her husband Port’s focus. While she is not the protagonist early on, her character and the psyche are the most developed by the end of the novel. Kit is the character who feels and reacts, the siphon through whom the plot passes. Ironically, she states, "the people of each country get more like the people of every country. They have no character, no beauty, no ideals, no culture-- nothing, nothing" (16). As Kit begins her journey in the Sahara with Port and their traveling companion George Tunner, it will become evident that people can be different from one another, that a culture can be so foreign that it cannot be comprehended.

The novel begins in a hotel. Kit and Port Moresby have been married for twelve years. Their relationship is about to shatter and the Sahara is their last chance to salvage the love that they once felt for each other. Kit is the character who loves, Port, the character who sits quietly and listens without offering any sign of opinion. George Tunner, a friend from their home of New York, is the quintessential ugly American: loud, obnoxious, overconfident, and annoying. While Kit and Port had a definite goal when they planned the trip, Tunner simply joined them because he had nothing better to do.

Kit and Port sleep in separate rooms. Physical love seldom occurs and only at Port’s discretion. He dominates the relationship without doing or saying anything. The less he does, the less he says, the more Kit tries to provoke him. The barren surroundings of the small Saharan villages do nothing to create a diversion. The sun is sweltering, the people are generally unfriendly, and the food is terrible.

Instead of going back to the hotel and spending time with his wife the first night of the trip, Port chooses to explore the village, happy to look up at the sky and have time to himself. At a café, he meets an Arab named Smaïl. They drink mint tea and Smaïl offers to introduce him to a girl, "beautiful as the moon" (30). After considerable thought, Port decides to meet the girl, agreeing to pay her for whatever services she renders. Smaïl leads Port away from the center of town, into a realm of otherness. "The pleasure he felt at the unexpected freshness of the air and the relief at being in the open once more…served to delay Port in asking the question that was in his mind: Where are we going?" (32)

Like the Professor, Port is walking into an abyss, seeking adventure, not knowing where he is going, led by someone whom he doubts he can trust. The path gets darker and darker; the two descend into a hell-like world, a dying bonfire amidst a cluster of tents. As Port waits for Smaïl to talk to the girl, he thinks about Kit and Tunner; he admits aloud that "[Tunner’s] been after her," and concludes that "he’ll never get her" (34). Shortly after, with a dog howling in the distance, Port has sex with the girl, "imagining that Kit was a silent onlooker" (40). He escapes the horrible fate of the Professor, re-emerging from the darkness, still able to speak and feel.

In the morning, Kit is forced to hide Port’s absence from Tunner. She does not want to expose the fact that she has no idea where he is. As she attempts to create a web of lies, Port walks in. Kit, unsure of how to react, goes off with Tunner to eat lunch. Port sleeps all afternoon. At dinner, Port and Kit meet Eric and his mother, Mrs. Lyle. Mrs. Lyle is writing a travel book and navigating the Sahara in an old Mercedes. They offer Kit and Port a ride to Boussif but do not have enough room for Tunner. A conflict arises: Port wants to travel in the car while Kit thinks it is wrong to leave Tunner alone on the train. Port is stubborn and will not agree to take the train because the car is faster and more comfortable. He decides to go with the Lyle’s, Kit decides to go on the train.

When Kit discloses the travel arrangements, Tunner beams. As he readies his luggage, he "whistl[es] at the prospect of being alone with Kit; he had decided she needed him" (68). Port speeds off in the Mercedes, Kit and Tunner sit across from each other on the train with hours to kill and little to divert their attention. From the outset, Kit admits that she is "a little nervous on trains" (77). A few moments later, Tunner uncorks a bottle of champagne, beginning his well-devised seduction. They toast Africa. When Kit says that they need to make the champagne last, Tunner admits that he has five more bottles. The two begin to imbibe to the sound of a "strange, repetitious melody" (80). As the mood turns somber, Kit laments, "I think I was never meant to live" (80).

Unsuccessful in love, frustrated by her attempts to salvage her marriage, and confused by Tunner’s behavior, Kit is lost. "The motion of the train kept pushing her towards him" and all she could think about was Port, wondering where he was and what he was doing. Kit escapes to the fourth class section of the train and realizes for the first time that "she was in a strange land" (84). The alien language and different faces serve to make her feel far from home. When she returns to her car, she is pulled into the compartment by Tunner. Armed with two glasses of champagne and a bathrobe, he states, "I’m going out into the passageway here, and I want you to take off every stitch you have on, and put on that. Then you rap on the door and I’ll come in and massage your feet. No excuses, now. Just do it" (87).

Happy to be told what to do instead of staring at her husband’s apathetic looks, Kit does as she is instructed. For once, she feels she has no choice in the matter. With rain falling and champagne flowing, Tunner turns down the lights, and begins to caress Kit. "She could think of nothing to say to stop him" (88). Like Port, Kit has entered into a realm of otherness whereby she can escape her troubles. Unlike Port, she has chosen to escape with someone she is connected to. Unfortunately, she cannot simply steal away in the morning, never to be seen again. While Port feels no remorse for spending the night in the tent, Kit is haunted by her actions and vexed by the uncertainty of its repercussions.

Kit and Tunner connect with Port in a café in Boussif. Kit is nervous, Port is feisty. When the meal is finished, Tunner announces that he is going to take a siesta. Kit and Port make small talk and later rent bikes. She says nothing to him about her romance on the train. He makes no inquiry about the time she spent with Tunner. Instead, the two ride into the "endless flat desert" (99). With sunset approaching, they leave their bikes at a ridge and look out at the horizon. They sit down on a large boulder, side by side, watching the sun fade in the distance. Few words pass between them. "And although [Port] was aware that the very silences and emptinesses that touched his soul terrified her, he could not be reminded of that. It was as if always he held the fresh hope that she, too, would be touched in the same way as he by solitude and the proximity to infinite things" (100). Kit’s inner desire to share a special moment with her husband is squelched by the realization that this outing has no promise of romance.

Port reveals a great truth about the desert when he asserts, "the sky here’s very strange. I often have the sensation when I look at it that it’s a solid thing up there, protecting us from what’s behind" (101). The looming sun is a presence, capturing all that sits in its sphere of light. It has power and highlights the emptiness of the land it shines on and the emptiness of the universe beyond. The sky is just a splash of blue, coloring blank space. Kit begins to cry, upset that Port’s philosophizing has made their mediocre bike ride even more depressing. The sun is gone, the darkness erases the scenery around them. Port wipes Kit’s eyes and kisses her on the cheek. Kit continues to worry about her episode with Tunner, as Port pedals on undaunted.

On the bus to another small town named Aïn Krorfa, Port finally reveals his sentiments regarding his marriage. While he is openly inexpressive, there is no doubt that he thinks about his situation a great deal. Looking back at the bicycle trip, Port admits to himself that he has "a definite desire to strengthen the sentimental bonds" (105) with Kit. He realizes that he needs to be alone with her and hopes to rebuild their relationship. Port admits that Tunner is a nuisance and realizes that he is getting in the way of their reconciliation. "It did not make it easier for him, the fact that he suspected she was trying to keep from being alone with him" (107).

The bus is therapeutic for Port. "The idea that at each successive moment he was deeper into the Sahara than he had been the moment before, that he was leaving behind all familiar things, this constant consideration kept him in a state of pleasurable agitation" (109). Finally the hope for salvation emerges. Port is in the exact frame of mind that Kit wishes for him. The journey into nothingness is working, feelings and strong desires are forming within Port. All he and Kit need is time and each other.

