Friends At The Table

It's time I leave Rosemerrow, Alyosha. All sorts of cockroaches scramble through this city, now. And while I am used to the cretinous locals--who can blame them for not ascending to their highest potentials in this town--it is the new arrivals which distract and anger. A fascinating thing, refugees. There is no limit to the reasons that drive them from their erstwhile homes: War, famine, disease, faith.  But regardless, when they leave, however strong their so called "collective will," they are stripped of their culture, alienated from the world--even from each other. For these souls, I do not know that even the New University would offer much education. They are best regarded of runoff from the storm of history. This week on Friends at the Table: Blood Doesn't Run My Tutor, you bear no malice in your appraisal of the world, I know. But you forget: We are both refugees too--and though we too were stripped of our nations, we found our own culture, no?  Strange bedfellows indeed... In the life of an exile ther