It was an amateur tennis tournament in Kabul.  Although the courts were surrounded by manicured grape vines, I felt a little exposed.  Everyone else had their Smart Cars, dust, guns, people in white shorts, people with money, slender attractive women posing for photos, well-heeled men watching approvingly. Many of us were on our way to to a Communism conference which was to be roughly the size of the AWP.  I mentioned some danger; a mob turned against me. A middle-aged  matron read my journal over my shoulder:  how can you stand it, all that being alone and writing books?