As the bus approaches Aïn Krorfa, the flies begin to attack as if they were a plague sent by God. They find their way into mouths, noses, and ears. Kit and Tunner frantically swat at them, Port sleeps and slowly realizes that he is being harassed as well. "The town itself, once they had arrived, seemed scarcely to exist" (113). In the middle of nowhere and unable to leave because buses arrive and depart so infrequently, Kit suddenly regrets having traveled to the Sahara. In contrast, Port is liberated, seeing himself as much a part of the place as those who truly inhabit it. The motivation builds and in the midst of pestilence, Port makes his move. He pawns Tunner off to the Lyle’s, getting him a ride to Messad so that he could be alone with Kit. Finally in position to carry out the plans he had concocted in his head, self-conscious inertia begins to plague him. With so much idle time having passed, Port wonders if he can reconcile the wrongs he has committed. "Because neither [Kit] nor Port had ever lived a life of any kind of regularity, they both had made the fatal error of coming hazily to regard time as non-existent. One year was like another year. Eventually everything would happen" (133).

With the sexual and emotional tension at its climax, Kit finally feels self-confident. Port suddenly has taken an interest in her and with Tunner away, she too feels the freedom which she hoped the trip would bring her. The power struggle between the couple causes Port to constantly reevaluate his feelings. When his romantic visions do not pan out as he has planned, he closes himself off and makes the process even harder. Unable to express himself, he escapes one night to a café where music is playing. He sees a beautiful young girl dancing and asks a man if the girl is available. Finding out she is blind, Port is even more attracted. The vulnerability that the girl expresses is extremely attractive to him. "Without eyes to see beyond the bed, she would have been completely there, a prisoner" (140). But the girl runs away when the proposal is made and the rejection causes Port to feel "alone, abandoned, lost, hopeless, [and] cold" (140). When he returns to the hotel he finds Kit’s room dark and the feeling in his heart even darker.

Knowing that he needs to buy himself more time, Port decides that he and Kit shall miss their connection with Tunner. Instead, they would dive deeper into the Sahara, hoping to find the place that would induce their feelings into the open. After drinking a bottle of scotch together, Port and Kit’s inebriated conversation moves from critical commentary to inadvertent admission of true feelings. While no physical affection takes place, Port has begun to open up and Kit has again gravitated towards him. Tunner is gone, and Port gives no sign that he will escape into the darkness again. In this critical time, Kit realizes that "Nothing Port asked of her could be refused" (178).

Just as Port and Kit are heading down the golden path, disaster strikes. On the bus to El Ga’a, Port shivers all night. In response, Kit panics. She begins to caress his head and calls him "darling…letting his head bump up and down on her breast" (183). Port’s hand finds hers and in this, the most daunting time of the entire trip, Port and Kit find romance. Stricken with fever, Port is carried off the bus. Kit leaves him in a fondouk and searches for accommodations. After knocking on the door of the lone hotel for quite some time, the proprietress yells out that the hotel can take no guests due to the meningitis epidemic. Faced with no place to stay and no solution at hand, Kit realizes that she is in a "crisis" (192). She does not know if she is equipped to handle it and wonders whether she is valiant or a coward. Port had always been the one to handle crisis situations. Now, she is forced to make the decisions.

Due to the kindness of a French captain, Kit is able to find lodging. Port speaks little and sleeps endlessly. With no one to talk to, Kit is once again alone, forced to think about "the famous silence of the Sahara" (202) and realizes that she is a "prisoner" (202) for an indeterminable amount of time. While she gives medicine and milk to Port, Kit knows that there is little hope for his recovery. All she can do is wait and watch, once again completely powerless over her husband’s destiny. "While she was reading, sometimes she forgot the room, the situation, for minutes at a time, and on each occasion when she raised her head and remembered again, it was like being struck in the face" (209).

On his birthday, the distance between Port and his life becomes too great to negotiate. Sprawled on his deathbed and amidst Kit’s hysteria, Port comes clean for the first and last time: "Kit! All these years I’ve been living for you. I didn’t know it, and now I do. I do know it!" (217) Alone, covered with tears, Kit has no idea of where her life is going. Port is gone; she is thousands of miles from home and has no one to tell her what to do. "The whole, monstrous star-filled sky was turning sideways before her eyes" (226). When "guidance" in the form of George Tunner arrives, Kit cannot bring herself to accept him as her savior. Instead, she "turns [her] head toward the red sky" (Collected Stories 47), running naked towards the emptiness, trying to negate all that has just elapsed.

"For the first time since her childhood she was seeing objects clearly. Life was suddenly there, she was in it, not looking through the window at it" (247). Vowing never to be "hysterical again" (247), Kit sheds her past, rebaptizing herself in the sea of the desert. A caravan of camels emerges from the dunes, carrying Belqassim, an Arab man who lifts her onto his camel and makes love to her later that night. They do not speak each other’s language but Belqassim is able to direct her life and allay all of her hidden fears. Kit clings to Belqassim and the two ride through the desert, making love every night and traveling each day. Now a true part of Arab culture, Kit is viewed as property by Belqassim He lends her out to a friend one night and later dresses her in the garb of an Arab boy to mask her identity. All the while, Kit does not utter a word.

When they reach Belqassim’s home a few days later, Kit is given a room in his house. She maintains her disguise but Belqassim’s four wives become suspicious. Each afternoon he goes into her room for long periods of time and makes loud groaning noises. "But since she lived now solely for those few hours spent beside Belqassim, she could not bear to think of warning him to be less prodigal of his love with her in order to allay their suspicion" (284). Finally an old slave whips Kit across her face and removes her turban, revealing her identity to the wives. Belqassim marries her in retaliation but "now that he owned her completely, there was a new savageness, a kind of angry abandon in his manner" (290). After a night of violence, Kit awakes one morning and goes through her valise for the first time since she ran into the desert. The contents "were like the fascinating and mysterious objects left by a vanished civilization" (291). Finally the wheels begin to turn in Kit’s head. She finds an ounce of her old identity in her jewelry and make-up bag. Pocketing her thousand Franc notes, Kit runs once again, throwing her handkerchiefs and bracelets to Belqassim’s wives.

Once in the street, Kit realizes that she had only been playing a "ridiculous game" (295). " ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ she screamed" (299) but "she had no feeling of being anywhere, of being anyone" (300). Still in her Arab clothes, Kit tries to buy milk with a thousand-Franc note. When the money is refused, the police are called. "In another minute- life would be painful" (302). Once she begins speaking, Kit betrays herself, letting her true identity finally break through. She admits that she has caused her own "destruction" (305) and is later handed over to the American consulate. Ready to be transferred back home, Kit has one last moment to look up and out: "Before her eyes was the violent blue sky-nothing else. For an endless moment she looked into it. Unblinking, she fixed the solid emptiness, and the anguish began to move in her" (312). She was on her way home…

From the first sentence of Port’s awakening in the small Saharan hotel, it is evident that the desert is just as much a character in the novel as Port and Kit. It shapes the plot, constantly looming, causing Kit and Port to rethink who they are and where they are headed. The further into the Sahara they go, the more they are forced to change. Eating is no longer eating. It is trying to find something edible that is not crawling with bugs. Moving from place to place is not accomplished with ease. When they are alone, they are truly alone, with no ability to call a friend. Instead, Port and Kit are forced to decide if they are going to cling to each other or simply get swept up by the loneliness of the forlorn land.

In an interview with Rolling Stone, Bowles sheds light on his reasoning for using the Sahara as the setting. He describes the American, trying to shed his past and upbringing in order to put on new shoes. This attempt, Bowles believes, is impossible: "You can’t identify with a culture that is several centuries behind what you know. If a Westerner encounters an archaic culture with the idea of learning from it, I think he can succeed. He wants to absorb the alien for his own benefit. But to lose oneself in it is not a normal desire. A romantic desire, yes, but actually to try and do it is disastrous" (Conversations With Paul Bowles 77).

Ironically, it appears that Bowles violated his own maxim when he first considered Morocco his haven. While he did not try to identify with the culture, he did try to shed the majority of the contact with America and get lost in Tangier. As he wrote The Sheltering Sky, Bowles traveled through the Sahara, revisiting the places he had gone with John Trounstine in ’32. In 1948, Bowles had new circumstances but still felt directionless. He continuously wrote Jane, asking her when she would join him in Africa. To his chagrin, each time he was rebuked by her, forced to grapple with the excuse that she was afraid of making the trip across the Atlantic alone. While this was certainly true, the reality was that Jane was happy in New York, finding security and satisfaction in her female lovers and the friends she had around her.

In a letter to his publisher, Bowles describes The Sheltering Sky as:

An adventure story in which the adventures take place on two planes

simultaneously: in the actual desert and in the inner desert of the spirit…

With this description, Bowles provides the reader with insight into his life as well as his story. The Sahara cannot bridge the physical gap between him and Jane. In fact, it makes the situation more difficult. Paul is alone, furthering his career yet stirring up problems for his personal life. While he knows that he wants to be in Morocco, the fact that his wife will not join him torments his psyche. He cannot simply talk to Jane face to face in order to figure out the status of their relationship. Instead, Jane holds all of the power. When she decides to go to Morocco, the relationship will reconvene. Until she does so, Paul is forced to wait and wonder, writing in his bed and looking out at "red sky" (Collected Stories 47).

When Jane finally arrives, the roles of power in the marriage reverse. While in New York and Paris, Jane was in control, not coming home at night and dictating how much time Paul could spend with her. In contrast, Paul was already accustomed to Morocco. He was settled in with a set of male friends and a house which was decorated with objects that suited him. Jane was now the alien, forced to adjust to Paul’s schedule and established life while trying to assimilate to the new culture. While Paul was completely comfortable with his surroundings, Jane did not fit in. She had problems writing and could not find female companions. Tangier’s openly homosexual atmosphere for males was not teeming with lesbians. It was a male-dominated society and Jane was a strong female. While she did her best to adapt, Paul did little to ease the transition.

In a letter to Paul in July 1948, Jane writes, "I was peculiarly disturbed by the fact that you lingered in Fez instead of rushing to the Farhar to see me. I felt very jealous and left out; …I have never tried harder to be in your world.- to see it the way you did…" (Out in the World: Selected Letters of Jane Bowles 79). Ironically, the words could have come from Kit Moresby’s pen just as easily as they did from Jane’s. A play of jealousy and spite are evident in Jane and Paul’s relationship. She has her female lovers, he has his male lovers and all the while, the two cannot physically connect with one another. While they have a deep-seated relationship, both Jane and Paul are stubborn and fiercely independent. Like Kit and Port, they struggle. Even more eerie is the fact that Paul like Port became seriously ill. The tide of power constantly gushed back and forth with few placid moments. When one of them was in need, there was always an uncertainty that the other would come to the rescue.

In The Sheltering Sky, Bowles had created a story "similar to ‘A Distant Episode’ " (Without Stopping 274). Both Port and Kit go into the darkness, looking to escape while trying to reconcile the demons which torment them. Plagued by their insecurities, both literally shed their clothes and seek the comfort of strangers, hoping that unfamiliar flesh will absorb their anxiety and bring them satisfaction. While these lapses help Port and Kit cope with their marital problems, they still are forced to return to their lives. Even when Port has died, Kit can only linger with Belqassim in her turban for so long before she realizes that her foray into the Arab world was only "ridiculous game" (295).

While the "game" does end, it is evident that Kit is in the same situation as the Professor. While she is on her way back to the States, the end of the novel unabashedly implies that there is no way that she will readjust or find fulfillment. She "soil[s] her clothes" (312) before she is turned over to the American consulate and later finds out that she is being returned to the States due to "sickness." Instead of being referred to as Kit, she is called Mrs. Moresby, destroying the personal relationship that the reader had with her throughout the novel. One of the local diplomats refers to her as the "crackpot who was stuck down in the Soudan" (313) and when she is asked if she has any bags, Kit responds that "everything is lost" (315). This is her last line of dialogue in the novel. It emanates even after the last page is turned, a lonely woman without anyone to turn to, with nothing to live for. Is it the Sahara that contributes to her downfall? Is it the fact that she will never feel the love that Port finally expresses before his death?

Like the Professor, Kit is left with nobody, failing to fulfill the initial purpose of her visit. Although it is done by a different process, she is also made into a clown and forced to perform like a beast. Kit is an enigma for Belqassim, intriguing to him only because she is different. When she opens her valise, the past wafts out and memory forces itself upon her. Reality infiltrates and action has to be taken. Borrowing from his childhood, Bowles seems to be saying that man can never truly escape, no matter how hard he tries. His trouble follows him to all reaches of the world, packed in his mind wherever he goes. At the root lies sadness and Bowles admits "I believe unhappiness should be studied very carefully" (Conversations 5). It was easy for him to think this because this unrelenting emotion seemed to follow Bowles just as easily as it did with his characters.

In an interview with Daniel Halpern, Bowles laments, "I always think of myself as completely alone." When asked if he wanted to "join the crowd," Bowles responded that "From earliest childhood," he'd always wanted to fit in (Conversations With Paul Bowles 94). With the setting of the Sahara, a white-faced, shoe-wearing American instantly becomes the alien. There is no chance that he can ever be truly accepted into the culture. Each person has to learn a new code of ethics, a new culture, and a new way to conduct him or herself. For Paul and Port, this new life is quite rewarding. Their insecurities can be masked and the feeling that every day is a new life allows them to believe that they are better off in this foreign land. In the past, Paul sought out celebrities and tried to become one himself. In Morocco he was completely isolated from the idea of "status." With no competition or spotlight, Paul was able to cultivate his creativity, examine his sexuality, and lead a more rewarding life. Did he find complete happiness? No. But Morocco was a far cry from the never-ending doldrums he felt when he was in New York, forced to chew food forty times and plagued by the insecurities of being a stranger in his homeland.

In contrast, Kit and Jane immediately feel ill at ease in North Africa, unsure of how they fit into the scheme of a culture which sees Americans only as Nazarenes. Kit wishes that she and Port had gone to Italy. Jane wondered what she was doing in Tangier. While she never tried to run away from Morocco, Jane was quoted by the Paris Review as saying "Morocco seemed more dreamlike than real. I felt cut off from what I knew. In the twenty years I’ve lived here, I’ve written two short stories and nothing else. It’s good for Paul and not for me" (Conversations With Paul Bowles 127). The fact that she does stay and gives up her career as a writer is a testament to the misguided attachment she felt with Paul. It is important to remember that she was the writer before he was and that her career showed great promise. In fact, Tenessee Williams called her "the most important writer of prose fiction in modern American letters." Why then did she stay with Paul? They were not sexually involved, they frequently bickered, and each tried to make the other jealous. Did he provide security and salvation for her? Did she just not know where else to go?

Seven years passed between the publication of The Sheltering Sky and The Spider’s House. In that time, Bowles remained in flux. He published a number of short stories and his second novel, Let It Come Down, contracted typhoid, composed a score for Jane’s play, In the Summer House, and traveled to India, Ceylon, Spain, and Italy. For a good portion of the time, a Moroccan named Ahmed Yacoubi accompanied him on his adventures. Jane did not join the two, opting to spend time in Paris and Tangier. It was an extremely unusual situation. Jane, who had traveled across the Atlantic to be with her husband, was abandoned for large spells of time. The letters of longing from him ceased once she arrived, and so, evidently, did the longing. Instead, the success of the Sheltering Sky gave rise to new opportunities and greater financial security for Bowles. He bought a Jaguar and traveled with a pet parrot.

While he was not present to reap the benefits, Paul was a literary celebrity in America. He was the foremost expatriate writer of his time. In contrast, Jane stood outside of the spotlight. While an equally good writer, she was "the other half" of the most popular expat couple. As a result, Jane was plagued by severe depression; she also suffered a stroke in 1957. Due to her psychological instability, Paul put her in a rest home in Malaga ten years later.

It is thus ironic that The Spider’s House has an ending much like that of a Hollywood movie. Paul and Jane’s painful relationship and their many psychological games translated into the romantically climactic union of Bowles’ characters, John Stenham and Polly Burroughs. Much like a fairy tale, Bowles created a conflict and then went about resolving it into a "happy ending."

In fact, Bowles’ novel is a satire, questioning heterosexual relationships, the strength of the human identity, and civilized man’s relationship with a more "primitive" culture. While he states in his preface that "the tale is neither autobiographical nor factual, nor …a roman á clef," it is evident that Bowles mysteriously infuses himself within his words and characters, making the reader wonder where his preferences and opinions lay. Is the novel self-criticism, a venting of his sexual frustrations, or a politically charged work of fiction which tries to give the reader insight into the relationships between expatriates and the natives that surround the Westerners but never enjoy equal standing?

Like Bowles, John Stenham is a successful writer from New England who has lived in Morocco for a long period of time. He too is a former communist who was never baptized. He is romantically pathetic and thinks he knows more about Islam than he really does. In contrast, Bowles states, "I don’t think we’re likely to know the Moslems very well, and I suspect that if we should we’d find them less sympathetic than we do at present" (Conversations With Paul Bowles 4). Most importantly, Bowles and Stenham acknowledge that they are outsiders and admit that they will never truly be able to infiltrate Moroccan culture. Because of this, they view their surroundings through a suspect perspective, one which makes the reader wonder whether the narration and dialogue between the American characters reveals the true realities of what is going on around them.

Like Jane, Polly is a strong-minded woman. Unfortunately, her wit and charm quickly disappear when Morocco begins to bear down on her. She escapes there to find salvation. When she arrives, she encounters a new culture and is reduced to the role of a child looking on the shelves of a toy store for the first time. She loses her past and takes on an entirely new role. Instead of being the independent woman who went out on her own, Polly becomes objectified by Stenham as the unreachable complex woman who dismisses his advances. As Jane did with Paul, Polly comes to be a plague situated in Stenham’s head, making him pine over how he can "conquer" her. As a result, she has two choices: she can either succumb or retain her integrity.

Jane and Polly are most alike because they consider themselves alone. Like Jane, "[Polly] had become an adult early, that was all" (189). Polly also left her husband because he bored her. As she continuously rejects Stenham, is she also rejecting the male sex? As she forms a new identity (one which Bowles suggests is less admirable), is she trying to erase the bad memories of the past? While she aims to shed her American life, it is evident in all that Polly says that she is in fact an ugly American. The more she questions her identity and considers giving in to Stenham, the uglier she gets. As a result, like Jane, she comes to feel more alone and moves towards only one action: throwing herself towards Stenham.

While she does have sexual relations with Stenham, it is evident that Polly is not in love. In contrast Jane had a better sense of her place in the world. She at least knew that she was a lesbian, while Polly struggles over what she wants. Like Jane, she travels to Morocco to see if she can find clarity. Stenham describes Polly as a "face to be sculpted, not painted" (175), highlighting the idea that she does not have a colorful and open exterior. Instead, it is dark and without lines of expression. It is a face which hides more than it exposes. In this respect, Polly is just as much Bowles as she is Jane. On the other hand, her opinions initially suggest that they are different from those of the Bowleses. She is naïve and idealistic, enamoured of the culture yet confused by its intricacies.

While Bowles tries to portray these qualities as unattractive, both he and Jane fell prey to them as well. They too came to Morocco because it was a "primitive" culture where they could escape the complexities of America. Paul traveled with more valises than Stenham and Polly combined. Jane called on servants to handle the every day labors of running her house. While they were not devoured by Morocco like the Professor or Kit, they were not embraced either. They romantically believed that Morocco could fill their sexual, intellectual, and psychological voids. In time, they came to realize that in Morocco, they were only identified as Americans. Instead of trying to shed their materialism, their extravagant habits were even more evident because no one else around them had the same wealth. While they naively went about living a life in Bowles’ "dream city," it was evident that life (even with servants and huge a wardrobe of clothes) was not so perfect. Paul and Jane were frequently at odds, giving rise to sexual tension, frustration, and mind games. This all figured into The Spider’s House, the title of which evokes a complex sticky web which is hard to escape.

After denying Stenham’s repeated sexual advances throughout the novel, Polly finally succumbs in a beautifully written anti-climactic moment of intimacy: "She stretched out her hand, wonderingly touched first the hard stubble on his chin, and then the smoothness of his lips, and thinking: ‘why now, and not before?’ pulled him to her again" (353). Planted in the midst of the war between the French and the Arabs, Stenham and Polly escape from Fes at the end of the novel in a taxi with Stenham’s "fingers caressing [Polly’s] hand, lying inert in her lap" (404). They ride off into the sunset, leaving behind the killing and destruction of a city which Bowles once considered "the intellectual and cultural center of North Africa" (Preface).

While the ending of the novel is romantic and picturesque, Bowles manages to instill a looming feeling of loneliness and discomfort. The reader wants to be happy for Stenham and Polly, but ends up suspecting that once the sun sets, their relationship will too. Alone in an exotic place beset by war, two strangers become intimate. When the last page is turned and the sense that their relationship will not last sets in, disillusion squashes every romantic dream. Is Bowles saying that the idealistic heterosexual love in movies and books is only fiction? Stenham the romantic novelist and Polly the bewildered dreamer seem to be Bowles’ proof positive.

Both Bowles and Polly make a strong point when she states, "the best of any writer is in his books, where it belongs" (298). In a book, the reader can get lost in sentences, places, and people that he will never meet. The writer is just a storyteller, not a real person. But when one begins to examine the life of the author or meets him in person, it becomes evident that he too is flawed and imperfect. It is thus strange that Polly, for no reason, is able to make the transition from feeling "terribly let down" (298) by Stenham’s non-fictitious character to enabling herself to see him as a sexual object. While she loves who he is as a writer of words, the real John Stenham is pompous and unattractive. Although he has transplanted his life to Morocco, he has not lost one ounce of his Americaness. He appears independent and strong, but at his inner core there is self-doubt and weakness. This causes him to long for Polly, and that longing causes her in turn to realize that she is weak as well.

Like Polly, Jane was attracted much more to Paul’s mind than to his body. Still, deep down, she knew that she "needed him." She gave up her girlfriend and stability in New York to come to a male-dominated world to be with a man that she did not physically love. Still, there was a bond with Paul that she did not hold with anyone else. Neither she nor Paul would send out a story before showing it to the other. And while they both knew that they had little hope for physical love, the mental attraction was unmistakable. While they tried to pretend that their relationship was completely flexible, in reality they became jealous, indicating the strong bond between the two. They were both writers, trying to spin their ideas into fiction, still struggling with their places in the real world.

Stenham the writer and Polly the listless spinster could easily be characters in one of Stenham’s novels. They talk and act like they are imitating fictional characters, giving the reader a chilling feeling. Like Paul and Jane, they are humans who have lost their humanity among unreal plots, trying to feel unreal emotions. As they make their way through the plot, it seems as if they are almost not in Morocco, that the country itself is just another character that they run into. They are Americans, disengaged and liberated by the chaos around them. They talk to few Arabs, have their beds made, their food prepared for them, and have money to spend. They philosophize and complain about being inconvenienced by the war, but even when the stakes are against them, they always find a way to escape impending disaster. The Arabs, who must live and suffer in their world, do not share Stenham and Polly’s good fortune.

It is evident that Bowles wants his readers to dislike Polly and Stenham. They display few admirable qualities and are more concerned about themselves rather than the world around them. Situated in such an exotic place, the two talk more about their own impressions instead of searching to understand or befriend actual Moroccans. Ironically, this closely resembled the Bowleses. Paul and Jane saw Moroccans as exotic sexual objects and servants, not as real people. Paul said that they "haven’t evolved the same way, so far, as we have and I wasn’t surprised to find that there were whole sections missing in their ‘psyche,’ if you like" (Conversations With Paul Bowles 130). It is quite hypocritical for Paul to champion such ethnocentric views yet condemn them in his story. But instead of suffering because of his beliefs, Paul thrives. In contrast, Polly and Stenham are scorned because of their ethnocentrism. Is Bowles struggling to overcome his past views or simply unaware of his own ideological blunders?

There is a reason Bowles uses Fez as the setting. It is a magic place, a setting in which "the stars overhead were there in such quantity and brilliance that they looked artificial. In most places of the world the sky was not completely powdered with them" (190). It is also a place that is in the middle of change. While the stars loom overhead, the Moroccans are in the midst of trying to figure out where their country is headed both politically and socially. On the one hand, the French kidnap the Sultan and ban an important religious festival; on the other hand, they bring Western culture and images of "an unmistakably American girl lifting a bottle of Coca-Cola to her lips" (262).

It is evident that Bowles dislikes the French influence on Morocco. His writing emanates with nostalgia, a longing for Morocco before the war. While he comes to realize that Morocco was never truly as primitive as he thought it was, the influence of Western culture grew each year. Although he is an outsider himself, Bowles seems to be looking down on other outsiders. In his stories, both Bowles and Morocco reject the Professor and Kit. Port, the most redeeming character of Bowles’ novels, simply collapses because he is too weak to fit in. Morocco needs survivors. Bowles at least survived in Morocco for over forty years. In contrast, the American characters in his stories cannot sustain life there: they die, depart, or go crazy. When an actual Moroccan enters the picture, a whole new set of questions arise.

For the first time in a Bowles novel, Amar (a young Moroccan boy) lets the reader know that the people that surround the Americans have a voice too. The presence of Amar highlights how different Stenham and Polly are from the true inhabitants of Fes. Bowles takes pains to give the reader insight into the life of a "native," yet it is evident that there are limitations to his own understanding. How can an American speak for a group of people that he does not truly understand? As a result, it is hard to pin down the true function of Amar in the story. Is he the boy who falls victim to the pity of two Americans, a sexual object, a spokesperson for his people, or a mirror to reflect the insolence of the Christians or "Nazarenes"?

Defined first and foremost as a Muslim, Amar is frustrated by the war. His father is a respected healer in the community who preaches the ways of old. With the French presence in Morocco, a wave of European culture infiltrates. Amar struggles to figure out whether the French and their civilized objects and ideas are good or dangerous. It is evident that in part, Amar is a way for Bowles to show how Moroccans feel about the old ways and react to the new ones which are knocking at their doors.

While he travels through the first half of the novel amongst his own kind grappling with this conflict, Amar unexpectedly crosses paths with Stenham and Polly in a café outside the Medina. Both parties have taken risks by leaving the protection of the walls of the Medina but the excitement which they see outside the windows of the café is worth the danger. For Polly and Stenham, the war is entertainment. For Amar, it offers a chance to see first hand who the French really are, whether they are killers or bringers of light and the future. As a young boy trying to figure out his place in the world, the opportunity to watch history unfold is very attractive. It is a "world of motors and exhaust fumes," teeming with "policemen [and]…enemies" (133).

As Amar watches the proceedings outside the café window with great interest, Polly and Stenham simply watch Amar watching. Wondering "what makes them tick," Polly sees Moroccans as "such a mixture, such a puzzle" (187). She sits in the café amongst clients speaking a foreign tongue. Like Bowles, Stenham understands the language but shortsightedly sees Moroccans as a lower breed. "After all, if they were rational beings, he thought, the country would have no interest; its charm was a direct result of the people’s lack of mental development" (210). "Living among a less evolved people enabled him see his own culture from the outside and thus to understand it better" (251). Once again, ethnocentric views tarnish the romantic vision of expatriate life. Instead of appreciating Moroccans for their own culture, Bowles and Stenham seem to appreciate them because of their lack of Western culture. Of course, Moroccan civilization is older and more refined than that of America. While it appears more simple, its strength lies in its dedication to Allah, something which both Bowles and Stenham fail to grasp.

Because of Western ethnocentrism, Moroccans suffer. They are oppressed by the French because they are a third world country with a strategic place on the ocean. Americans see them as less intelligent and exploitable. Gunfire erupts and there is nothing to do but watch:

For a people who are used only to sounds of prayer, the gunshots provide gory evidence that Western "innovation" is rearing its ugly head. The fact that two Americans are giving the play-by-play is disenchanting.

Stenham and Polly do not suffer though. Polly panics and Stenham goes to get her mint tea. As he exits the room, Amar goes over to Polly to console her, crossing an invisible barrier and entering a new world. This compassionate gesture will later prove to be Amar’s downfall and show him to be the true victim of the novel. Espousing the role of a tourist, Polly states, "These people are really amazing. It took this child about two minutes to get me over feeling sorry for myself. The first thing I knew, he was tugging at my sleeve and turning on the most irresistible smile and saying things in his funny language" (258). After proving to be an insightful and witty young man (as far as the reader is concerned), Amar is reduced by Polly to the status of a clown. Earlier Polly had come off as an intelligent person; her encounter with a person who speaks a "funny language" exposes her ignorance and arrogance.

When it is time to escape from the café, Amar turns from a victim to an object of desire for Polly. The gates of the Medina are closed due to the fighting. Polly knows that as Americans, they will be able to gain entrance but "what about [Amar]?" (261) There is no way that he will be able to return on his own. Always ready with a solution, Stenham says, "I think I’ll give him a thousand [francs]. That ought to help some" (262). Polly rejects Stenham’s notion that money will remedy the problem and instead chooses her own brand of American salvation: "Amar’s coming with us. They can find somewhere for him to sleep, and if they won’t, I’ll simply take a room for him tonight" (263). Suddenly the boy with the "funny language" is transformed into a person that she cares about. Does she care about his well being or her own?

While she has good intentions, it is also quite possible that Polly might have ulterior motives. The fact that she is willing to "adopt" a fifteen-year-old boy brings up the question of whether she has any desire to be intimate with him. Probably, Polly cares for Amar as a mother cares for a son, no more than that. Another reason why Polly jumps to Amar’s aid is that she does not want to be alone with Stenham. Amar presents an avenue to escape Stenham’s constant advances. With so many unusual habits and gestures, Amar becomes a distraction for Polly, someone who she can pine over and feel as if she is in control.

Stenham questions Polly’s decision and her motives. He wants to be alone with her in their own small bubble and tosses out his money proposal again, believing that by giving Amar money, he can clear his conscience and be rid of a possible nuisance. It is quite possible that he is jealous of Amar. Exhibiting an air of superiority, Stenham "knew how [Polly’s plan] would end: the boy would disappear, and afterward it would be discovered that something would be missing" (262). For him, Arabs are all thieves. Still, Polly persists. She and Stenham tell the police at the gate of the Medina that Amar is their servant. This lie then becomes the truth.

Unknowingly, Amar embraces Stenham and Polly. He sees them as his salvation and feels that he is indebted to them. "Now that their two fates were indissolubly linked, [Amar] recalled the brightness that had moved in the air where the man’s head was, and preferred to interpret it as a sign given to him by Allah to indicate the course he must follow" (268). While Amar thinks about God, Stenham and Polly think about how they can escape the squalor of Fes. After passing through streets lined with dead bodies, they reach the hotel. As he enters Polly’s room, Amar is further introduced to the complex world of Western culture. He enters the world of huge valises and accommodations far nicer than he has ever seen. While his people are fighting and dying for their culture, Amar is busy sifting through objects he has never seen before. In this respect, Amar is reduced to the status of Polly and Stenham, caring more about material things and himself instead of his past. He has little time to consider this fact because Stenham and Polly decide his next move.

Told that the hotel is forced to close, Stenham decides that Amar will take them to "a pilgrimage spot in the mountains, miles from anywhere" (294). While they have no right to join the Muslims on their sacred land, Stenham and Polly are not allowed to leave the country and have few options. As they embark on the bus, they drive into a new, more exotic world which Bowles rhythmically describes: "A curve, a bank of pink clay, the swaying and rattling of the chasis, the ceaseless sound of the heated motor laboring in second, a green-gray cactus at the edge of the abyss ahead, a curve, a hundred miles of granite mountaintops against the enamel sky" (310). It is evident that Amar, Stenham, and Polly are on a journey. Will all three find salvation and truth? Will Polly and Stenham come to understand Moroccan culture? Will Amar’s vision of Americans as good and caring endure?

As Bowles describes the pilgrimage site and the impressions of Stenham and Polly, Amar fades into the periphery once again. Stenham agonizes over Polly; Polly does her best to digest all that is going on around her. "Occasionally the woman flung an encouraging smile at [Amar], as if she thought he might be afraid to be with strangers" (271). While Amar should be more interested in his people and the religious importance of the site, he is forced to be responsible for Stenham and Polly. Bowles shows the power an American holds. Money and nationality matter more than personality and morals. Stenham and Polly exploit Amar just as much as they "save" him from harm.

To further evidence this point, Polly and Stenham return to their hotel to get their valises and head to Casablanca where the fighting is less severe and a new adventure awaits. As they prepare, Stenham does not depart from the way he has treated Amar. " ‘I hate to ask you again, but how about helping us once more with our luggage.’ Amar jumped up. Whatever the man asked him to do, he would feel the same happiness in obeying; of that he was sure" (403). It is evident that Amar has been put under a spell by Polly and Stenham. Like them, he has entered into a union in which he finds security. Once again, it is a union of convenience, beleaguered by shallow beliefs and hopes.

Sucked into an artificial world of happiness, Amar truly believes that Polly and Stenham are going to take him away with them. He too is anxious for a new adventure and believes that Allah will reward him for his faithful servitude. He reflects on his good fortune and admits, "I am happy now" (402). When he tells Stenham that his mother is in Meknes, Stenham offers him a ride and Amar jumps into the front seat of the taxi. As he gazes at the policemen, the guns, and the dead bodies strewn across the street, Amar feels as invisible as Polly and Stenham: "Nothing mattered, nothing terrible could happen to him when he was in [Stenham's] care" (402). Unfortunately, the false security that Amar naively clings to suddenly ends without any explanation.

Once again, Amar is in an automobile, one of the delights of Western culture, and he is eager to be reunited with his mother and reap the benefits of his toil. "As they approached the highway, [Stenham] leaned forward and told the driver to stop" (404). He proceeded to tell Amar that he had to get out of the car. Amar grabbed onto Stenham’s hand, pleading with him to allow him to stay. The driver opened Amar’s door and Amar got out. "He saw his sandals sinking slightly into the hot sticky tar, and he heard the door slam behind him. [As they drove off,] they were looking out the rear window, waving to him" (405). Amar ran after the car but the speed and ingenuity of the man-made machine were too great for him to overcome. He was alone on the pavement, without fancy European shoes to carry him to the comfort of his mother’s arms. In contrast, Polly and Stenham were off in the sunset, basking in the wind coming through the windows as they left Amar in the distance, not caring anymore about his life or his future.

There is little explanation as to why Stenham and Polly leave Amar. After listening to him protest his dismissal, Stenham, "embarrassed, annoyed, [and] growing angry…said firmly, 'I can't take you to Meknes. There's no time" (405). With that, Amar is forced to exit the car. Polly, who does not understand the Arabic conversation, only smiles at Amar, making no fuss on his behalf. In a few short days, she has been transformed from a maternal figure to an abandoner. Ironically, Stenham never even gives Amar any money for his troubles. No token of thanks changes hands. No appreciation is viewed in the faces of either Stenham or Polly. They speed off and one never knows if they will discuss Amar ever again. All they do is wave at him and leave him to fend for himself in a situation far more precarious than the one that they met him in.

While Stenham and Polly’s ending asks the reader to question their relationship, Amar’s leaves little to the imagination. He is an abandoned soul, left to fend for himself in a war that he does not understand, waged in part because "Over and over [America] sends France two hundred billion francs [and then] gives [them] a hundred billion more. France would like to leave Morocco, but America insists on her staying" (385) because of its strategic and economic interests. While the Arabs fight for their lives, their culture, and their religion, the French fight with better weapons and more sophisticated strategy solely for economic and political reasons.

While Bowles had not originally planned to write a "political" novel, it is evident that his political opinions do find their way into the narrative. A Moroccan boy is exploited, bodies line the streets, and two shallow Americans drive off into the sunset. With The Spider’s House, Bowles has added another dimension to his repertoire. Instead of simply showing the loneliness and alienation that the American feels in Morocco, Bowles now depicts the effect of the Americans on Moroccans and the land that they have spent generations to cultivate. It makes no difference that they are men of God who base their lives upon prayer five times a day towards Mecca. Instead, they live in a country that is exotic and cheap to travel in. They captivate tourists’ minds with snake charming and different clothing.

While Stenham and Polly choose their own fates, Amar has his fate decided for him. As a result of entering into a union with Stenham and Polly, he is now worse off. His mother is miles away and he has no way to get to her. It is unlikely that he will be able to reenter the Medina of Fes. While one despises Stenham and Polly, one feels a special affection for Amar. Bowles seems to seek this response. His own heterosexual relationship was just as jaded as Stenham and Polly’s. In fact, all of the heterosexual relationships in his books have no future.

Amar is the only pure character in the novel. He cares about those around him and strives to do good. He never questions Stenham and Polly, has faith in Allah, and shows that he is an extremely intelligent boy through stream of consciousness revelations. Instead of romanticizing about a woman, Bowles has chosen Amar to be his object of affection. He shows how shallow Stenhman and Polly are but presents Amar as a soul that man should have faith in. While Bowles depicts him as a man of a lower breed, Amar the victim, the sexual object, and the recipient of the evils of Western culture, outclasses the supposedly refined Stenham and Polly.

While the commentary on Moroccan politics is suspect, the descriptions of Moroccan people are overly simplified, and the questions about Bowles’ own views concerning expatriates go unanswered, his underlying homosexuality is definitely present. At this point, Bowles no longer questions his relationship with Jane. He knows there is no more chance for romance with her. As a result, there is more heterosexual pessimism in the novel. While Stenham and Polly become intimate, there is no true love in the novel. The reader can take no solace. He can only reflect on the ethnocentrism and the failed search for salvation which all of the characters undergo. The characters leave the novel just as lonely as when it began. While Stenham and Polly may be "together" there is nothing wholesome and passionate about their relationship. Now that Amar is gone, they will have even less to talk about. All the while, Bowles gazes at the vulnerable and delicate Amar, realizing that his own salvation lies in a young Moroccan boy.

It is easy to get swept up in the alternate life and time of Morocco. Bowles wrote that "after you've been to Europe, for instance, for a few days or a few weeks, and you come back here, you immediately feel you've left the stream, that nothing is going to happen here" (Conversations With Paul Bowles 86). It is ironic that Bowles believes that nothing happens when, in fact, anything can happen in Morocco. This is what made the place so appealing to me. The train that you think will bring you from Fes to Tangier dumps you in Casablanca. The chickpeas that you buy for five dirham are bought two minutes later for three. It is not Europe; it is not America. Pictures of King Hassan II hang in every place of business. Naked light bulbs dangle from the ceilings of indoor markets.

While Bowles just chanced upon Morocco because of Gertrude Stein's suggestion, it was evident from the beginning that such a colorful man was meant for such a colorful place. Though most foreigners (including Copland) could not adjust to such a non-European setting, the magic and marginal location did Bowles a great deal of good. Finally he had something to write about that was new and unexplored. He could escape his past, pursue his sexual interests without being scorned, and live without having to worry about financial hardship. Morocco was not a cultural mecca like Paris nor was it teeming with intellectual celebrities. Bowles was no longer the star-struck socialite or the young "manufactured savage" (Without Stopping 119) which Stein kept harping about. While he was instantly viewed by Moroccans as a Nazarene, Bowles was still able to create his own sheltered world where he could sit in his bed and write while listening to all the goings on of the Medina outside his window.

Even though Bowles was far away from New York, he was still frustrated. He was a brilliant man who was lauded in his homeland because of his artistic work yet alienated from it because of his sexual orientation. While he sought emotional comfort in Jane, her physical rejection of him affected his views about love. All of Bowles’ stories have eerie or unfulfilled endings as a result. He writes well about man’s frustration, his questioning of self worth, and his search for something better or more redeeming. Sadly, when the characters find great truths and put their lives into perspective, they realize that it is already too late to change. This makes their unfulfilled lives even more harrowing. While Bowles allows his characters to die, go crazy, or "escape" into the sunset, Bowles himself was forced to recognize each day that his life could never be "normal" and completely fulfilling. He often spent his days feeling "alone" and underwent the same self-analysis that his characters did.

In response, Bowles kept himself in motion. He loved meeting new people, and delighted in visiting new and exotic places. While movement seemed to fill a void inside of him, his characters become absorbed by everything foreign in the places that they travel to and become disoriented. Characters like the Professor, Kit, and Polly lose any trace of who they once were because of their new surroundings. In contrast, Bowles changed little as person because of all of his adventures. In an interview, he stated, "Moving around a lot is good way of postponing the day of reckoning. I’m always happiest when I’m moving. If you don’t know where you’re going, you’re even freer" (Conversations With Paul Bowles 123). Ironically, the day of reckoning for Bowles’ characters comes while they are in motion. Why is that? For Bowles, new places were a way to escape his childhood and live a more exciting life. For his characters, a new place was a break in their daily routines and forced them to confront themselves and their problems.

As a result of his story structure, the setting of Bowles’ stories sank deeper roots than in most stories written before him. Morocco and the Sahara are the antagonists in Bowles’ fictions; they take the place of a sinister character. This is what Bowles did best. As he writes about people, he is able to incorporate musical metaphor and landscape description to make the reader realize that the book is not just about the characters. While each character is defined in part by the interactions with other characters, they generally reveal the most intrinsic parts of themselves as they discuss their reactions to the Medina, the food, and the living conditions. All of these factors are a direct result of place. A world of otherness is created, whereby the reader can escape but the characters cannot.

As I look back on my own mental snapshots of Morocco, I recall the sense of excitement that I felt as I watched people ride by on rickety bicycles or hang out from overcrowded buses. The distinct taste of cumin made the food taste delicious and strange. The unusual fruits bought from little stands had tastes which made me want to savor each individual flavor. For the foreigner who is looking to find a place incredibly foreign, Morocco, a land where drinking is frowned upon and public affection is forbidden, is the perfect choice. It begs you to reevaluate your own personal values and beliefs. It pushes you to question how much wealth, status, religion, and personal identity matter. For at any moment, you could escape into a small passageway of the Medina and never be heard from again.

Like Bowles, I was never fully able to bridge the gap between my Americaness and the culture that I was trying to immerse myself in. While Bowles hated telephones, televisions, and airplanes, he was still completely American. Many people are attracted to that which they do not know or understand. It gives them a space to learn and explore. The professor wanted to investigate the dialects of Mohrebi, Polly (in some sense) wanted to learn more about Moroccan children. Bowles wanted to learn and explore similar facets but his approach was different. He drew a line between wonder and overindulgence. Bowles was able to walk the line, his characters are not. Most Moroccans revered Bowles because he had chosen Morocco as the setting of his stories, much like the Spaniards lauded Hemingway. Still, they saw other foreigners as dangerous and contemptible.

A photo by Allen Ginsburg shows Bowles sitting on a balcony by himself, looking out at the Djemaa el Fna of Marrakech as throngs of people go about their daily lives. This is a fitting portrait since Bowles certainly wanted to be an invisible observer, not corrupting his subjects with his blond hair and blue eyes. Still he appears in a faded-button down collared shirt and khaki pants, looking as American as a favorite uncle on vacation. While Bowles loved the culture around him and did in fact study aspects of it such as music and story-telling, he seemed to go about in a way different from his characters. He befriended Moroccans before he tried to extract information from them. He was humble and let Moroccans lead him instead of the reverse. This humility led to Bowles’ success and its absence led to his characters’ failures.

While Bowles took great pains to distance himself from his fiction, he was conscious of the similarities between himself and his characters. In an interview, Bowles stated, "If I had ever known I was going to write…seriously, I should have taken another name. I wrote a short story, and another and then others, and very quickly I found myself writing a novel, by which time it was too late to pretend to be another person" (Conversations With Paul Bowles 3). It is obvious that fiction does not erupt out of nothingness. The more sensitive and introspective the writer, the more evocative his fiction can be. Because Bowles could not take shelter in a pseudonym, he had no "alter ego" to separate himself from. As a result, the name on the title page was the same name that grappled with a dysfunctional childhood and incomplete love life.

Because of his own self-consciousness, Bowles did all he could to harness his emotions and explore them. He admitted that his "stories were definitely therapeutic. I needed to clarify an issue for myself, and the only way of doing it was to create a fake psychodrama in which I could be everybody" (Conversations With Paul Bowles 50). While Bowles always thought of himself as composer more than a writer, it is evident that he was most in tune with himself when he was creating fiction. He often composed music because he was commissioned to do so. From the very beginning, he wrote stories because he wanted to release something that was inside of him. The fact that an eight-year-old Bowles was writing about divorced women who smoked opium indicated early on that he had an eccentric mind which was tuned for telling stories.

One of the most interesting aspects of Bowles’ writing as a therapeutic mechanism is that "many of [his] short stories are simple emotional outbursts. They came out all at once, like eggs and I felt better after afterward. In that sense much of my writing is an exhortation to destroy" (Conversations With Paul Bowles 94). Destroy is a strong word yet Bowles’ stories do not leave much trace of hope. Heterosexuals fail to find fulfilling relationships, so-called intelligent travelers are transformed into detestable people, and Moroccans are exploited for American profit. Bowles’ world of personal "salvation" is not the world which comes through in his stories. The world around him is something he does not like and, in response, he exploits it for his own literary gain.

Jane Bowles could quite easily be added to Bowles’ sad list of destroyed lives. She was happy in New York but came to Morocco to be with Paul. Once she got there, she was abandoned for long stretches of time and left to fend for herself. While Jane eventually found a female companion and "settled" into Tangier, she no longer felt creatively inspired and did not find the "salvation" which Paul did. As Paul came to feel more and more liberated by being so far from home, Jane went to pieces. Plagued by severe depression, Jane became uncontrollable and Paul’s decision to send her to the sanatorium in Malaga is an indication of how detached two individuals can become. Bowles visited Jane infrequently and, while he wrote to her often, was not ready to handle seeing a "loved one" deteriorate in front of his eyes.

A self described romantic, Paul Bowles the writer and the person do little to validate the description. Western culture is depicted as flawed. "Uncivilized" Moroccan culture is being scraped away by the French and time itself. Americans are consumed by darkness, the sun is unrelenting, the mosquitoes swarm, and the characters regret their actions by the end of the stories. No one is satisfied, except possibly Bowles. He admits, "I want to help society go to pieces" (Conversations With Paul Bowles 96). Like a small child in a sandbox, he demolishes the castles that so many dreamers have erected within the sphere of fiction. The happy ending of The Spider’s House is even sadder than the other novels because it is supposed to be happy but truly offers no hope. Artificial happiness is more detestable than pure sadness because you know that sooner or later, the dream is tragically going to end.

There is always the underlying knowledge that doom is inevitable in each of Bowles’ stories. The only question is how his character will come to grief. Will lack of confidence cause them to enter into a relationship that they don’t really want? Will their desire to discover take them down a dark path? Will their lack of anything to hold onto push them further down the path of destruction simply because they have nothing holding them back? These are not the most comfortable questions to face as one starts to read, yet the inherent desire to see things or people destroyed is in all of us. Each of us loved to demolish sand castles as a child.

With such a dismal outlook with respect to humanity, sexuality, and love, it is easy to wonder why Bowles did not go insane as his characters did. He faced the same obstacles, he thought the same thoughts. The fact that he had to suffer with his characters as he chose their fates made the sadness of their lives even more severe. Still, he got up every day, wrote, played music, and visited with numerous friends who came to visit. One possible explanation is that he had a sense of perspective. In his autobiography, he described the United States as a prison and explained that every day outside the bars was a day of freedom. In Morocco, Paul did not have to look at his parents or watch as taxis sped by skyscrapers. While he had his internal battles to fight in adulthood, the fact that he was away from the original battlegrounds of his youth was of great comfort to him.

Another definite reason for Bowles’ tolerance for life was the fact that he was frequently under the influence of kif or hashish. In Arabic, the word means pleasure or well-being and Paul captured as much as he could from the substance. He is always seen in photos with a pipe in his mouth and beat poets such as Ginsburg, Burroughs, and Kerouac came to visit him because they could smoke the drug (the Moroccan government did little to prevent it). A life revolving around drugs is a life which revolves around an artificial world. Amazingly enough, this was an advantage to Bowles. Because he understood a world of otherness so well, he was able to weave an element of another dimension into his fiction. It is almost as if he used his fiction as a drug for his readers whereby they could see people and places as distortedly as he did.

Bowles explained that "The Moroccans don’t make much distinction between objective truth and what we’d call fantasy" (Conversations With Paul Bowles 65). In his own way, Bowles didn’t either. The line between fact and fiction is very thin in his stories and novels. He used real places and drew on his own personal escapades and acquaintances to create his fictional world. It is quite possible that Bowles used his novels to enjoy adventures for himself that he did not want to live out in real life. Living with a depressed woman who also wrote about misguided characters, Bowles had plenty to lament about. While Jane went out and partied, Paul had little interest in socializing. He was left to create destructive stories in his head.

Paul was truly on his own. He lived in a small apartment in Tangier without a telephone. He was completely isolated from the world of formal "culture" yet he would not have it any other way. While he accepted a teaching position in the States for a semester, he quickly returned to his adopted homeland. The beauty of the young Moroccan males, the abundance of kif, and the fact that "there’s no need to hurry" (Conversations with Paul Bowles 132) in Tangier all contributed to Bowles’ stay there. More importantly, Morocco had become Bowles’ psychologist. He had to be in Morocco to cultivate his creativity. And as he considered his own existence he stated, "The day I find out what I’m all about I’ll stop writing- I’ll stop doing everything. Once you know what makes you tick, you don’t tick anymore" (Conversations with Paul Bowles 93). Luckily, Bowles never found out what he was all about. He kept searching and thinking, writing stories, translating Moroccan tales, and recording Moroccan music. He was delivering his own definition of culture to the outside world.

I remember the sadness I felt in leaving a place that I had only begun to learn about. The early morning mist was emanating from the water. And as I looked out from the boat at the slowly disappearing land of mystery, I was surprised that so little was overtly attractive or visible. Tangier was still asleep. There were no hecklers on the docks, veiled women were not yet walking the streets. I closed my eyes for a moment and remembered all of the brilliant colors, smells, and sights which lay behind the monotone curtain that was the industrial port of Tangier. This was the same display that I saw when I arrived there only five days earlier. Like Bowles, I had gone to Morocco with no idea of what to expect. Because of this, everything around me was new and exciting. Like him I became curious and then enchanted. While Bowles was able to soak up forty years of Moroccan magic and backwardness, my five days were enough to give me an appreciation of a place that I know I will never be able to fully understand.